Nightjack

by Tom Piccirilli

  Nightjack thinking he had never had lung before, wondering about the consistency, whether to cook it with oil or butter.

  “Nothing like that’s going to happen,” Pace said.

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know, but nobody’s going to burn up your entrails.”

  “You hope.”

  “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  No one appeared to believe him much. They headed for the door, this leg of the journey becoming something both too large to deal with and also too small.

  With her bottom lip protruding into a little girl pout, Dr. Maureen Brandt’s demeanor at once appalled and excited Pace. He gazed deeply into her face and saw all the varieties and versions of Maureen Brandt, the amendments and modifications and revisions she had gone through long ago and minute by minute.

  The inflated ego casting judgment, always reflecting disappointment. The hunger for authority and domination over others, the willingness to call someone else insane. The drive to actually help, to cure, to alleviate distress and misery. Her failure in the world to find a man she could not consume or eclipse. The kinkiness that led her to hump the bound.

  “Don’t go,” she said. “None of you should go.”

  All four of them turned to look at her, waiting for more, but there was nothing else.

  “Kaltzas never threatened you,” Pace said. “He bought you off, didn’t he? That’s why you signed all the reports saying I was stable and deserved to be released. He needed you to get me out. Isn’t that right?”

  “You’re in cahoots!” Hayden shouted.

  “No,” she answered.

  “Smack her in the mush! Make her eat paste!”

  Her face of devastating glory. It was easy to forgive such painfully open beauty. Something inside Pace’s chest seemed to expand. A sob nearly broke free. Moments occur that are larger than they should be, with a meaningfulness that isn’t apparent until much later.

  “It’s okay, Maureen. We don’t blame you.”

  “I do!” Hayden shouted.

  “Me too,” Pia said. “You arrogant, condescending bitch. I’m getting one of Jack’s knives and I’m going to cut her tits off.”

  Pace stepped closer to Maureen Brandt until the others faded behind him, blocked from view. “I’m sorry you got caught up in it. You’re a lousy psychiatrist, but you did try to help us. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “Will, listen to me. There are things you need to know.”

  He waited, and again, there was nothing else. She was a woman heavy with pregnant pauses and faltering purpose. He’d met a lot of sad people and she was more depressed than any of them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He couldn’t help himself. He could never help himself. He swept her into his arms, pressed his lips cruelly to hers, thinking of her on top of him in the white. Even as she began to respond and leaned into him with a selfish groan, she broke the kiss and stepped away. He shook his head sadly and walked out the door.

  The others followed him to the stolen truck. While they arranged themselves inside, Pace muddied the plates.

  He got in and felt a bulge in his back pocket.

  He found several torn pieces of notebook paper, taken from Hayden’s million-page letter to his mother:

  Rudy Road. Rue the Day. Get it? Another of your bad jokes. That’s why the book will never be published. Nobody ever liked your jokes. It’s one of the reasons why you’re all alone, tied to a bed.

  The truck was full of noise and querulous voices, arguing in a dozen tongues. Something like a tentacle reached over and pinched at the back of his hand.

  On another sheet, in the same ornate handwriting:

  Ignore the previous. You’ve got too many ghosts already, don’t take on any more. Your friends are inept but you need them. Cassandra is on Pythos along with your fate. Go to her.

  And then, a last shred of paper:

  If you listen to that shit you deserve what you get, you stupid fuck.

  PART II

  The Portents of Gravitas

  sixteen

  The nor’easter had dissipated so thoroughly that except for a few flooded streets and downed tree limbs there were no other reminders in sight. You’d think that the morning after a hurricane you might see a few people outside crying, cars flipped over on lawns, mothers looking for their lost children, a cradle in a treetop. You’d think not everybody else got off as lucky as you did.

  The sun was intense, the day actually pleasant. Pace kept off the streets near the shore, hit the parkway, and drove to JFK without any trouble. They all passed through security without a hitch. Kaltzas’s people did good work. Nobody cared about the knife in his bag. Or the broken ashtray.

  They were led out over the tarmac by a gate agent, an appealing but priggish young woman affecting a bad British accent. She walked stiffly and kept murmuring things that she thought were funny, then raising her hand and daintily tittering beneath it.

  Pace didn’t understand what the hell she was saying or what was going on until Pia dropped back, took his elbow, and shunted him aside. The gate agent peered over her shoulder twice, smiling warmly at Pace.

  “She’s trying to impress you,” Pia said.

  “She is?”

  “That’s why she’s talking like a constipated Queen Elizabeth.”

  “How is that supposed to win me over?”

  “You have dark curly hair. She probably thinks you’re a rich Greek, maybe a member of Kaltzas’s inner circle, another magnate. She figures the British are more refined and upscale. She’s trying hard not to appear like a stupid American girl going out of her way to dazzle you.”

  “How ironic,” Pace said.

  The gate agent paraded them to Kaltzas’s private jet and made a little ta-da hand gesture like she was showing off the prizes of a game show.

  Pace told her, “There’s a stolen Ranger parked in lot 31C. The keys are in it. Could you make sure somebody finds it soon?”

  “Pardon?”

