"Cosmic dualism," she interjected when he paused for breath. "I never would have imagined you a believer in that."
"I'm not," he replied with a grim expression. "I'm a knower. There's a difference."
"But a war between Good and Evil? That's so…"
"It's not as simple as that. As it was explained to me, it's not a matter of good and evil, it's more like an endless conflict between a nameless force that's largely indifferent, and a truly evil one that some people have labeled the Otherness. But just so we don't start feeling too important, we aren't the big prize in this game; we're a tiny piece in an obscure corner of their cosmic chessboard."
"How do you know all this?"
"Because somewhere along the way I became involved."
"You? How?"
"Not my idea. Got drafted somehow. But if the Unity virus is connected to the Otherness, that means you're involved too. Someone once told me that the Otherness feeds on the worst in us, and if that's so, I can see now how it'll use the Unity to bring that out."
"But the Unity's goal is just the opposite. It wants to eliminate conflict by turning us into a single-minded herd of contented cows."
"But before it reaches that goal—if it ever does—it's going to spark a global race war between the infected and uninfected, just like in my dream. And that's when the Otherness will chow down."
The faces of Kevin and Lizzie loomed before her. "We've got to stop it… them."
"I know. And the first step is to put you out of range. Once you're safe, we stop playing defense."
He dragged a chair in from his front room.
"Here. Might as well be comfortable while I'm running my errands." He started for the door, then turned. "I'm locking the door. If anyone knocks, it's not me, so don't budge from that spot. I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't go away."
"Very funny."
After the door closed, she heard the multiple latches snap closed. Then she was alone with the humming microwave… and through the open windows in the front room… was that a rumble of distant thunder?
6
"I don't see how that's any of your business," the man told Sandy and stepped back to shut his front door.
Sandy put out a hand to stop it. "You know, don't you, that he was picked up for questioning about a murder in Queens?" he said quickly.
The door stopped, then opened wider.
That always got them.
Back in Pelham Parkway for the second time in as many days, Sandy had been knocking on doors up and down Holdstock's block, trying to get a handle on what the neighbors knew about his cult. Not much, it turned out. The few who were home on a Monday afternoon were suspicious and reluctant to talk, but tended to open up when they learned that the police were interested in their neighbor as well.
"You don't say?" the man said, stepping forward again.
"Yes. That was yesterday. And today a member of a group that meets in his house was found murdered in Riverside Park."
"No kidding?" He scratched his stubbled chin. "You know, I've seen a fair number of people going in and out of there lately. I'd heard he was sick and I just figured it was friends and family, or some prayer group or something."
"The police will be questioning him again today." At least that was what McCann had said. The new victim, Ellen Blount, had died on McCann's turf so now he was directly involved. "But besides extra visitors, have you noticed anything strange going on?"
"Like what?"
"Shouts, screams."
The man shook his head. "Can't say as I have."
That seemed to be par for the course. One lady had heard what she thought was chanting once, but that was it.
"Hey, there he is now," the man said, pointing over Sandy's shoulder. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"
Sandy turned and saw Terrence Holdstock hurrying down his walk to a green Accord parked at the curb. He got in and drove off with a squeal of tires.
"Wherever he's going, it looks like he's in a hurry."
"Thanks for your time," Sandy said and rushed for his own car.
Wherever you're going, he thought, looking after the retreating Honda, I'm going.
The first raindrops hit his windshield as he pulled away from the curb.
7
The rope had been no sweat—Jack had found some reasonably soft half-inch nylon cord he could use to tie Kate securely without hurting her. Neither were the extra-thick quilts—a bedding store had supplied those.
But the bag to hide her while he carried her from his apartment to the car, that had proved a problem. After searching from store to store he'd finally settled for a huge canvas duffel bag that would hold Kate with room to spare if she bent her knees. Once she was in the trunk, he'd open it and let her stretch out.
As he got rolling again the rain hit, and his thoughts veered toward the Otherness. Everywhere he turned these past couple of months he seemed to be bumping into something related to it. All seemed to start after that conspiracy convention back in April; he'd stood on the edge of a bottomless pit and sensed that some sort of torch had been passed to him. He'd written it off, but maybe that was what the Russian lady had meant by, Is war and you are warrior.
He hadn't signed up for anything, but she'd said something about, One does not join. Is chosen.
Chosen? By whom? Or what? What was happening to him? He'd shaped his life for maximum autonomy, but lately he seemed to be increasingly pushed and pulled by outside forces. Made him feel trapped, and that gave him a crawly sensation in his gut.
She'd said "the Adversary" was behind the virus. Was that her name for the Otherness? No, she'd said, You have met. That sounded like a person. Who—?
Jack's big Ford swerved as he realized: Sal Roma. He'd run up against Roma at that conspiracy convention, and damn near died as a result. That was why the mysterious unauthorized name on Fielding's culture sign-in sheet had seemed familiar. Sal Roma… Ms. Aralo. Cute. Just too damn cute for words. Jack already knew his real name wasn't Roma, and certainly Ms. Aralo wasn't either. So who was he, really? And how did he fit? As a tool? Or a player?
