Monaco had a way with the clichés. One for every occasion. Sometimes two. Jack looked at the screen, squinted, and looked again.
“What the—?”
H3 looked like a cross between a wolf and an ape.
“Yeah, we know,” Monaco said. “Ugly as sin, right? If you swipe, you’ll see more.”
Jack swiped. Big…hairy…and not just ugly, H3 was uuuuuuugly.
“And no one’s spotted it yet?”
“It’s probably scared half to death,” Hess said. “Imagine living your life in the North Woods and then escaping from a moving vehicle and finding yourself in Queens. Luckily for us it’s nocturnal—does its foraging at night.”
“Still,” Jack said, staring at the screen, “you’d think someone would have spotted it by now.”
“Apparently not. And that’s our big worry: that sometime very soon it’ll be spotted by a dog walker and attacked by his dog. It’ll defend itself—much to the ruination of the pet—and that’s when the shit will hit the fan. Someone will offer a reward, dead or alive, and the hunt will be on. We don’t want a bunch of crazies with shotguns running it down and shooting it to pieces. We need it back alive.”
“You said you lost it in Queens?”
“Not we. The rank incompetents transporting it. But yes, Queens.”
Which happened to be the biggest of all the boroughs—by far.
“Can you be a little more specific?”
Monaco said, “It jumped out in a traffic jam on the Belt Parkway in the Howard Beach-Aqueduct area.”
A traffic jam on the Belt—go figure. Like when wasn’t the Belt jammed?
He mulled the project. A lot not to like here—especially the guys hiring him. But he needed a kick in the butt.
“Okay. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll take this tracker and run it around the Howard Beach-JFK-Ozone Park area, but it may be too late already.”
“And maybe not. You know what they say: It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.”
Really? What a way with words.
“I’ll give it a couple-three days. If I find your H3 and manage to tranq it, I’ll call.”
“Use the number Burkes gave you,” Hess said. “That’s mine. We’ll come and pick it up.”
“Fine. But if I get no hits by Monday night, I’ll pull the plug and call it quits.”
Jeez, now he was doing it.
“That’s just two days,” Monaco said. “Not enough. Keep digging and you might hit pay dirt.”
“No hits means it’s not there. For all we know, your H3 could already be headed back to the North Woods.”
“Let’s hope not,” Monaco said. “Can’t you start tonight?”
“I don’t know those neighborhoods all that well and nighttime’s not the time to learn. Even if it’s nocturnal, it’s got to spend the day somewhere. Besides, I got something else to do tonight. But I’ll be on it early tomorrow.” For Monaco’s sake he added, “Early bird catches the worm, right?”
“Absolutely.”
They did some business—Jack taking half his fee in advance—then he stepped out of the van and watched the door slide closed.
3
“Think he bought it?” Edward Hess said as they drove away.
Monaco shrugged. “I see no reason why he shouldn’t—lock, stock, and barrel.”
“I see plenty of reasons, prime among them being the whole spiel was pure bullshit.”
“Yes, but it’s good, carefully crafted bullshit.”
Ed wasn’t so sure.
“I don’t know…he seemed a little hesitant.”
“Wouldn’t you be after a look at those photos? I know I would.”
“Oh, they’re scary, no argument there. But somehow I don’t think it was the photos.”
Monaco waved his hands toward the windshield. “What are you saying—or should I say, not saying? That we shouldn’t have paid him? That we should go with someone else? Who? Beggars can’t be choosers, Ed. We’re between a rock and a hard place.”
“I’m well aware of that. Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I wish you hadn’t given him that tranq gun.”
“You’re not going to start beating that dead horse again, are you?”
“H3 is better off dead—we’re better off with it dead.”
“Earth to Ed: After the years we’ve invested in H3, we’re expected to produce results.”
“We have results. But we’re so damn dirty on this. We’d be better off if this Jack guy just killed it and we cremated the body and were done with it.”
