The Last Christmas: A Repairman Jack Novel

by F. Paul Wilson

His mouth moved but no words came forth.

  “Last week I asked you if you knew the meaning of bagaq. You didn’t. That is the trouble with you dilettante collectors. You don’t research thoroughly, if at all. You simply want-want-want. Bagaq means sponge in the Old Tongue. And if you had done your homework, you would have known what the change in color meant.”

  She picked up the empty Bagaq and turned it over in her hands. Was it lighter in weight as well as hue, or just her imagination?

  “The Bagaq is an Infernal that absorbs diseases and injuries. But like any sponge, it becomes saturated and must be squeezed before it can be useful again. The color change is a warning that it is full. The Bagaq was designed to squeeze itself when full. Woe to the first to use it after it reaches the saturation point. It empties all the diseases and injuries it has absorbed into that unfortunate person. And tonight, Roland Apfel, that person was you.”

  A groan from the bed. His breaths were coming further and further apart. One of his exhalations sounded like “Lied.”

  “‘Lied’? Of course I lied. Not about stealing it, because how could I steal what was mine to begin with? My Cairo apartment was looted in 2011 during the ‘Arab Spring’ and the Bagaq was taken along with everything else. You may have purchased it from the thieves, but that did not make it yours. I did lie about having it because I didn’t want you hounding me. But when I saw your man posted outside my apartment building, I knew I would have no peace until I resolved our conflict. Which I have done.”

  She watched him take a breath, then waited for the next. When it didn’t come, she slipped the Bagaq into a pocket and turned to leave.

  Wait.

  She stepped to the pedestal and retrieved the bronze cup from the valley of Gohar Rud. She ran a finger over the rim, remembering again how it had come to be dented. Yes, sentimental value.

  She gave Roland’s still form a last look as she passed.

  Conflict resolved.

  10

  Jack awoke with a dry mouth and a tongue that felt like old leather. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep. He recognized the Quinnell lair, but… was that music? Sounded like Bing Crosby… yes, definitely Bing Crosby singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

  Okay, he’d fallen asleep and was still asleep, but dreaming he was awake.

  And then he heard a child sob. And sob again.

  He sat up. After fighting off a swirl of vertigo, he found the source.

  “Oh, no.” He said it softly, not wishing to make matters worse.

  Cilla Quinnell huddled a few feet away, wrapped in a blanket. The toys David had stolen had been arranged around her. Quinnell himself sprawled against the opposite wall, looking like hell.

  Cilla turned her tear-streaked face toward Jack but didn’t quite look at him as she sobbed again.

  “It’s okay, honey,” he said as he scooched closer. “No one’s gonna hurt you here.”

  As least he’d stopped slurring his words.

  “I want my mah-ha-ha-hommy!”

  Jack sat next to her and wrapped the blanket more tightly around her before pulling her against him. She was shaking like an epileptic.

  “I know you do, and we’re going to get you back to her as soon as possible.”

  This earned a growl from Quinnell but not much else.

  “Doggie Man,” Cilla said.

  He remembered seeing her talking to him in her backyard. Her expression then had showed a mix of fear and fascinated affection. Maybe she sensed the paternal feelings this creature had for her. Maybe a bond had been forming. But pulling her from her bed and her home and bringing her here had shattered that.

  “Right, Cilla. Doggie Man. Doggie Man loves you and would never hurt you. Right, Doggie Man?”

  A whine from Quinnell. Jack had never heard him whine.

  “You know,” Jack said to him, “I was afraid this was on your mind. Soon as I saw the little tree and the lights and the toys, I thought, he’s planning on bringing Cilla here. I was almost afraid to think it, and I was even more afraid to warn you off it because I feared if this crazy idea wasn’t already in your head, I just might put it there.”

  Quinnell made no sound, simply stared. He looked exhausted.

  “What were you thinking?”

  Quinnell gestured at the tree and the toys.

  “One last Christmas with her?”

  A nod.