Not that it mattered now. What mattered was Roma was somehow pulling the strings that had put Kate in harm's way. And Jack already had witnessed the level of harm Roma could muster.
This changed everything. Taking Kate on a trip might turn out to be far too little way too late.
His search for the bag had brought him down to the West Thirties. Jeanette's apartment was only a few blocks away. Maybe he should swing by, just on the outside chance…
The downpour slowed traffic while the dark sky crackled with lightning. As he approached The Arsley he saw lights in Jeanette's windows. Maybe Holdstock was there with her. Maybe the whole gang.
Jack parked across the street and waited. If Jeanette or any other member of the Unity came out, he'd follow; if offered a chance to go in, he'd take it. Didn't have a plan yet; he'd play it by ear until one came along.
After about ten minutes a woman stepped up to the door and began fishing through her handbag. Jack jumped out of the car and was right behind her when she stepped into the lobby.
Smiled at her as he ducked into the stairwell. "Lousy weather, isn't it.
On the third floor, he pulled his Glock and quietly chambered a round as he stepped up to Jeanette's door. Inside he heard the phone begin to ring. It went on ringing. Whoever was there was ignoring it. Maybe he'd arrived in the middle of one of their séances or whatever they did. Wouldn't that be neat.
Pulled out his trusty defunct Visa card and slipped the latch. Eased the door open—if the chain was on he'd have to try another tack, but it wasn't. He slipped through, closed the door softly behind him, and looked around.
All the lights were on and he heard someone moving around in the bedroom. Sidled over to the doorway where he saw the tenant herself packing a suitcase—two, in fact. One with Kate's stuff.
Lifted the pistol and sighted on the back of Jeanette's head. He was cool› his anger
confined. Here was the one who'd infected Kate, here was part of the group that had tried to kill him this morning. With her dead there'd be only six left. Maybe not enough to dominate Kate.
As his finger gently squeezed the trigger, the thought of Kate brought back her words…
… the individuals are innocent. They didn't ask to be infected…
And would Kate ever forgive him for killing Jeanette?
"Going somewhere?" he said without lowering the pistol.
Jeanette whirled with a gasp. "You! You're not with Kate?"
"You don't see her, do you."
Her frightened gaze settled on the Glock, then she took a deep breath.
"Scream," Jack said softly as she opened her mouth, "and I'll shoot you dead. Just give me an excuse."
Jeanette must have believed him. She paused, mouth still open, then said, "Where's Kate? What have you done with her?"
They don't know, he thought. They've really lost contact. So why not throw them a curve?
"She's waiting down in the car."
"You lie!"
"No. She found a way to kill off the virus."
"Impossible."
Jack shrugged. An idea was forming. "Believe what you want. I
don't care. We were just stopping by to pick up her clothes. Which I see you've been so kind to pack up for her. Why?"
"She's going on a trip."
"To the Bronx for another hand-holding party? Those days are over. And the Unity's days are numbered."
"No! That can't be true!"
"Come downstairs and see for yourself. Say hello to your ex-friend."
Jeanette's lips smiled. A pretty smile. Too bad she wasn't behind it. "You're bluffing. I'll call you on it."
Jack's thoughts raced ahead as he followed her out the door, along the hall, and down the stairs.
Raining outside… cuts down the number of pedestrians… almost dark as night… if he can get Jeanette to the car maybe he can clock her on the head.
Trouble was, the Glock was mostly polymer, and didn't double well as a sap. But it was the best he had.
And once he had her, then what? Take her to Holdstock's? Pick him up too? That sounded like a plan. Start collecting members of the Unity in his trunk.
Collect them all! as the TV ads used to say.
But would that help?
Only one way to find out.
She paused at the apartment house entrance. Lightning still strobed the street but the downpour had died to a drizzle, prompting a few more pedestrians to brave the pavements.
Jack cursed silently. A lot of potential witnesses. Too many perhaps. Could he risk it? He'd have to play it by ear and decide when the moment came.
He pointed to his car across the street. "There. Kate's in the passenger seat. See her?"
Jeanette squinted though the gloom, then shook her head.
"Come on," Jack said, taking her arm and leading her onto the sidewalk. "Say hello."
He had her in the street, ready to cross, when headlights from a passing cab made it clear Jack's car was empty.
Jeanette pulled away and began screaming. "Rape! Rape!" She backed toward the curb, pointing a finger at Jack. "Stop him! Don't let him touch me!"
Up and down the block heads turned, looking their way. Feeling as if he were in a spotlight, Jack sidled across the street through a break in traffic.
"If you want us, you know where to find us," she said in a lower voice, then started running away, screaming again. "Rape! He tried to rape me!"
Keeping his head down, Jack turned and walked in the other direction. He went around the block. The rain picked up again and he was soaked by the time he returned to his car. He got in and pulled away.
Seemed to Jack like the Unity had issued a challenge. He'd accept it. But first he'd need a few supplies.
He headed uptown, toward Abe's.
8
Despite all the houses slipping by on either side, hundreds of them, Sandy felt like he was in the middle of nowhere. Maybe because most of the houses looked empty.
