Quinnell growled and turned away as best he could with his arm chained to a pipe.
“You don’t believe me?”
A no-look, dismissive wave of his paw.
“Okay. I can understand that. Can’t say as I blame you, either. You’ve been lied to once, David, so what’s gonna stop me from saying I’m gonna deliver it and just stick it in the back of my Jeep instead? But it’s already been in the back of my Jeep and I could have left it there and told you Hess and Monaco had already divided it up and spent it.”
He was starting to look interested. Just a little. What would turn him around?
An idea struck Jack then. A really stupid idea. But sometimes you had to dare to be stupid.
“All right, I don’t see any way you’re gonna be convinced unless we deliver the dough together.”
The interested look became a dubious look. At least that was how Jack interpreted it.
“We’re gonna need conditions, though. Heavy conditions.”
The dubious look continued.
“You’ve been altered. You’ve got wolf genes running around inside you. But fundamentally you’re still a man, still David Quinnell, right?”
A nod.
“Okay, then. This may sound hokey—I know it does to me—but I’m gonna ask David Quinnell for his word as a man that he will not try to harm me if I uncuff him from that pipe. Not only not try to harm me, but he will not try to escape while he’s free, and that after we’ve delivered the money he will come back here with me and allow himself to be cuffed to that pipe again.”
The dubious look had morphed to…what?... incredulous?
“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking—This guy must be crazy, right? Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been called that. Won’t be the last, I’m sure. But the way I see it, after what you’ve been through, it won’t be enough for you to believe that money’s gone to your family. You’ll need to know. Right?”
A nod.
“Okay. Just so we’re both clear on this: I free you up long enough to witness me giving your wife that suitcase, then you’re back here and reattached to the pipe. And in between you don’t attack me or try to escape. Agreed?”
Quinnell only stared.
“Are we agreed or not?”
Finally, a nod.
Quinnell rose to his feet and stood swaying.
“Still feeling some effects from that dart, huh?”
A shrug. What did that mean? Not much, or just a little?
Quinnell stuck out his free hand or paw or some come combination of the two. It happened to be his right one.
Am I crazy? Jack thought. I gotta be crazy to do this.
This had to be the riskiest gamble he’d ever taken during a fix. He sensed most of Quinnell’s humanity still intact under that changed hide. Jack was appealing to that humanity right now. He wanted Quinnell to believe he could trust him, and to solidify that belief he had to see that Jack kept his word and was on his side.
Because nothing good was going to come of this whole situation. Every outcome would end badly for someone. Jack had made it his business to steer things toward the least bad. He wished someone else were available for the job. Even though he’d opted into this position based on a pack of lies, he felt obligated to see it through. Because no one else was going to step up. And deep in his gut he knew no one else could step up.
He gripped Quinnell’s paw-hand and shook.
Then he stuck the Glock into his waistband.
“I’m going to bring this along. I don’t know you well enough to trust you completely. And after all”—Jack pointed to Quinnell’s clawed hands—“you’re bringing some built-in weaponry.”
He fished the cuff keys from his pocket and eased over toward Quinnell. He had a grip on his forearm as he unlocked the cuff from the pipe. He felt the muscles under the overcoat sleeve tense as if readying to strike, then relax. Jack quickly cuffed Quinnell’s wrists together in front of him. Would have preferred behind his back but the guy needed his hands to climb those rungs.
“Good man.”
Just then the lights dimmed.
“Your batteries appear to be running out,” Jack said. “Got spares?”
Quinnell nodded toward the power box. Jack stepped over and found a pile of D batteries.
“Looks like you thought of everything.”
He swapped fresh ones for the used and the lights brightened. He moved to the suitcase. As he zipped it up, Jack spied the tranq gun and its darts leaning against the far wall. Take it or not?
Not. If Quinnell became violent, the neuromuscular juice would take too long to slow him down. Jack would need 9mm slugs on his side.
He was counting on it not coming to that.
He grabbed the suitcase handle and said, “All right, my friend, let’s go.”
21
She stepped into Burbank’s lair and found him where she always found him: seated before his microphone.
“Good evening, Burbank.”
“Twilight has come, Madame,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Night will follow.”
“So I’ve heard. How are you feeling?”
“Perfectly fine, dear.”
“Now the truth.”
“Failing, I’m afraid. I don’t know if I can sit here much longer. I may have to lie down.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because I’m not ready yet.”
“Are you well enough to do me a favor? I hate to impose but—”
He swiveled in his chair to face her. My, he looked ghastly.
“You cannot possibly ‘impose’ on me, Madame. My debt to you is far too great to deny you anything. What is this favor?”
“I’m trying to locate someone and all I have is his phone number.”
He smiled. “Is that all?”
22
Jelena lowered her toothbrush and listened. She thought she’d heard the front doorbell. She had to be hallucinating. No one could be—
There. She heard it again—definitely the front door. She couldn’t imagine who would be at her door at this hour on any night, let alone this night, in the middle of Snowmageddon.