“And what do we show DoD in return for all the years they’ve been funding us? ‘Sorry, Agent Greve. We cremated our greatest success. But you can have the ashes.’”
“We’ve had a whole string of failures. H3 would be just another. We tell them melis is a failure.”
“But it’s not a failure. Okay, yeah, we’ve had only one success, but what a success!”
How many years? Ed thought. How many years since that first sample of melis arrived? Nineteen? Twenty? Melis—weird, scary, and miraculous at the same time. And what made it even more intriguing was the aura of mystery about it: No one would tell them where it came from. A clandestine lab? Outer space? The latter possibility no longer seemed so farfetched. The stuff was strange enough to come from another planet.
But with all that had gone down with H3, he wished he’d never heard of goddamn melis.
“You know as well as I do, we need H3 alive to keep the project going.”
That was just it: Ed wasn’t sure he wanted to keep the project going.
“Is that really such a good idea?”
“You know damn well we’re not the only game in town. Other labs are working with melis. I want ours to be the star atop the tree. But we need H3 back for that. Burkes has a sterling reputation, and he says this Jack is skilled, discreet, and reliable.”
“That could be another problem. Let’s just say he finds H3 and manages to tranq it—”
“I think we can safely assume that if he finds H3, he will tranq H3. Did you see how fast he was with that gun?”
Ed would never forget. The pistol seemed to appear out of nowhere with its muzzle against Monaco’s head.
“You looked like you were going to faint.”
“I’m not the fainting type.” He laughed. “But I did damn near crap my pants.”
“My point is,” Ed said, “when he tranqs H3, he’ll be able to get close, maybe close enough to get suspicious.”
“Let him be as suspicious as he wants. He’ll call to tell us to make the pickup, we’ll pay him the rest of his exorbitant fee—can you believe he has the nerve to charge that much?—and never again shall the twain meet.”
“But what if he guesses the truth?”
A scoffing grunt from Monaco. “Guess the truth? No one will guess the truth, let alone that troglodyte. It’s too fantastic.”
Ed couldn’t let it go. It haunted him at night.
“But what if, by some chance, he does?”
“Ease your mind, Ed. That guy’s not smart enough to figure it out. And even if he does, so what? No one will believe it. I hardly believe it myself.”
“But still…”
“But still nothing. Remember, Ed, I’m the people person here, and I’ve got this guy scoped out. He’s tied to an old-fashioned work ethic that’ll drive him to get the job done. He’ll give us the two days he promised and will work his butt off to bring home the bacon. We’re the ones with the doctorates here, Ed. He’s just a working stiff with a special skill set. As long as he gets his money, he’ll be happy as a clam and buy into whatever line we feed him. Just because he’s got great street smarts doesn’t mean he’s got great intelligence. He’s just as gullible as the next guy.”
4
What a load of crap, Jack thought as he watched the Odyssey drive away along Seventy-first Street.
Had they told him one true thing?
Okay, the photos on the phone were probabl
y real because they’d want him to be able to recognize the quarry, but the rest…
The beastie jumped out on the Belt Parkway during its ride from Canada to the Bronx Zoo? Do I look like an idiot?
The Belt didn’t lead to the Bronx. If they were coming from the north as they’d said, they’d hit the Bronx long before the Belt.
Yeah, he’d told them he couldn’t start tonight because he had something else to do: Follow those two lying bastards.
He spotted a cab and hailed it.
“See that Honda van up ahead?” he said as he slid into the rear seat. “Follow it.”
He’d used cabs to follow people in the past, and could usually count on a wisecrack ranging from “Are we in a movie?” to “For reals?” This guy said nothing, just put it in gear and followed.
He always chose a Yellow Cab over Uber or Lyft. Had never used either of those because they required an account and a credit card. Even though the identities attached to his cards were bogus—bogus identities who always paid their bills—their movements would be on file somewhere. No thanks.