  Jack’s heart went out to him, but more to little Cilla. Her tremors spoke of her terror.

  “She’s scared to death, Dog. And I’m not going hip-hop on you, I just don’t want to say your name. You’ve got to end this.”

  A growl.

  “What happens when her mother goes in to wake her to see what Santa Claus brought? Do you hate Jelena that much?”

  Another whine.

  “Then I’m taking her back.”

  This brought Quinnell to his feet. He swayed as he faced Jack. Jack struggled to his own feet. Damn, his knees were still weak.

  “We’re going to have a fight? In front of her? You really want that?”

  Quinnell crumpled to his knees. A sound like a sob escaped him.

  Poor bastard.

  But it didn’t seem like simple resignation. More to it than that… something else going on. Was the cellular lysis Hess and Monaco had mentioned catching up to him? Was David Quinnell dying? Had he known that all along?

  He was in no shape to stop Jack, but neither was Jack in any shape to carry Cilla back through the snow to—

  “Oh, Christ!”

  He had the keys but the Jeep was still in the diner’s parking lot.

  Just then sounds started echoing down the passageway.

  Now what?

  Madame de Medici appeared.

  “Jack, I’m so glad—” And then she saw Cilla and gasped something unintelligible.

  “Exactly how I feel,” he said.

  She pointed back and forth between Cilla and Quinnell. “Are they…?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But—”

  “Before we go any further,” he said, “you’ve got to tell me how you wound up with the Bagaq.” He was still worried about Abe.

  “It never left me. The one I gave you was a fake—a decoy.”

  Okay. That was a relief—but only as far as Abe not being in danger.

  “So, you lied to me.”

  “Surely you expect that from your clientele.”

  Yeah, he did. But…

  “Why the charade?”

  “You of all people must understand misdirection: draw attention to the right hand to hide what the left is doing?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get all that. What irks me is, I’ve been guarding a fake and you wind up giving the real one away. I damn near got killed for nothing.”

  “No, not for nothing. You proved quite useful. I was able to use the Bagaq on you. And I have it back.”

  “You were counting on me getting hurt?”

  “Not at all. I never dreamed you’d be hurt. I was counting on the trail of carnage that seems to follow you. I intended to saturate the Bagaq with that carnage. But you unexpectedly wound up being part of it. It all worked out, however. After helping you and Roland’s hireling, the Bagaq was full.”

  “With what?”

  “Disease and injury.”

  “And that’s a good thing?”

  Her amber eyes flashed. “Not for Roland.”

  “I take it the Bagaq didn’t help him?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Does that mean you’ve resolved your conflict?”

  A smile. “Yes. Quite satisfactorily. Plus, the Bagaq is mine again and no one is trying to take it from me.”

  Something scary about that smile. Especially when he remembered how she’d promised she’d visit Roland on his deathbed to reclaim it.

  “Let’s put that aside for now,” he said. “We have a more immediate problem.”

  She fixed her gaze on Cilla. “I’ve gathered who she is, but what is she
doing here?”

  “Well, as I see it, Christmas is a time families tend to get together, and our friend here thought… well…”

  Madame de Medici got the message.

  “It used to be a time,” she said, “when people gathered to celebrate the passing of the winter solstice and the lengthening of the day. Now it’s been overlaid with so much else. But none of that changes the fact that the child must go back immediately.”

  This brought a growl from Quinnell.

  Madame stepped over to him and bent to get in his face.

  “This is not up for debate, young man. No matter what the time of year, this child needs her home and her mother.” She turned to Jack. “Do you know where she lives?”

  He nodded. “I was about to take her there but my Jeep’s—”

  Her eyes widened. “You? Have you looked at yourself?” She shook her head. “No, of course you haven’t. How could you? You’re a bloody mess, Jack.”

  He looked down at his punctured, bloodstained parka and shirt. The Bagaq may have healed the wounds, but he’d done a lot of bleeding before it went to work.

  “Oh, yeah. That.”