Her heart picked up tempo as she grabbed the ratty old terrycloth robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and pulled it on over her flannel PJs. Nothing good could come from a late-night caller. Someone was either up to no good or bringing bad news.
Tihana? Had she got herself into trouble again?
She turned on the over-door light and peeked through the peephole. A guy stood there. He had his parka hood up and not a whole lot of his face visible, but none of what she could see looked familiar. A strange guy on her doorstep at ten-fifteen during a snowstorm. This couldn’t be good. No way could this be good.
“Yes?” she said through the door, and hated how her voice wavered.
“This the Quinnell house?” he said, pronouncing it wrong.
Oh, shit. He knew their name.
“Y-yes. Is something wrong?”
“Got a suitcase for ya.”
“A what?”
“Suitcase. Jet Blue found it in storage at Kennedy.”
Jet Blue? This was crazy.
“I don’t understand. I haven’t been traveling at all.”
“Oh, this isn’t recent, ma’am. I could tell that from the dust I had to clean off it. This thing’s been lost a long time.”
Lost luggage?
“And it’s got my name on it?”
“Got David Quinnell on the tag and this place is listed as the address. He does live here, don’t he?”
Never a good idea to let a stranger know there was no man in the house.
“Yes, he does, but he’s sleeping.”
“That’s okay. Hey, I can understand you not wanting to open the door. As long as I know I’ve got the right place, I’ll just leave the suitcase here on your front stoop, okay?”
“Okay.”
A wave of relief washed over her. She’d had such a bad feeling ab
out this being a scam of some sort. Not that this was the sort of night for running a con, but still…
“Don’t leave it too long,” he said. “Snow might get inside, or someone might grab it.”
“Yes. Sure. Thank you.”
She felt bad about not tipping him after coming out on a night like this, but the situation was so bizarre. David was dead and had never mentioned losing a suitcase. He’d been involved in some pretty shady goings on before his arrest, and this might or might not be related. No way to know, so no way was she unlocking her door for a stranger.
She sidled to the front picture window and watched the stranger trudge out to a Jeep idling in the street, climb in, and drive off. She had an impression of someone else inside, watching from the passenger seat.
When he was gone, she pressed the side of her face against the glass and could make out a medium-size hardshell suitcase sitting on her unshoveled front stoop. Okay. It seemed safe to grab it now.
She undid the safety chain, then the deadbolt, then quick like a bunny pushed open the storm door, grabbed the suitcase, and pulled it inside. Not terribly heavy. After relocking everything, she checked out the luggage tag. Sure enough: David Quinnell followed by this address.
How strange. How long had this thing been sitting in a warehouse?
She was a little afraid to open it. Really, anything could be inside. Maybe things she didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know about. Though most likely not. Most likely dirty old clothes.
She knelt on the carpet, tipped it onto its side, undid the double zippers… then paused.
Why all these nerves? Just do it, Jelena.
Holding a breath, she lifted the upper half and let it fall back.
And stared…and stared some more…it looked like…
Money.
Lots of money. Banded stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills, and each band printed with $10,000.
No. No-no-no-no-no. This couldn’t be real, had to be a joke, a cruel joke. Counterfeit bills. Had David been into that too? Funny money? Those goddamn bookies took over his whole life.
She fanned through a couple of stacks. All hundreds. And not new bills. These seemed well used and—
Wait. The stacks contained three different types of hundreds—some with a little Benjamin Franklin in a circle, some with a big Franklin in a circle, and some with Franklin and no circle at all. If they were fakes, real funny money, wouldn’t they all be the same design?
“Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!” she whispered. “It’s real. It’s real!”
She stiffened at a noise outside. Had the delivery man returned? She ran to the front window and peered out. The street remained empty—no, a plow was trudging along from her right with a loud, scraping noise. Clearing her street. Not that it mattered. She hadn’t any place to go.
Giving in to a spasm of paranoia, she pulled the shades. When she turned and saw the suitcase crammed with money again, she couldn’t resist a happy dance—a little one, brief and silent.
Then back to the suitcase where she unzipped the top half. More stacks of hundreds. She wanted to scream.
Hard to believe nobody had looked inside. Obviously, no one had or it never would have reached her.
Her hands shook as she did a quick count. Forty-eight stacks. Just shy of half a million dollars. The amount gave her the shakes. This solved so many of her problems. She could get right with the bank—catch up on the payments and stop the foreclosure. She could quit her job—flip the bird to Mr. Hands and go to school, get that accounting degree, become a CPA…
Be somebody. Somebody who could provide for Cilla, get her the help she needed.
With no warning, Jelena began to cry. Huge, wracking sobs.
“David…”
She didn’t believe in Santa Claus, so it had to be David. Somehow, he was behind this. Somehow, he’d reached out from the grave and saved her and Cilla. But how? He’d never mentioned this money while he was alive. Had he thought it lost or stolen? He’d cut himself off from everyone after they locked him up, and now he was gone, so asking him wasn’t an option.
It simply didn’t make sense. He got into all that trouble because he owed a fortune to the wrong people. If he’d had this money available, he wouldn’t have owed…
Get a grip, Jelena.