The Odyssey turned downtown on Broadway to Fifty-seventh, where it headed east and over the Queensboro Bridge. The city wanted everyone to call it the Ed Koch Bridge now. Koch’s reign as mayor had preceded Jack’s arrival in the Manhattan and so he had no opinion of the man, but for Jack the span would always be the Queensboro. It would always be a special bridge for him because it ran damn near directly over Gia’s place. Some folks liked to call it the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge; the Paul Simon song had fixed that name in a lot of minds. Either was fine with Jack.
“I do not want to go too far,” the driver said as they eased onto the Long Island Expressway.
Jack got it. Cabbies didn’t want to drive way out on the island and have to make the trip back with no fare.
The ID up on the Plexiglas divider said he was Nakale Ejiofor.
Jack pulled out a C-note and pushed it through the opening in the divider.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be using you for the return trip too. Just don’t lose them.”
Nakale held the bill up to the windshield for a better look, then tucked it inside his shirt.
“They shall not escape me.”
Goody.
5
Saturday night in Ozone Park… fun-fun-fun!
Not. Maybe because Christmas was less than a week away. Maybe because the temperature was like minus ninety. Maybe because—
“Ay, Artie, you see that?” Hector said, his breath steaming in the glow of the streetlight as he whacked him on the arm.
Artie rubbed the spot. Hector was a chunky couch potato but he had this thing about hitting. Always bashing Artie on one arm or the other. Wouldn’t be so bad if he had Hec’s padding, but he had a bony bod. No matter how much he ate, he stayed skinny.
“See what?”
“Some guy was just dumpster diving—on my street!”
“Ain’t no dumpsters ’round here.”
Artie wished he lived on this street rather than in his Mom’s crummy apartment over on Lefferts. Not that Lefferts was terrible or anything, but here on 114th Street was so much nicer. All the houses had neat brick fronts and trimmed lawns and mulched gardens. People here took care of their places. The only bad thing was they faced one of the Aqueduct parking lots. Trees along the fence across the street blocked sight of the track. Mostly. When they was running the horses at night, the sky above the trees kinda glowed from all the lights around the track. But when no races was going on—like now—you didn’t even know it was there. Quiet as a graveyard. Just like the rest of the neighborhood.
Hector whacked him again. “You know what I mean. Garbage can. He had his head stuck in one of the garbage cans.”
“Where?”
“Half way down to Conduit—the one right under the streetlight there.”
Tomorrow was garbage day, so big wheelie rubberized trash cans lined the curbs like soldiers on guard.
Artie squinted into the dark. “I don’t see nothin’.”
“That’s ’cause he ain’t there now. But I saw him clear as day.”
“How can you do that when it’s night?”
“Not funny.”
Hec went to whack him again but Artie was ready and dodged. Hec was his best friend but the kid had no sense of humor. They was both eighth graders at Virgil Grissom. Artie had lots of friends—lots more than Hec—but he hung with Hec. Wasn’t sure why. Guy had a permanent chip on his shoulder. Maybe he stayed around because he never knew what that chip was gonna make Hec do next.
“Prolly just some homeless guy. What’s the big deal?”
Another swat, another miss. “The big deal is we don’t need no homeless fuckers around here stealin’ shit an’ all, that’s what.”
“It’s garbage, Hec. Prolly leftovers.”
“Yeah, leftovers today, maybe Sara tomorrow.”
Artie didn’t like him bringing his little sister into this, but…shit.
“Where’d he go?”
“Saw him heading toward Conduit. Bet he’s in the park.”
The park…Southern Park…basically a fenced-in field between North Conduit and the Belt Parkway. Trees, some benches, the usual crap. The only good thing was a couple of soccer nets. Artie wasn’t a big fan of watching soccer, but he liked to play.
“So, you think he’s practicing penalty shots?”
Another whack, this time he didn’t miss.
“Not funny.”
Yeah, well, what did Hector ever think was funny?
He grabbed Artie’s jacket and pulled him the opposite way.
“Where we goin’?” Artie said.
“Gonna let this guy know he needs to do his dumpster diving somewheres else.”