He knew he was somewhere at the Jersey shore, but that was all he knew. He'd heard of it—couldn't listen to much Springsteen without hearing of the Jersey shore—but had never been here.
He'd been following Terry—somewhere along the way he'd started calling Holdstock by his first name—for an hour and a half now: across the George Washington Bridge, down the Turnpike to the Parkway, and now along this spit of land with a bay—Barnegat?—to the right and ocean dunes far to the left across the wide, house-choked island that separated the north-and southbound lanes. They didn't waste a square inch of buildable space around here.
Right now he and Terry made up half of the cars on the road.
The whole area would probably be jumping come the weekend, and every day after July Fourth, but at the moment it had the pre-season lonelies.
What's this all about, Terry? Where are we going? Another murder, perhaps?
Part of him hoped yes, but another part prayed no. Because if he saw a killing about to go down he'd have to do something about it, wouldn't he? He couldn't just stand and watch it happen, then report it later. Like the Savior had said after he'd clobbered that purse snatcher: to do nothing would make him an accomplice.
But this Holdstock was a hefty guy, and Sandy a featherweight. He thought of the Savior's little Semmerling and wished he had something like it.
Maybe he's just going to plot his next murder, check out his intended victim. That I can handle.
Sandy called his apartment for the fourth time. On the last three his voicemail had picked up but he hadn't left a message. This time Beth answered.
"I'm glad you called," she told him. "I expected you back by now. Where are you?"
"Believe it or not, the Jersey Shore. A last-minute assignment."
"Not that murder cult thing, I hope."
He didn't want to worry her. "Something entirely different. But I won't make it home for dinner."
"Aw, and I just got in the fixings for my world famous bean burritos. How late are you going to be?"
"Not sure."
"Whatever. I'll wait up."
"You will?"
"Sure."
Someone to wait up for you… how great was—
He'd just passed a sign that said WELCOME TO OCEAN BEACH, NJ and now the blinker on Terry's Honda was flashing a left.
"Oops, gotta go," he said, poising his thumb over the END button. "Call you when I'm on my way back."
Sandy couldn't follow the car into the same turn—Terry would guess he was being followed—so he cruised past to the next left, then gunned across the inhabited median to the northbound lanes.
Sandy groaned as he saw the Honda turn north again. Was it heading back to the city?
What's going on? he thought. Is this all some wild goose chase?
But his sinking feelings reversed when he saw the Honda make a quick right onto one of the residential streets.
Sandy grinned. Looked like Terry Holdstock had reached his destination.
9
Kate sat on the kitchen floor, hugging her knees, her back against a cabinet. She'd been unable to get comfortable on the chair Jack had left her; this was better. She was listening to the storm and wondering about the future—if she had a future—and whether she'd ever see Kevin and Elizabeth again—
Oh, dear Lord! Lizzie's recital! It starts in less than two hours! I'll miss it!
She pawed through her shoulder bag for her cell phone but when she found it, the battery was dead. And the charger was at Jeanette's. She leaped to her feet and was reaching for Jack's kitchen phone when it began to ring. She snatched it up.
"How's it going, Kate?" Jack's voice.
"As well as can be expected." She didn't want to go into the recital business. How would Lizzie ever forgive her?
"The storm had me worried. I thought I'd give a call."
"Aren't you a good brother. So far, so good."
"Do me a favor, will
you? Hold the phone up to the microwave."
"Are you serious?"
"I just want to know it's still running."
She did as requested.
"Satisfied?"
"At least now I know I'm talking to my sister. The other reason I called is I ran into Jeanette at her place."
"Jack, you didn't—"
"She got away. But she gave me an idea. If they're all gathering at Holdstock's, I might be able to work something that will give you a little more breathing room."
"What?"
"I'd rather not say. Not because you'll object to it—"
"But because you don't want the Unity to know."
"Well, yeah."
"It's safe, Jack. I know from experience the Unity has no idea what's going on while the microwave is running."
"I'd still rather keep it to myself. But I'll call you as soon as I get it done—if I get it done."
"Okay." She was unhappy not knowing but she didn't see that she had much choice. "In the meantime I have to call home and my cell phone's dead. Okay if I use yours?"
"Call away. Talk to you later."
Kate cut the connection and immediately began dialing Ron's number. They wouldn't have left yet. How was she ever going to explain this to Lizzy? What could she say to—
An ear-numbing crash of thunder shook the kitchen and the lights went out.
"Oh, no!" Panic spiked Kate's heart as she jumped to her feet in the suddenly dark kitchen. "Oh please, God, no!"
Twelve seconds before the Unity seized her again—and she couldn't see the clock. What could she do? She couldn't think, couldn't—
The overhead fluorescents flickered, almost died, then returned to full brightness.
Yes!
But the microwave remained off. Kate all but leaped on it. The clock display was blinking 12:00. Never mind that. The timer buttons. Her trembling fingers found the numerical pad. Press them, jab them, stab them, any numbers, just get it going again: 8-8-8-8. Now START. Find START. There!
As her fingertip darted toward it—
The hum.
The warmth.
Repairman Jack 05 - Hosts Page 34