  Hayden said to her, “Hey, you want to come along? We’re going to visit an island owned by a tycoon who wants us all dead. It’s gonna be lots of fun. At least it will be once we drop Faust out over the ocean.”

  “Our father who art insignificant,” Faust said. It was as good a retort as he could muster.

  “They’re gonna eat our lungs and livers!”

  The woman giggled under her hand again and started back to the terminal.

  The name on the jet was written in Greek. It had a cockpit crew of five men who spoke only Greek and apparently didn’t understand English. Pace wondered if Vindi would show himself. Once the pilot said something sharply in Pace’s direction, and Smoker the breed gunslinger grunted back in Apache.

  Pia said, “Kaltzas makes his fortune in shipping. Couldn’t he book us on a cruise instead?”

  “Are any of these the men that threatened you on the ward?” Pace asked.

  “No. And they didn’t exactly threaten us.”

  Pace tried to remember her exact words. He directed his thoughts and felt a subtle pressure, and then the pressure gave way and he was through and the words were there. They asked questions like they were our friends, but they had us marked from the beginning. They knew all about us, everything in our files, all about our lives.

  “Are you sure they weren’t just investigating everyone?”

  “Are you calling me paranoid now? I’m telling you, he wants to hurt us.”

  “Maybe Zorba will be the in-flight movie,” Hayden said.

  Faust looked at the Greek lettering on the side of the plane, his mouth moving as if he was this close to figuring out what the word meant. He clutched a hand over his chest, plucking himself lightly, trying to draw something free from his heart. “Kaltzas might sacrifice his whole crew to kill us all in one fell swoop.”

  “Yes,” Pia said. “But not the jet. He’s a man of belongings. He’d give up people but not his possessions.”

 
; “That’s an astute observation.”

  They boarded and took their seats. Pia sat beside Pace. Faust and Hayden sat behind them, window seats opposite one another. The crew completely ignored them. Pace wondered if any of them would make a move at any point. Throw a smug smile, pull a gun, play a video made by Kaltzas. He stared into the cockpit until they closed the cabin door and started the engines. The small jet gave off the impression of lean, immense power.

  Takeoff was smoother and faster than he’d been expecting. He could hardly feel the ascent at all. Pacella had never liked flying, and now he kept trying to rise to the surface so he could grip the armrests and clench his teeth.

  “I don’t suppose any flight attendants will be coming around to offer us drinks and a meal,” Pia said. “Good thing we packed the leftover food. So, when do we land on Pythos?”

  “We arrive at the airport in Athens,” Pace said, “in about ten hours.”

  “Holy shit, ten hours in this sardine can?” Hayden glanced around like he wanted to skip out the door. “Nobody told me that!”

  “Then we take a ferry to another island. Voros.”

  “And then?”

  “We charter a boat to Pythos.”

  “You know,” Hayden said, “is it just me, or is anybody else starting to feel really frickin’ dumb going to such extremes just to visit a guy who wants to kill us?”

  Faust held up his hand. “I do.”

  Pia held up her hand. “Me too.”

  “If he really wanted to kill us, we’d be dead,” Pace told them. “He’s a billionaire. He could afford to hire somebody better than Rollo Carpie.”

  “So he only wants one of us dead.”

  “I’m not so sure about that either.”

  “Then what’s it all about?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why we’re going, so we can find out.”

  Hayden said, “We’re going there to find out what we’re going there for? That’s just crazy talk now.”

  The ocean appeared bluer than Pace had ever seen it before. Pia shifted beside him and brushed her hand over his knee. Now that the powerful allure of Maureen Brandt was no longer present, he started to feel a tug at his heart, the cascading emotion he’d originally felt around Pia. Not so much sexual as it was the idea of comfort. Somehow she gave off the vibe that she would care for you when no one else would.

  She asked, “Why would he extend us the courtesy of his private jet, and then make us take ferries and boats afterward?”

  “Part of the game,” Faust said, “is the challenge. The trial. The labors. All ancient heroes had to be tested. He wants to know if we’re worthy. He’s showing us he’s polite but unwilling to overindulge us. That he’s got dominion over us but will only use it in his own time, as he so chooses. He brings us a part of the way to his world, and we must journey the rest on our own.” Sariel nodded, Rimmon shrugged, trying to get comfortable in his seat. “It’s proof of our desire and our will to continue on. He requires more than just our compliance. He wants collusion. Participation. Our father who art independent.”

  “Why?” Pia asked.

  “The mad king hasn’t merely summoned us, he’s invoked us. This is going to be his pilgrimage as much as ours.”

  Pace thought about it for a while and decided maybe it was true. Kaltzas didn’t only want revenge or justice for his daughter. He wanted something else from them. Needed them for an unknown purpose. How much easier it would’ve been just to meet with the man at the Plaza over a nice dinner, where they could get everything off their chests.

  “This guy,” Hayden said, “is proof that money can’t buy you peace of mind.” He unlocked his seatbelt and searched the cabin. “Are they really not going to feed us? Breakfast was good, but ten hours on here without even a glass of water might take its toll, you know? I’m hypoglycemic, man. I could have a mood swing, and trust me, nobody wants to see that.”

