Repairman Jack 06 - The Haunted Air

by F. Paul Wilson

  "You told me earlier you once helped a psychic. One of your customers?"

  "No. I worked for one, as a helper, playing the gofer like Kehinde, plus doing behind-the-scenes stuff."

  "No!" She'd never imagined. "When?"

  "Long time ago, when I first came to the city."

  "You never told me."

  "Not necessarily something I'm proud of."

  Gia laughed. "Jack, I can't believe this. After all the things you've done…"

  She saw him glance at her, then train his eyes back on the traffic again. He said nothing, but that look said it all: You don't know all the things I've done. Not even close.

  How true. And Gia preferred it that way. The Jack she saw on almost a daily basis was even tempered and good-natured, gentle and considerate in bed, and treated Vicky like his own daughter. But she knew he had another side. She'd seen it only once. That had been when—

  Had it been almost a year already? Yes. It was last August when that filthy creature abducted Vicky. She still remembered Jack's face when he heard about it, how it had changed, how he'd bared his teeth, how his normally mild brown eyes had become flat and hard. She'd looked then into the cold harsh face of murder, a face she never wanted to see again.

  Kusum Bahkti, the man Jack had gone after that night… he disappeared from the face of the earth, as if he'd never been.

  Jack killed him. Gia knew that and, God help her, she'd been glad. She was still glad. Anyone who wanted to harm her little girl deserved to die.

  Kusum wasn't the only man Jack had killed. Gia knew of one other for sure: the mass murderer he'd stopped in mid-slaughter on a subway car back in June. For a while the mystery "Savior" had been all the media talked about, but the furor had pretty much died down now.

  Gia was sure there had been others. She didn't know this for a fact, but it was a reasonable conclusion. After all, Jack made his living fixing situations for people who'd run out of aboveground options. When that happened, some of them went underground in search of a solution. A few of those wound up with Jack.

  So Jack's clientele—he insisted on calling them customers instead of clients—was hardly the cream of society. And to solve their problems he sometimes had to mix it up with some abominable lowlifes, people ready to kill to prevent Jack from doing his job. Since Jack was still alive, she had to assume that some of those others were not.

  None of these were happy thoughts, and Gia preferred to tuck them out of sight where she didn't have to deal with them. She loved Jack, but hated what he did. When she'd stepped off the bus from Iowa to pursue her dream of being an artist, she'd never known a man like Jack could exist, let alone that she'd wind up with him. She was a tax-paying, law-abiding citizen; he was not.

  She'd finally forced herself to face the truth: she loved a criminal. He wasn't on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list, or on anyone else's wanted list, for that matter—because none of the list makers knew he even existed—but he definitely lived outside the law. She couldn't imagine how many laws he'd broken and continued to break every day.

  But strangely he was the most moral man—her father aside—that she'd ever met. He was like an elemental force. She knew he would never break faith with her, never leave her in the lurch, never allow her to come to harm. She knew that if it ever came down to it, he'd give his life for her. She felt safe with Jack, as if surrounded by an impenetrable shield.

  No one else could give her that feeling. Last year at this time, they'd been split. Jack had told her when they first met that he was a "security consultant." When Gia had learned how he really made his living, she'd walked out. She'd dated other men during the hiatus, but they all seemed so insubstantial after Jack. Like wraiths.

  And then, despite all the hurt and invective she'd heaped on him, when she and Vicky had needed him most, he'd been there.

  "I mean," she said, rephrasing, "with all the scams you've pulled through the years—"

  "Scamming a scammer is different. The fish these psychics hook don't know any better. I think people should get something real for their money, not just smoke and mirrors."

  "Maybe smoke and mirrors is what they're looking for. Everybody's got to believe in something. And after all, it's their money."

  Jack glanced at her. "Am I hearing right? Is this the Gia I know?"

  "Seriously, Jack, where's the harm? Probably better than throwing it away at Foxwoods or Atlantic City. At least they can get some comfort out of it."

  "You can lose the ranch in a casino and, trust me, you can lose just as much to a psychic. The bitch I worked for…" He shook his head. "Bitch is not a term I use lightly. It took me a while to realize what a foul, vindictive, small person she was, and when I did—"

  "Did she cheat you?"

  "Not me. I was already disillusioned with her and her crummy little game, but the icing came when she scammed some little old lady into signing over a valuable piece of property to her; convinced her it was what her dead husband wanted her to do."

  "Oh, no." The image twisted inside Gia.

  "That was when I walked."

  "But they're not all like that."

  "The open ones are."

  "Open?"

  "There's two kinds of mediums. The closed mediums really believe in the spirit world and what they're doing; they've bought the whole package. As a rule they limit themselves to readings—tarot cards, palms, tea leaves, that sort of thing. They don't put on a show. Open mediums, on the other hand, are all show. They're con men who know it's a scam, who trade background information on their suckers, and are always looking for bigger and better ways to hoodwink them. They knowingly sell lies. They promise a peek into the afterlife, but they use special effects like ectoplasm and voices and spirit writing to fool people into believing they've delivered."

