The Last Christmas: A Repairman Jack Novel

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Do not ever touch me,” she said in the same calm, even tone as before. “Not. Ever.”

  She released him and strode from the room.

  Wow, Tier thought as he stepped from the closet and approached Roland. I think I’m in love.

  “Thanks for the help, Hill,” Poncia said, still on his knees, his face gone all pasty and sweaty.

  “You seemed to have the matter in hand.”

  “Oh, fine.” He struggled to his feet. “He’s a comedian now.”

  “You want serious?” Tier said. “Okay: I don’t manhandle women. Neither should you and—judging by what we all just witnessed—especially not that one.”

  “She took me by surprise!”

  “Enough!” Roland said. He motioned Tier closer. “Follow her. Follow her night and day, Mister Hill.”

  His was a one-man operation, so that wasn’t going to happen, but he had options.

  “You didn’t tell me she was crazy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That story about the cup. Does she really think she’s three thousand years old?”

  “She made that up to taunt me.”

  “Pretty convincing ad lib.”

  “Just follow her, Mister Hill.”

  “Might help to know a little about her.”

  “I’ve no doubt you have resources for that. I can tell you that she has a midtown apartment, but that’s just one of her addresses. I’m sure she keeps her treasures elsewhere. I know beyond a doubt that she stole the Bagaq. Now it’s just a matter of finding where she’s keeping it.”

  “Might also help if I knew what this thing looked like.”

  Roland had a tablet on his lap. He lit it up and started swiping at the screen. After half a minute or so he turned it toward Tier.

  “That’s what you’re looking for. The seller photographed it in Iran just before he packed it for shipment.”

  “You’re sure he packed it?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve had many dealings with him—a decades-long relationship. He’s not going to jeopardize that. Especially since I have enough on him to get him in deep trouble with his government.”

  “But you did say it was priceless.”

  “Only to the rare person who knows its history. I happen to be one of them. Madame de Medici is another.”

  The photo showed a wrinkled metallic ovoid—bronze, judging by its color—running five inches along its long axis according to the ruler next to it. A bronzed avocado.

  All this angst over a wrinkly lump of metal? Tier wondered if the tumor had spread to Roland’s brain and made him crazy.

  “Doesn’t look like much.”

  “It and its six kin rarely do.”

  “There’s seven of them? I thought you said it was one of a kind. If there’s six more like this—”

  He shook his head. “Seven related objects, no two looking the same, all with different purposes.”

  “And what’s this one’s purpose?”

  Roland turned off the tablet. “Not your concern. Your only concern is to locate it.”

  Tier had a few more questions. Obvious ones, like, how old was it, who made it, and the most important: Had anyone ever seen it perform its purpose? But he had quarry to track.

  “One more thing. Do you have that surveillance video handy?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I want to get the license plate number off her car.”

  “I’ve already confirmed that it was hers.”

  “Fine, but I may want to make an adjustment to her car and need to make sure I’ve got the right one.”

  A slow nod. “I see. Interesting. I’ll text you the number.”

  “Great. I’d better get moving.”

  “Yeah,” Poncia said, still cradling his left hand. “Don’t want to lose her.”

  No chance of that, fat boy.

  In the Army, as a scout with Mohawk blood, Tier became his unit’s go-to guy when it came to tracking. He’d tracked Taliban fuckers through their own mountains and always found their caves. He figured he could handle a pretty woman in Midtown Manhattan.

  5

  Jack stood outside Glaeken’s building on Central Park West—literally his building—and gazed up at the one illuminated window on the eighth floor. Most of the windows were dark because the building was mostly empty. Glaeken wanted it that way. He was very choosy about his neighbors.

  Jack had walked back from Gia’s so he could drop in on the occupant of that eighth-floor apartment, as he did from time to time.