  “Yes, that. My car is waiting. I’ll take her back. I’m sure her mother would rather open the door to a cultured, well-dressed woman than a bloodied, bedraggled man.”

  …a cultured, well-dressed woman… certainly no self-image issues there. But she had an excellent point.

  He looked her up and down, jodhpurs and all. “Will she open it for someone who looks like she just came from the race track?”

  “I shall be back in fur when I call on her.”

  “How will you explain having Cilla?”

  “I’ll think of something. I’m an excellent liar.”

  “Practice makes perfect, right?”

  She didn’t respond but her sidelong glance spoke volumes.

  And then Quinnell did a slow slide from sitting against the wall to sprawling on his side. Jack scuttled over and knelt beside him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He mustered a whine. His eyes were cloudy and yellow, his breathing shallow. Jack had no doubt he was dying.

  “Okay, listen: Cilla’s going home. Understand?”

  A nod.

  “And then I’m going to call the bastards to pick you up.”

  A shake of the head.

  Jack figured Cilla was listening—little kids heard everything—so he chose his words carefully.

  “Seriously. If your, um, remains are found here, the authorities will do all sorts of testing on you. Your DNA is in the system. You could be identified. Do you want that to be part of your legacy—and your offspring’s as well?”

  No immediate response, then a shake of the head. Quinnell looked at Jack. His rheumy eyes were hard to read, but Jack sensed a thank-you there.

  He motioned to Cilla to come over. She hesitated, then approached with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

  “Doggie Man isn’t feeling well. He’s going to stay here while we take you home. But before you go, maybe you can say good bye and thank-you for the presents.”

  Cilla didn’t hesitate. “Bye-bye, Doggie Man. Thanks for the presents.”

  Jack was reaching out to lift her when she bent and kissed her father on the head.

  Quinnell made that soblike sound again. Jack tried to speak but realized his throat had locked. He wrapped the blanket around Cilla and lifted her into his arms.

  Madame de Medici was staring at them, her amber eyes glistening. She shook it off and said, “You’re still weak from the poison. I’ll have Sochai—”

  “Who’s Sochai?”

  “My driver.”

  “I’ve got her.”

  His legs were feeling stronger now and he’d be damned if he’d walk along emptyhanded while her driver carried this child. Not gonna happen.

  Climbing the wall rungs with her proved a challenge because he was afraid she’d slip from his grasp, but after that, the trek across the parking lot was doable.

  Sochai was holding the fence open for them when they arrived. Then he hurried ahead to open the Hummer’s passenger door for Madame.

  “I’ll take the rear with the child. You sit up front with Sochai.”

  The interior was warm and comfy. A minute after they started rolling, Madame de Medici announced, “She’s asleep.”

  11

  Edward Hess was on his third spiced rum and Coke—the alcohol took the edge off the throb in his thigh—when the phone rang.

  “At this ungodly hour,” Monaco said, “that can be only one person.”

  Neither of them had been able even to think of sleep, so they’d sat up together in Edward’s place, plotting how to get their money back. Before his first Captain and Coke—a stiff one, just like those that followed—every idea had sounded impossible; as he approached the end of his third, more and more were sounding feasible.

  Monaco didn’t drink. Twit.

  Monaco was reaching for the cell but Edward snatched it away. “My phone.”

  “But you’ve been drinking.”

  “I’m not affected.”

  Well, maybe a little. But he could deal with this.

  Monaco gave one of his impatient glares. “We won’t argue the point. But put it on speaker.”

  Fair enough.

  “Hess? Jack. Your guy’s ready for pick up.”

  “Our ‘guy’?” Edward said.

  “You wanna play games, the conversation’s over.”

  “Wait,” Monaco said. “You’ve got to understand, we’ve got trust issues here.”

  “The issues are on this side—as in, I don’t trust a word either of you says.”

  “All right, then. Where is it?”

  Still calling Quinnell “it,” Edward thought.

  He’d reverted to “him.”

