15
Ed wanted out of this place. He’d never been claustrophobic, but he felt like the walls were closing in on him. All the Christmas trappings made it worse. Quinnell dressing up this little space for the holidays…why? The children’s toys were the most upsetting. For his little girl? It made Ed feel like a total shit for calling him H3 all this time when a husband and a father—a man—still lived among all the wolf cells.
But most of all he dreaded lifting Quinnell. His back had become unreliable lately—downright cranky was more like it—and he didn’t know what he’d do if it went out on him.
Once the body bag was spread out, he said, “How about giving us a hand?”
“Yeah,” Monaco said, “your new best friend is going to be heavy.”
When Jack didn’t answer, Ed looked up but he was nowhere in sight.
“Where’d he go?”
Monaco leaped to his feet and looked around. Pulling his pistol he hurried back toward the access port.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” echoed down the passage.
“No sign of him?” Ed said when he returned, though he’d already guessed the answer.
“He’s gone. The son of a bitch took off and left us.”
“Without the rest of his money?”
“I don’t like this,” Monaco said, his pistol still drawn as he turned in a slow circle. Did he think Jack would pop out of a wall? “Something fishy going on. He’s planning something.”
Edward thought about that and didn’t buy it.
“If he was going to harm us, he could have done it when we got out of the car, or after we arrived down here.”
“Then what game is he playing?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt his back lifting. Maybe he doesn’t want any more to do with us. What difference does it make? Either way we have to lug Quinnell up to the surface and back to the car. So, let’s get to it.”
Quinnell’s dead weight would have been pure hell to maneuver even without Ed protecting his back, but they managed to move him to the body bag and zip him in. That turned out to be the easy part. If not for the sturdy handles sewn into the fabric of the bag, they never would have been able to wrangle him up the rungs and through the opening.
Exhausted, they both sat on the frigid ground, panting to catch their breaths. Ed looked around for Jack but saw no trace of him. Was he waiting for them back at the car?
“All right,” Monaco said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Instead of lifting him, they each took hold of one of the bag’s head-end handles and dragged it atop the snow. Halfway across the parking lot, the bag rolled onto its side.
“What the hell?” Monaco said.
Ed stopped, panting. “I need a breather anyway. I’m so out of shape.”
New Year’s was a week away. Time for a resolution: hit the gym. Make it a habit.
Right. Like he’d stick to that.
“Help me flip this back,” Monaco said.
As they bent over it, something looked wrong.
“The zipper’s down,” he said. “And Quinnell’s arm’s out.”
Monaco leaned closer. “Now how the hell—?”
The arm moved—fast—as extended talons ripped into Monaco’s throat. Ed froze in shock. How—? And then the talons swung his way and he felt the impact against his larynx, heard its cartilage crack, felt the skin tear. Agony enveloped him as he fell back and saw a dark jet arc away through the air.
16
Jack had been waiting for it, expecting it as he watched from the fence, and still it surprised him when it happened. It ended almost as soon as it began.
He took his time walking toward the three dark shapes splayed on the snow.
Lots of blood looking black on the white. He didn’t bother checking Hess and Monaco, but he squatted by Quinnell and shone the light in his face. He watched for a hint of breath to fog the air, but none came. His semi-animal features looked at peace. And why not? He’d settled his scores.
Jack had sensed that Quinnell had been hanging on for a reason. He hadn’t been sure why. Maybe because life was so short to begin with and you simply had to hold onto every last minute of it. But when he’d seen that slow jaundiced wink, he’d known this was coming. It told him to stay out of the way, and he had. Not his place to interfere.
He searched the pockets of Hess’s overcoat and found his phone. He used it to search out the DIA’s public affairs number. He didn’t know where its 202 area code was located but called anyway.
He listened to a metallic woman’s voice telling him the office was closed but he could leave a message.
“Hi, folks, just wanted to let you know that I’m standing here in one of the Aqueduct Racetrack parking lots by three fresh corpses involved in a DIA matter related to Plum Island. The matter in question is something I’m sure no one in DIA will want explored in the local papers. Don’t sit on this. Someone in DIA will know what I’m talking about. I’ll leave the phone here so you can trace it. Have a merry Christmas.”
He wiped down the phone and tossed it onto the body bag. He’d called Hess on it a number of times but always had made a point of using one of his burners. He’d destroy those before dawn.
He looked down at the three bodies. What a mess. Four days ago, he’d signed on to find a missing animal, never dreaming it would all end like this.
No winners here.
Well, maybe Quinnell. The money had finally reached Jelena and Cilla. They’d have a better life because of it—just what David had intended when he sold his body for research.
Oh, yeah. And a fourth body in the boat basin. Jack didn’t have a name for him. Would anyone connect that to Quinnell? Not that it mattered.
And wandering through it all, unscathed, untouched by human hand or human emotion… Madame de Medici. Where was she now? And where was Hill, the Mohawk?
One helluva night.
And on Christmas Eve, no less. Didn’t seem right.