  The Lady lived here… had since August when she’d been severely damaged. Rasalom and his minions in the Septimus Order had tried to destroy her. Her dog, her constant companion, had vanished defending her, but her enemies had succeeded in wounding her—severely—along with the Noosphere that fed her. The Lady persisted but in a crippled state, and the dog was gone. Jack missed the dog.

  No doorman, so he stepped through the heavy glass double doors into the vestibule. The name G. Veilleur sat atop the spotty occupant list. Only fitting since he occupied the penthouse. Jack pressed the button and didn’t have to wait long before the heavy steel inner door buzzed open.

  Glaeken’s voice came through the speaker. “Anything important, Jack? We don’t have a meeting scheduled.”

  No, not a meeting—Weezy would have been included then.

  “Just passing by and thought I’d drop in on the Lady.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  He took the elevator up to the eighth floor and didn’t knock on her apartment door. She never locked it. No reason. She didn’t need to bathe or change her clothes, so no risk of catching her in a state of dishabille. Couldn’t interrupt her at a meal because she didn’t eat.

  He found her where he knew she’d be, where she spent her days and nights, staring out one of the windows at the world she could no longer be a part of.

  At least she could stand now. After the attempt on her life this past summer she’d been so weak she needed a wheelchair.

  She used to be able to change her appearance in an eye blink—age, hair, face, race, weight, clothing. Now she was frozen as a thin old woman, able to change style of clothing and nothing more.

  “Jack,” she said without turning as he entered. “It’s been a while.”

  They went back a long ways, Jack and the Lady. He’d first met her in his teens when she’d posed as Mrs. Clevenger. Everyone in his hometown—well, at least all the kids—thought she was a witch. From then on, she’d popped in and out of his life in different guises. For most of that life he’d had no clue, and hadn’t learned until recently that all those women with dogs he’d met along the way were the same being: the Lady, the avatar of the Noosphere, the beacon to the multiverse that here dwelled sapience.

  But she’d been so deeply injured last summer. It pained him to see her in this damaged state.

  “Yeah, well. It’s the holiday season. Christmas will be here Thursday.”

  He knew the holidays meant nothing to her, but she appreciated how important they were to humans.

  “Busy buying gifts, I suppose?”

  Only for Gia—she picked out the gifts he’d give Vicky on Christmas morning. All except one. An elderly gent’s arrival cut off his reply.

  “Good evening, Jack.”

  “Hey, G.”

  His name was Glaeken and Jack wasn’t sure exactly how many thousands of years he’d been alive. These days he went by the name Gaston Veilleur, and liked to be referred to simply as Veilleur. He’d been aging, although slowly, since World War Two and now looked to be in his eighties, with gray hair, a craggy face, and a cane. Still a big guy, bigger than Jack, still cut an imposing figure.

  Glaeken seated himself at the western end of the heavy oblong table of dark-stained oak that dominated the room.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure?” he said.

  The Lady took her place at the eastern end. Jack dropped into a chair halfway between them.

  “Just wonde
ring what’s up.”

  “The Otherness and its minions are seemingly quiescent,” Glaeken said.

  “I thought they were never quiescent.”

  Glaeken gave a half smile. “That is why I said ‘seemingly.’”

  “We should check the signals,” the Lady said.

  Glaeken nodded. “I have Burbank’s reports but I confess I’ve neglected them.”

  In the past Jack had had run-ins with the signals—streams of electromagnetic energy beaming at different frequencies into the Earth from somewhere out in the void—but they’d remained simply one more thing in the cosmos beyond his comprehension until he’d met Glaeken and the lady. He still didn’t pay them much mind, and maybe that was just another facet of his general loss of interest. Decades ago a fellow named Burbank in a penthouse just down the street had taken it upon himself to monitor them and send out reports. Their frequencies were somehow significant, but Jack left those concerns to Glaeken.

  Glaeken said, “They’re planning something—you can count on that—but obviously not ready to move yet.”

  “And so, we do nothing but wait?”

  “The three of us are hardly equipped to go on the attack.”

  “I am. I can track down that son of bitch and—”

  Glaeken held up a hand. “You gave your word, remember?”