  “Aqueduct.”

  “The race park?”

  “You got it.”

  Edward had heard of it but had no idea where it was. He threw Monaco a questioning look.

  “Queens,” Monaco whispered. “Near H3’s old place in Howard Beach.” Then he raised his voice. “That’s a pretty big ‘where.’”

  “He found a spot under the grandstand. I’ll walk you in. But I gotta tell you: I just left him and he’s not doing well.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He looks like he’s dying. The whites of his eyes are all yellow.”

  Edward slumped back in his easy chair. “Oh, no.”

  Yellow eyes…Quinnell’s liver was failing…

  “I think it might be that lysis you told me about.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that,” Monaco said testily.

  “Well, then, better do your judging soon. He doesn’t look like he can hang on much longer. Either of you have wheels that can get in here through the snow? That Odyssey’s not gonna cut it.”

  “I’ve got a Highlander,” Monaco said.

  “That’ll do. Drive to the Belt Parkway and take it to the Aqueduct exit. Call this number when you get there and I’ll talk you in. Bring flashlights and dress warm. You have some walking to do.”

  “Can he walk?” Edward said.

  “No way.”

  “Well, we don’t have a stretcher.”

  “Bring a rug to wrap him in. And don’t forget the other half of my fee.”

  The line went dead.

  Monaco’s face twisted in rage. “His fee? The fucking nerve! He steals half a million from us and still wants his fee?”

  Edward’s rum-fogged mind wasn’t thinking about fees. It had focused on the rest of what he’d said.

  “Rug?”

  “We happen to have a body bag,” Monaco said, rising.

  “What? Why?”

  “I put one in the back of the van last week in case someone killed H3 before we caught it.”

  “Oh.” Okay. That was taken care of. But… “Where will we get the money for his fee?”

  “He’s not getting his goddamn
fee! He’s getting something else instead.” He stomped toward the door. “We’d better get moving.”

  He hurried out, leaving Edward to gulp the rest of his drink. When finished, he pulled a heavy overcoat from the closet. He had no boots—who had boots?—so he slipped into a worn pair of sneakers. Not warm, but at least they had rubber soles. He searched out a scarf and some knitted gloves. He checked his flashlight and it still worked.

  All right. Ready to go.

  By the time he got outside, Monaco had burst his Highlander through the mounded snow at the bottom of the driveway and was waiting for him. Edward slogged across the drifted front yard and climbed into the passenger seat. Usually he drove, but not tonight.

  “God, it’s cold out there.”

  “Good thing, too,” Monaco said. “If this had been a wet snow, I never would have made it out of the driveway. But it’s like powder.”

  As the SUV lurched forward, Edward noticed a pistol resting on the console.

  “What’s that for?”

  “It’s Jack’s fee.”

  “No, seriously.” And then it hit him. “Oh, no. You’re not thinking…”

  “Of shooting a few holes in him? Goddamn right I am. But not right away. He’ll help us with the lifting and hauling. But as soon as we have H3 settled in the back here, I’m going to find out where Jack stashed that suitcase.”

  “What if he’s already given it to Quinnell’s wife?”

  Monaco laughed. “What? I can’t believe you’re so naïve. Do you really believe he has any intention of giving that pile of cash away to some woman he’s never met? If you do, I’ve got this nifty bridge for sale. No, no, my friend. As sure as night follows day, he’s keeping every penny for himself. I guarantee it.”

  “I don’t know. He seemed genuinely outraged.”

  “All an act. And even if by some insanely remote chance he meant it, he wouldn’t go deliver a suitcase full of cash in the dead of night in a blizzard. Not a chance. He’d wait until daylight. Have no fear: He has our money and we’re going to get it back. And then…”

  Ed waited, but Monaco let it hang. So… “And then what?”

  “He knows too much, Ed. You slipped about ‘melis.’ And we both know—just know—he’s going to Google it when he has time. And then they’ll come looking for him. And when they find him, he’ll point to us.”