  "But Jack, I'll bet a fair number of people derive some comfort from them. Look at you tonight. If you didn't know what you do, and let's say you maybe half-believed, wouldn't you have found comfort in that message from Kate?"

  "Sure. But here's my point: it wasn't from Kate. It was from Ifasen. He told a lie. If I'd come to him as a private client, all I would have got for my money was a lie."

  "And peace of mind which, in a way, is priceless."

  "Even if it's built on a lie?"

  Gia nodded. "If a placebo cures your headache, you're rid of your pain, aren't you?" Jack sighed. "I suppose so." He shook his head. "The really sad thing about so many of these open psychics is that they're truly talented. They possess amazing insight into people, an instinct for reading body language and picking up on every nuance of speech and dress. They know people. They could be ace psychologists. They could make a great living in the straight world—you know, doing well while doing good. But they'd rather stay on the fringe, playing their games."

  "Hmmm," Gia said. "Sounds like someone I know but I can't quite place the name. I think it begins with a J…"

  "Very funny. Except I don't play games. I deliver. And if I don't, it's not for lack of trying." He shot her a rueful smile. "But you know, I do believe old Ifasen did something for me tonight. I know he just rattled off a stock message from the 'Other Side,' but to tell the truth, he happened to hit on exactly what Kate would have said."

  "You mean about getting on with your life?"

  "Yeah."

  "How many times have I told you that Kate wouldn't want you to spend the rest of your life moping around? And when was the last time I mentioned that very thing? How many hours ago? Two? Three maybe?"

  He grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, I know. But sometimes you have to hear it from a stranger. Anyway, I think it's time for me to get back in the saddle again. I've got a couple of calls in my voice mail right now. I'll check them out tomorrow, and if one of them is right for me, I'll be back to work."

  "That's wonderful."

  What am I saying? Gia thought.

  She hated Jack's work. It was usually dangerous. Every time he hired on to "fix" a situation, he ran the risk of being
hurt. But worse, because the police were as much a threat as any hoodlum he took on, he couldn't count on them for help if he got in over his head. When Jack went off to work, he went alone.

  How many times had she pleaded with him to find something less dangerous to do? He'd compromised by promising to restrict his fix-it work to situations he could repair at arm's length, where he didn't have to show his face or get personally involved. Gia believed he tried his best to keep that promise, but too often the jobs didn't go as planned.

  But his interest in returning to work meant he was pulling out of his funk. That, at least, was good.

  "Maybe you should go back for a private session," she said. "Maybe he'll tell you to get into a safer line of work. And maybe you'll listen when he tells you. Heaven knows you don't listen when I do."

  "I think we should stay away from Ifasen, but not for that reason."

  "Meaning?"

  "I think he's got trouble."

  "You mean because he yelled 'bomb'?"

  "That… and other things."

  "Like what?"

  "A patched bullet hole in his front window, for instance."

  "You're sure?"

  He nodded. "It could have been there when he bought the house, but he's obviously renovated the place, so… someone's giving him a hard time."

  "But who—?"

  "Other psychics. The lady—I use the term loosely—that I once worked for used to go berserk when she lost a sitter to another psychic. She called herself Madame Ouskaya but her real name was Bertha Cantore. I used to think she'd seen The Wolfman too many times and ripped off the name of that old actress Maria Ouspenskaya who played the gypsy, but that was giving her too much credit. I can't imagine her ever sitting though the credits of a movie. Finally one night, when she'd had a few too many gins and was sailing a few too many sheets to the wind, she told me that she'd cadged it off an ancient Russian neighbor who'd died when Bertha was ten. But you know how they talk about a leopard never changing its spots? That was Bertha. She may have called herself Ouskaya, but that didn't hide her true nature. Her father was Sicilian and she had a hitman's temper. She'd send me out to slash tires and break windows and—"

  "Did you?"

  Jack didn't look at her. "Most of the time I just told her I did, but sometimes… sometimes, yeah, I did."

  "Jack…" She couldn't keep the dismay out of her voice.

  "Hey, I was hungry, stupid, and a lot younger. I thought what was bad for her was bad for me. I hadn't figured out yet that she was bad for me. Hell, if she knew how to make bombs, she'd probably've wanted me to plant them, or wire ignitions to blow the competition away." He shook his head. "What a nutcase."

  "Could she be the one Ifasen's afraid of?"

  "Nah. Couple of years ago I heard that she'd, as they say in the trade, migrated to the Other Side." A quick glance Gia's way, embarrassment in his eyes. "Let's not talk about her, okay? Makes my teeth hurt just to think about her."