She stifled the sobs. No use in trying to make sense of it. Life had stopped making sense years ago. The money was here, right in front of her. She had to deal with all this cash. She doubted very much it was clean money, but no matter. Right now, it was her money—hers and Cilla’s—and she was going to make sure it stayed theirs.
Which meant she couldn’t put it in a bank. The government would want to know where it came from, and sure as hell the IRS or the FBI or somebody would find a way to take it from her. She couldn’t tell anyone about it. Especially not Tihana. She’d get high and blab it to the world.
My little secret. Okay, my big secret.
And the suitcase made the perfect hiding place. Just stick it up in the attic with that old leather bag she never used.
She zipped it up and wheeled it to her bedroom. Then she crept to Cilla’s room and knelt beside her bed.
“We’re gonna be all right, honey,” she whispered as she brushed back her angel daughter’s bangs. “You’re gonna be all right, I’m gonna be all right, everything’s gonna be all right.”
23
They were closing in on midnight when a blip appeared at the top of the screen on Tonto’s phone.
“Hey, we got him!” Albert shouted. “We got the fucker!”
Tonto glanced over and nodded. “I won’t say I told you so. Then again, perhaps I should: I told you so.”
Oh, was it going to be fun to off this guy. Good thing he hadn’t given him some sort of shit-eating grin or nothin’, because Albert was not at all sure he could have held back doing him right here in the car.
Yeah, all right, Tonto had said they’d find this Jack guy again, but for the longest time it seemed they wouldn’t.
Back when they’d arrived at the end of the Southern State, they’d had a choice of either heading south on the Belt or north on the Cross Island Parkway. Since they’d already done the Belt, they decided—somehow they’d actually agreed—to try the Cross Island. When that didn’t pan out, they’d headed back to the Belt.
Albert studied the screen. The map on the phone put them in South Jamaica at the moment, and Jack…
“He’s straight west of us. Looks like he’s over by Aqueduct.”
Tonto accelerated. “Let’s see if we can catch up.”
“Damn well better catch up.”
The goddamn snow wasn’t letting up. They’d been listening to the radio off and on along the way and the weather geeks all had hard-ons over how the storm had gone against all predictions and stalled off the coast where it kept on pounding the area with inch after inch of snow.
The glowing dot of the Jeep crept toward the center of the screen.
“Hey, you know what?” Albert said. “I think he’s stopped moving.”
“Excellent. Guide us to him.”
“You gonna let him see us?”
“He doesn’t know what we’re driving. Last time he saw us we were in a Lincoln Continental. Remember?”
The way he said remember set Albert’s teeth on edge. He didn’t trust himself to answer so he just started giving directions to the dot. They moved off the beaten path onto an unplowed road. Fresh tracks ahead of them. Jack?
Pretty soon the dot arrived dead center on the screen.
“Voila,” Tonto said, pointing straight ahead.
Sure enough, the Jeep sat parked at the end of 96th Place near a train stop.
“The fucking end of nowhere,” Albert said.
Tonto took them on a slow pass close by it.
“Looks empty,” Albert said.
Tonto nodded. “It does. But where could he go? The nearest house is…”
“Yeah.” Albert looked around. “Gotta be a hundred y
ards away.”
“Right. But even so, I didn’t see any tracks leading from the Jeep.”
Albert laughed. “So, where’d he go? Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on at the track, so…” They looked at each other. “You don’t think…?”
Tonto rounded a curve and pulled over about a hundred feet past the Jeep. He turned out the headlights and said, “Only one way to find out.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Going to follow his tracks.”
“Have fun.”
No fucking way was Albert going out in this mess.
“It’s better if you stay here in the car anyway. Just in case he returns by a different route.”
“What you gonna do if you find him?”
Tonto pulled out his revolver and flicked off the safety. “I’m going to find out where he’s hidden the Bagaq.”
“And if he ain’t talking?”
“I’ll bring him back here and we’ll combine our persuasive efforts.”
Not a great plan, but as long as it didn’t involve him slogging through the snow, Albert was cool with it. He didn’t care if Tonto found the Bagaq. Didn’t matter who found it. All that mattered was who delivered it to the boss. And that would be Albert.
“One other thing,” Tonto said. “There’s a chance I might need some help once I find him. If I do, I’ll call you.”
“How you gonna call me if I got your phone?”
“I always have a backup.”
With that he jumped out and walked away.
“Enjoy your last night on Earth, jerk,” Albert whispered.
He turned up the heater and settled back to wait. Nice and comfy. If only his finger didn’t throb like a bitch. Should’ve brought along some Vikes.
Christmas Eve
1
Even with his hands cuffed in front of him, Quinnell had seemed to prefer to lope along on all fours as they’d slogged through the snow to the grandstand. Jack had let him go first through the opening to the underground.
So far, so good. No way Quinnell couldn’t trust him now, see him as a straight shooter.
“Now we see if I’m a dumb ass or not,” Jack said as they reached the lighted area.
The Last Christmas: A Repairman Jack Novel Page 25