He led Artie half a block to his house—brick front, brick-lined gardens, brick-lined driveway. Brick-brick-brick. Hec’s dad had a thing for bricks. And for his lawn. The winter-browned grass looked like he’d trimmed it with nose-hair scissors. Big Hector was really into his house.
Artie waited outside while Hec sneaked into the garage through its side door. He returned a few minutes later.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“The soccer field.” He held up a large can of charcoal lighter fluid and sloshed the contents. “It’s a cold night. Gonna warm him up.”
Artie stopped in his tracks. “No way!”
“Just gonna scare him. C’mon. Tonight, we’re the Neighborhood Watch.”
Bad idea, Artie thought, but followed Hec anyway.
They crossed North Conduit and entered the park through the gate that was supposed to be locked at night but never was. He couldn’t understand why the parks people surrounded the place with a ten-foot chain-link fence but never bothered to lock the gate. Streetlights on Conduit and traffic crawling along the Belt Parkway on the far side offered some illumination, but not a whole lot.
“Looks empty,” Artie said, liking this less and less. “Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute now, just wait a minute. He was heading this way. He’s here. Gotta be.”
Artie didn’t know about that. And then he saw something silhouetted against the headlights on the Belt, moving between two of the trees along the fence there. He was hoping Hec missed it—
“You see that?”
—but no such luck.
“See what?”
“C’mon. He’s down there.”
“Hec…”
His voice sounded whiney and he hated that, but this was stupid and dangerous.
Didn’t stop him from following, though.
They found him crouched under a tree with a banged-up pizza box. Had somebody left some slices, or was he just eating the crusts? Poor guy…
“Hey, you!” Hector shouted. “You ain’t allowed in here, and you ain’t allowed to steal no garbage!”
None of the light from the streets or the traffic reached these shadows, so Artie couldn’t tell much about him. He was bundled in a big sha
peless overcoat over a hoodie sweatshirt; under the hood he wore an oversize trucker cap pulled low over his face. He smacked his lips as he chewed on what he’d found, but didn’t look up.
“You hear me?” Hec said.
When the guy still didn’t react, Artie said, “Come on, Hec. He ain’t hurtin’ nobody.”
“Fuck that!”
He popped the top on the can and sprayed it at the guy, hitting his sleeve. Then he lit up one of those long-barreled butane lighters designed to look like a gun, and touched the flame to the sleeve.
The guy made some sort of growly noise and jumped up as the lighter fluid caught.
The flames lit his face.
Artie screamed like a girl, just like Hector not more than a foot away. They started to turn as one but the thing caught them by their necks—were those claws at the ends of its fingers? It smashed their heads together. Artie had heard of seeing stars—had seen it in cartoons—but never believed it happened. But now bright flashes were popping everywhere around him as his knees turned to mush and he dropped to the frozen ground.
He tried to focus, tried to get up but was too dazed. Nearby he had a foggy impression of the thing in the coat slapping at its arm, putting out the flames.
And then, beside him, Hector struggled to his knees. But before he got any further, the thing did something to his throat—like, swiped at it—and Hec started coughing and gurgling as he collapsed again.
Artie lifted his head. “Hec?”
But then the same hand slashed by his throat and he felt something tear the skin—one of the claws, maybe. He sensed something running out of him. He reached to his neck and felt a hot gush.
Not blood…oh, please, not blood. Not so much blood. I’ll die.
Artie didn’t want to die. Not with Christmas so close.
Nearby, he heard the sound of chewing—sloppy, noisy chewing, followed by grunting swallows.
Naw…it wasn’t eating Hec. Just the pizza. It couldn’t be eating Hec. Could it?
Soon Artie stopped wondering about anything.
6
Jack slumped in the backseat of the cab as the ride dragged on and on toward the east end of the island, passing signs for all sorts of—ogues: Patchogue and Quogue, then onto the North Fork past Aquebogue and Cutchogue until they were running out of road and island as they approached Orient Point.
The Last Christmas: A Repairman Jack Novel Page 6