  Glaeken had extracted a promise from Jack not to make any moves against Rasalom. The only thing holding back Rasalom and the Otherness these days was the belief that Glaeken was still a powerful immortal, lying in wait, watching for them to make a misstep so he could pounce.

  Glaeken said he couldn’t risk them learning the truth.

  Jack wanted to do the pouncing. But Glaeken feared that if Jack failed in an attempt to take out Rasalom, he might wonder why Glaeken hadn’t been involved. And then he might learn that his ancient nemesis was nowadays simply an old mortal man who was no longer a threat to him. And then the Otherness would have no further reason to hold back. The end would begin.

  And so, Jack would honor his promise, even though he now thought he’d made a mistake in agreeing. He didn’t have a defensive mindset. His default was to get out there and make things happen. These two, however, seemed content to wait for Rasalom and the Otherness and the Septimus Order that served them to make the next move.

  They discussed mundane matters—Gia, Vicky, Glaeken’s ailing wife, Magda. Jack described the memorial service and how Weezy was still at odds with her brother.

  Finally, Jack had had enough and said good bye. Sitting there with Glaeken and the Lady while they did nothing and planned nothing…

  It made him crazy.

  6

  Tier had had a bad moment following the Medici gal because she chose a route through Central Park, right along the edge of the Sheep Meadow. If that tone sounded again, he’d be incapacitated. For much of the trip he’d wondered if she knew about the sound and its effect on him. Was that why she chose the route? The question was answered when he saw her enter the Allard on Central Park West: She’d simply taken the most direct path home.

  The Allard…of all places. His grandfather had helped build it back in the late 1920s. Not quite as well known as the San Remo or the Dakota—grandpa had worked on the San Remo as well—but still pretty damn impressive. He remembered his grandfather hinting that it held secrets in its foundation. He’d always play coy with the details, but Tier assumed he meant gangsters from the Roaring Twenties had found their final resting place in the concrete.

  Both his father and grandfather had been skywalkers, making the skyscrapers possible by walking the high steel and riveting the girders into place. But grandpa had been gone by the time the Trade Towers went down, and Dad had developed cancer from working among the ruins to help rebuild the Trade Center.

  As much as Tier had wanted to continue his family’s skywalker tradition, he couldn’t handle the heights. His father hadn’t minded, hadn’t insisted Tier follow in his footsteps. He knew skywalkers weren’t immune to fatal falls. His big piece of advice had always been, Find your place.

  Tier had never been sure where his place might be. He would have loved earning the skywalker designation, despite the inevitable Star Wars references it sparked. Better than being called an “Indian.” As far as he was concerned, Indians wore Nehru jackets and saris and ate curry. Skywalkers kicked ass.

  Find your place, Dad kept saying. Find your place.

  At least Dad had never held his mother’s death against him.

  Both Tier and his mother had died during childbirth. The doctors had been able to bring Tier back, but not his mother. His grandmother always told him that coming back from the dead made him special. As far as he was concerned, the only thing it made him was halfway to being an orphan. But she insisted that being stillborn granted gifts. And maybe it did. He turned out to be one hell of a hunter, able to sneak up on game without its being aware—always close enough for an easy kill shot. Grandma called it “the Stealth.”

  If he had such a thing—and his experience in Afghanistan tended to bear out that he did—it had suffered an epic fail earlier when the Medici gal had sussed out his presence in the closet.

  Whatever.

  Somehow, through a circuitous route via the US Army, he’d wound up in the detective biz. A biz he’d be leaving soon.

  But tonight, it had placed him outside the Allard’s garage door where he was pretending to enjoy a cigarette. As much as he hated the smell of tobacco smoke, he had to admit the cancer sticks made great props. People see a guy standing alone, doing nothing, they wonder what he’s up to. But if the guy’s sucking on a ciggie, they assume he’s on a break and he can’t smoke inside.