  Pia drew out her backpack, stuffed with food. “I told you, I packed the rest of what we had. I’ve got sandwiches and bottled water, you won’t starve.”

  “A true goddess,” Faust said drowsily. “Any more bisque?”

  “No.”

  “Ahh.”

  Hayden sat again, tilted his seat back, and promptly fell asleep.

  Pia whispered, “Why did Jack kill those whores in Whitechapel, Will?”

  Sometimes she was sexy insane and sometimes just insane. Pace turned and looked at her as Jack pulled his leather apron off a hook.

  “I mean, did you ever ask him? Does he want to murder me too? I bet it was really rough holding him back from slicing apart Dr. Brandt. That bitch would piss off anybody, and my core personality is timid, passive, and depressed.”

  “Shut up, Pia.”

  “I’m a slut, you know, just like she always said. I’ve been paid for it. Sometimes I rip the bills up right in their faces.” Eyes gleaming, she bent toward Pace’s chest talking directly to Jack inside. “I bet you didn’t have half your usual fun cutting those wise guys to pieces. Where’s the fun in chopping up fat old guineas?”

  “Stop.”

  He could press his hand over her mouth, but the very thought of it made Jack start licking his lips, his breathing becoming more rapid. There was no way to quiet her without making his heart beat faster. Pace gripped his thighs.

  “Do you want to put your blade in me, Jackie boy?”

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you,” Pace said. “I promised you that. Now shut up.”

  “My mother should have killed me,” Pia said and burst into tears.

  Jack started going through his doctor’s bag, drawing out bone saws, laying them side by side preparing himself for Pia. Three quid. You could have a woman like this for three quid, but you had to do her standing up against the bricks while the horses clopped by in the streets. You had three minutes. After that, they always started talking, wanting you to move along, ‘Ave at it, Guvnah, get the ole leg over, eh? I’ve business to attend to tonight.

  The cockpit door opened and the pilot stepped out. He spoke rapidly in Greek, pointing out the window to the east. In the distance, the sky bloomed with oppressive, churning black clouds.

  “We’re running back into the storm,” Pace said.

  “It’s been waiting for us,” Faust said.

  Rimmon, governor of the first order of seraphim, angel of lightning and fire. One of the nine who will reign over the end times. Pace saw what was about to happen and tried to get out of his seat. Rimmon stood and aimed his burning sword ahead. Lightning arced down from heaven and struck the wing.

  “We die,” Faust gasped as the jet bucked wildly. A ghastly all-consuming din erupted from the sky, the engine, and every throat of every creature and ghost on board except Nightjack. Jack was laughing.

  seventeen

  Pacella spent most of that last afternoon and evening working on his novel. If anybody asked him what it was about he told them he didn’t know. It wasn’t a lie. He’d been working on it for two years and still didn’t understand what he was trying to express, why his characters were doing the things they were doing, saying the things they were saying.

  Every time he opened the manuscript and reread a section of it, it was like reading a stranger’s work that he found not to his liking. It was vapid, a touch pretentious, and rather pointless. He’d let Jane read his finished chapters and she’d tell him how much she enjoyed the book even though she was clearly as confused by it as he was. So were the publishers. They returned his submissions with either short bracing rebuffs or long effusive commentaries that were kindly worded but amounted to the same thing.

  The latest rejection letter had come that morning. A thoughtful analysis and honest appraisal of his convoluted themes and cluttered narration. This one, like all his rejections, arrived in the plural.

  We suggest you untangle the many subplots, delete the extensive flashbacks, and streamline the protagonist’s often unnecessary forays into understanding his own failures. We feel his “life”
is rather histrionic but uninvolving. We feel the reader will become too confused and shall prove unwilling to extend themselves the great lengths the work requires. The humor is sometimes amusing but too often lacks true wit. The prose is taxing. We feel you too frequently evoke unpleasant emotions. Too many questions go unanswered in the end. There is not enough assertion. There is not enough resolution. We are left wavering and wanting.

  As usual, Pacella agreed with the comments but had no idea how to go back and rewrite the damn thing. It had long since grown too unwieldy, abstract, and unnecessarily complex. He’d started off writing a semi-autobiography, but since nothing interesting ever happened to him, his alter-ego had grown sort of crazed. The situations he found himself in became more and more intricate and unbelievable.

  Jane called to tell him she’d be late getting home from the city. “Somebody’s got their hand in the till,” she said. “I think it’s the new girl. She’s clever about it, but I can’t approach her until I finish double-checking the books for the entire week.”

  “I’ll come in on the train and we can have a late dinner,” he told her, only half-listening. He kept rereading the rejection. He liked the word histrionic.

  “I’d say don’t bother, it’ll probably be close to midnight before I finish up, but we haven’t seen much of each other the last few days. Won’t you be too tired tomorrow?”

  Their conflicting schedules didn’t often bother them since they usually spent afternoons together, after he got back from school and before she left for the restaurant. But lately Emilio had been asking her to come in earlier, and the novel had been taking up too much of Pacella’s time. Without Jane as a stabilizing influence, he felt himself growing more irritable, his temper getting shorter.

  “It’s no trouble. I’d just like the chance to sit with you for a bit.”