Whatever happened to peace on Earth, good will toward men?
17
Tier was working on his second whiskey when his phone rang. He ignored it.
One of the things he liked about Manhattan was the truth in its city-that-never-sleeps rep. No matter what the hour you could find, depending on your needs, an open bar or coffee shop ready to serve you. His need had been for a bar and he’d found this Irish pub in the East Forties. He’d barely registered the name as he’d pushed through the door. O’Somebody’s…
Three or four other men had scattered themselves along the impressive length of the bar, watched over by a solitary, tired-looking bartender. The lights were too low to make out more than rudimentary features on the faces of his fellow drinkers, none of whom exhibited the slightest interest in engaging him in conversation. Perfect. In deference to the ethnicity of the environs, Tier had ordered a double Jameson’s on the rocks.
It didn’t help much. He still couldn’t push what he’d seen—what he’d experienced—out of his head. Two deaths, two miraculous healings. He sensed a balance there but didn’t pursue it. He could fabricate all sorts of meanings but, with no one to tell him whether or not he was on the right track, they’d be of little solace.
So, he ordered another Jameson’s. Too bad Poncia wasn’t here to make a “firewater” crack… so that Tier could kill him. A shame how that pleasure had fallen to the dogman. Tier was sure he would have enjoyed it more.
His father’s words came back to him as they always did in the low times.
Find your place…
Maybe his place was here, or someplace like it…as a barfly. With Spartan needs and no one else to spend on, he’d built up a healthy bank account. He could fund a barfly life for a good long time. Big question: Could his liver outlast his savings?
His phone rang again. Who the hell—?
He checked the number and didn’t recognize it. Madame de Medici had said Burbank might call. He didn’t know if he should answer. Oh, why not? He thumbed the TALK bu
tton.
“Yeah?”
“Twilight has come,” said a barely audible voice. “Night will follow.”
“Hello, Mister Burbank. How are the signals?”
“Just ‘Burbank,’ please. I wish to speak to you.”
“I believe you are doing that right now.”
“In person.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not—”
“It’s important. Very important.”
Tier wasn’t sure Burbank was all there. Could a guy who slept in a coffin and devoted himself to sitting alone in that penthouse monitoring weird-ass signals all over the globe be all there? But he seemed harmless enough.
“Okay, when?”
“Right now.”
Oh, hell.
“Can it wait till after the holidays?”
“Do you have family you need to see for the holidays?”
“Well, no…”
“After Christmas will be too late, I’m afraid. Please…”
Something in the breathless way he spoke that last word…
“Okay. Let me finish this drink and I’ll be on my way.”
Tier ended the call and shook his head. What was he getting into?
18
Jack parked the Jeep in the same twenty-four-hour garage where he kept the Crown Vic. He’d return it to the BP station later.
“You okay?” said the lone attendant when he saw the blood on Jack’s coat. “You hurt?”
“Just a bad bloody nose.”
His ebony features were a study in doubt. “I’ve had my share of bloody noses but they never made a hole in my coat.”
“Let’s forget the blood and do me a favor: fifty bucks if you can find some sort of a GPS tracker hidden on this thing.”
He’d given the question a lot of thought on the drive in from Queens and could come up with only one explanation for how those two guys had tracked him to the diner. He was sure they were the same two in the Town Car he’d left stuck in Queens. No way could they have caught up to him in Howard Beach without a tracker.
So, he wasn’t surprised when, after a mere five-minute search, the attendant found it inside the rear bumper. Had to be the easiest fifty bucks the guy had ever earned.
But how had it got there? Jack had walked out to the Jeep with the BP manager, done the walkaround, and driven off. No chance for anyone to—
He’d driven off in the only four-wheel rental on the lot.
Of course…they’d tagged the most likely vehicle while he was in with the manager. Maybe they’d tagged more than one, but the Jeep would have been their best bet.
Okay, score one for them and shame on him. He’d bet it had been Hill’s idea. The stubby guy hadn’t struck him as very brainy—most likely his genius idea to rent a limo in a blizzard.
Jack walked home through the empty, snow-laden streets, stripped off all his bloody clothes, and stood in the shower for a long, long time. He searched his right upper chest for some sign of an injury—a reddened area, a new scar to add to his collection, something. But found nothing.
He stuffed his bloody parka and shirt into a garbage bag for incineration sometime soon—didn’t want any of his blood anywhere. Then crawled into bed. Before conking off, he texted Gia. She’d be asleep still—dawn was still hours away—but he wanted to let her know he was okay and would see her tonight. And that they might have a guest.
19
The Allard’s glass front doors were locked but a doorman—not Simón—waited just inside.
“Burbank’s expecting me,” Tier said.
The guy swung one of the doors open for him.
“He left word. Take the middle car all the way to the top.”
Tier knew that but simply nodded.
Up top, the elevator doors opened to reveal the scene exactly as he’s left it—the stacks of dusty old books, the racks of equipment blinking in the dark, the overhead Tiffany—except no Burbank. His chair was empty.