  The Allard’s underground garage opened onto the side street. At 5:30—about an hour or so after sundown—he’d wandered from the front entrance on Central Park West over to the side where he’d watched the metal door roll up and down as the tenants’ drivers or the tenants themselves pulled in and out. The door rolled up in response to a clicker in the cars and remaining open for a fixed interval.

  During one of those intervals he slipped inside and down the ramp. The single level was packed with cars. Not enough spaces for every apartment, so he assumed each commanded a primo rental fee. He found the Medici Maybach—only one in evidence and its plate matched the number Roland had texted—parked next to a huge Hummer.

  Tier opened his messenger bag where he always kept a couple-three GPS transmitters handy for when he was following a car. The models he used had a one kilometer range, more than enough for his purposes. Attaching one to a vehicle enabled him to allow extra distance between himself and the car he was tailing. Never a good thing to be a constant presence in the quarry’s rearview mirror.

  But he didn’t need one of those now. He pulled out a combination GPS recorder / tracker beacon and attached it inside the rear bumper. This way he could leave the site and still keep track of where the Maybach was, as well as where it had been.

  Now to head home to his apartment and do some in-depth backgrounding on the mysterious Madame de Medici.

  7

  Out on Central Park West again, Jack took in a few deep, bracing breaths of the cooling air and crossed over to Central Park where he stood at the wall, staring toward the Sheep meadow.

  Glaeken and the lady…was their inertia contagious? Was that why he’d been turning down fixes? Or was he simply burned out? Whatever the cause, he’d been feeling dead inside. Taking on some work might make a difference or it might not. Maybe he was too far down to break the surface again.

  He could think of only one way to find out.

  He called Burkes, who must have had Jack’s number programed because he answered the phone with his name.

  “Jack, Jack, Jack. So, you’ve changed yer mind and yer gonna take the job, are you?”

  “Yeah, why not.”

  Burkes barked a laugh. “Now there’s enthusiasm for you! I told them you weren’t cheap, and they didn’t seem to mind. Warned the
m you tended to leave collateral damage and were a cheeky bastart as well.”

  “First time I’ve ever been called ‘cheeky.’” He wasn’t even sure what that meant. “Okay, so you told them about me, what can you tell me about them?”

  Jack knew Burkes well enough to be certain he wouldn’t bring anyone around without first doing a little probing. Not that it really mattered. Kusum Bahkti had been exactly who he said he was—a member of India’s UN delegation. But that hadn’t prevented him from being one of the looniest and most dangerous human beings Jack had ever met.

  “They told me they work for the Bronx Zoo.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Both. I checked and they’re listed there as employees. One’s a zoologist and the other’s got a doctorate in genetics.”

  “Brainy types. I wonder who they’re looking for.”

  “You’ll have to talk to them to find out. Wouldn’t tell me anything until I agreed to search—which I didn’t. Want me to set up a meet?”

  “Better if I do it. I’ll let you know the when and where and you can join us.”

  “Nae good on that. They won’t want me. Apparently, the matter is super sensitive and for your ears only—should you agree to take the job.”

  Why the drama? Jack wondered as the Mission Impossible theme started playing in his head.

  He hated drama.

  “Who’s missing? Someone from the zoo? Marty the Mandrill?”

  “Damned to bloody hell if I know.”

  “Give me the number and tell them I’ll call them early tomorrow.”

  “Will do.”

  Yeah, he needed to get back in the saddle again.

  Saturday—December 20

  1

  The rising sun was attempting a Manhattanhenge when Tier stopped by the Allard’s garage door and accessed the GS recorder on the Medici gal’s Maybach. No movement during the night.

  Next step was to grab a coffee and a bagel from the pushcart down near Columbus Avenue, and then set up shop across Central Park West from the front entrance. Half sitting, half leaning on the low wall that divided Central Park from the sidewalk, he sipped coffee and pretended to smoke another cigarette as camouflage. No matter what the weather—and this was one frigid morning—smokers had to have their ciggies.