Tier walked to the console and looked around, trying to pierce the darkness. Had to be a light switch somewhere—
“Over here,” said a faint voice from the direction of the coffin.
Oh, right. He sleeps in the coffin.
Tier approached it and found Burbank staring up at him. Pale as candle wax. He looked dead. And then he took a breath and spoke too softly for Tier to hear.
He dropped to one knee beside the coffin. “Say again?”
“Thank you for coming.”
“You said it was very important.”
“Twilight has come. Night will follow. My night is here. I am dying.”
After 118 years, hardly unexpected.
“I sensed that.” Though he was already pretty sure of the answer, he had to ask. “Want me to call an ambulance?”
“No. Please, no. They can’t change things, just cause me misery. I’ve lived here, and I wish to die here.”
“I understand perfectly. Then why did you want me here? Just to sit with you? I can do that.”
Tier would be perfectly happy to die alone, but most people probably weren’t like that.
“Thank you,” Burbank rasped. “Very kind of you. But what I really need is your help with the reports. I’m expecting a run of them soon and I’m just… not up to it.”
Why the hell not? Didn’t have anything better to do at the moment.
“Yeah, I guess I can handle that. For a while.”
“You sit in the chair, and when a call—”
“I watched you the other day. I’ve got a pretty good idea of what to do.”
It appeared to take all Burbank’s strength to bend his elbow and raise his hand. “Thank you.”
Tier grabbed the hand and squeezed. “’Sokay.”
Burbank didn’t let go. “Twilight has come. Night will follow.”
“Right. I think I’ve got that.”
“The signal frequencies are important. Don’t neglect them. You—”
“Sector seven-two-nine reporting.”
Burbank released his hand. “There you go. And remember: It will begin in the heavens and end in the Earth.”
Tier vaguely remembered the rest. “Something about rules?”
“But before that, the rules will be broken.”
Whatever.
As Tier moved to the seat, the monitor showed a rapidly undulating sine wave. He tapped in 7-2-9 and the number appeared on the screen. He found a button on the base of the mike and pressed it.
“What’s the frequency, seven-two-nine?”
“Burbank?”
“He’s taking a break. What’s the frequency?”
“Oh. Well, three hundred-twelve—that’s three-one-two—kiloHertz.”
He typed in 312 KH, then hit ENTER. “Got it.”
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Recorded.’”
Christ. “Recorded.”
He rotated his chair toward the coffin. Burbank wasn’t visible from this angle. “How’d I do?”
Before Burbank could reply, another sector reported in. He took care of that. And then another.
He kind of liked this. Burbank had it made. Swank building, lots of electronics, tons of books, and best of all: no people.
“He’s gone,” said a woman’s voice behind him.
Tier swiveled and wasn’t surprised to see Madame de Medici looking down into the coffin.
“‘Gone’ as in ‘no longer breathing?’”
“I’m afraid so. Such a strange man. So devoted to the task.”
He joined her beside the coffin. She fascinated him and scared the hell out of him at the same time.
“You took care of him for a long time, I take it?”
She looked up. “I wasn’t his caretaker, merely a neighbor who looked in on him occasionally.”
“What are we going to do with him?”
“‘We’? ‘Do’?”
“We can’t just leave him here to rot.”
“He told me that when he dies the original owners of the coffin will come to take it
and him away.”
“The South American native tribe you mentioned?”
“I believe so. Except I’ve never seen them and I don’t know how to contact them, so how will they know to come?”
Tier shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong person.”
“We’ll have to trust that somehow they’ll know.”
Questions leaped immediately to mind but Tier brushed them off. Burbank’s body couldn’t wait too long, that was obvious. But not his problem. Or was it? He felt strangely connected to the old guy.
He posed another question instead: “Did you have something to do with his living so long?”
She frowned. “Why would you say that?”
“I saw the Bagaq at work. What it did for me wasn’t what it did for Roland Apfel.”
“Out of ignorance, he chose the wrong time to use it.”
“Well, because of it—and you—I’m still alive. I don’t believe I thanked you. I don’t think I had the opportunity.”
“You have a destiny, Mister Hill. I could not allow that to be thwarted.”
Destiny…mission…here we go again. Find your place…
“And what might that destiny be?”
She gestured around. “Why, here, of course.”
No-no-no.
“Hell, you say. I don’t think so.”
“What else do you have in your life that is more important?”
Good question.
“Well, my investigative work, for one.”
“The world is chock-a-block with investigators. But only one is destined to replace Burbank.”
He waved around. “You really expect me to spend the rest of my life here?”
“If things go right, it won’t be anywhere near the rest of your life. Six months to a year at most.”
“And if things go wrong?”
“Then it most likely will be the rest of your life… if you get my meaning.”
Burbank’s last words came back…
We’re property…one of them owns us but may lose us to a competitor. That will not be good for us.
Yeah, he got her meaning. Twilight has come. Night will follow.
The Last Christmas: A Repairman Jack Novel Page 31