  Gia knew getting off the topic of this Madame Ouskaya would probably turn the conversation to her question to Ifasen. She cast about for a diversion and spotted the pamphlet Jack had brought from the psychic's house. She snatched it up.

  "'The Menelaus Manor Restoration Foundation.' What's this?"

  "Sounds like a scam. Take donations to renovate the house you're living and working in. A win-win proposition for Ifasen if I ever heard one."

  "Is all this true?" Gia said, gathering flashes of the house's history of mayhem by the light of street lamps they passed.

  "I never got a chance to get into it. What's it say?"

  She turned on the console lamp and held the brochure under the glow. "It says the place was built in 1952 by Kastor Menelaus. He died of cancer, and was the last owner to 'pass on to the Other Side' due to natural causes."

  Jack grinned. "This sounds like it's gonna be good!"

  "His son Dmitri, who inherited the house, committed suicide in the early nineties. The next owners, a Doctor Singh and his wife, had the place for a few years, did some renovations, and then someone cut their throats while they were sleeping." She looked up at Jack. "This is awful! I hope it's fiction."

  "Read on."

  Gia was liking this less and less. "The previous owners, the ones before Ifasen, were Herbert Lom and his wife—"

  "Not the actor—the guy who played in the Hammer Phantom of the Opera?"

  "It doesn't say. He and his wife Sara disappeared after—oh, God." Something about a mutilated child. Her stomach turned and she closed the brochure.

  "After what?"

  "Never mind. Jack, this is sick! It's like the place is cursed. He has to be making this stuff up."

  Jack was shaking his head. "Doubt it. Too easy to get caught. My guess is he's taken a few facts and embellished them to within an inch of their collective lives. Read on."

  "I'd rather not."

  "Just skip to some part that's not gory."

  Reluctantly she reopened the brochure and skipped down a paragraph from where she'd left off. "Ifasen quotes himself here: 'I chose Menelaus Manor because the violent deaths have left behind strong psychic vibrations. The souls of those who died here do not rest easy, and their ongoing presence weakens the divide between our world and the Other Side, making Menelaus Manor the perfect site for the church I will establish here.'" Gia looked at Jack. "Church?"

  Jack smiled. "The ultimate scam. Tax-free heaven, and completely legal. Like minting money. How do you think the Scientologists can afford to sue anyone who says a discouraging word about their racket?"

  "He says here donations will go toward 'putting the Manor at peace with this world and in harmony with the next.' What does that mean?"

  "It means renovations will probably go on forever. Or at least until Ifasen crosses over to the Other Side himself."

  "Careful, Jack," she told him. "Keep talking like that and I'll start suspecting you're a cynic."

  "Me?"

  Jack pulled into Sutton Square and stopped before Gia's door. He pulled her close and kissed her.

  "Thanks for dragging me out tonight. Earthquakes and psychics in cursed manors… you sure know how to show a guy a good time."

  She returned the kiss. "Anytime. And tomorrow night I'll show you an even better time."

  "Hot-cha!"

  Laughing, they got out of the car. Jack put an arm around her shoulders; he started to walk her the short distance to her door, but stopped halfway there.

  "Hey. Wait a sec. You never told me your question. What was it?"

  "It was nothing. Just some silliness I was playing around with. Don't—"

  "Who loves silly more than me? Tell, Gia. I won't go home until you do."

  "All right." She could see no way out of it. "I asked, 'How many children will I have?'"

  "And he told you two." Jack grinned. "I wish I believed in this stuff. That would mean I'd be the father of number two. At least I assume I'd be."

  "He said it with such assurance."

  "That's because he's a pro. And because he figured it was a safe number. Consider it from his angle: You look younger than your years; Ifasen figures you've got one child, maybe two. So even if you have no kids, if he answers two or three, he's golden. Three would be the safer number, but I've got a feeling this guy likes to play close to the edge. He took a chance and said two."

  "But if I never have another child, he'll be proven wrong."

  "By the time you know that for sure, you'll have forgotten about Ifasen. Or he can deny that's what he said. He can't lose. So don't waste brain time thinking about it."

  But that wasn't so easy for Gia. She remembered feeling a little queasy this morning. But she couldn't be pregnant. She was on the pill, and she was faithful about taking it every morning…

  Except back in June when she and Vicky had flown out to Iowa to visit the family. She'd forgotten to pack her pills. Unusual for her because she never forgot her pills. But it hadn't mattered because Jack wasn't with her. And as soon as she ret
urned she'd immediately started back on them.

  But right after she returned she and Jack had…

  Gia felt a twinge of nausea. She could think of worse things that could happen, but she didn't want this, not now…

  It wasn't possible…

  Maybe not. But first thing tomorrow, as soon as Vicky was on that bus to camp, she was picking up a home pregnancy test kit.

  IN THE IN-BETWEEN

  For a long time it was not. But now it is.

  For a long time it was not aware. But now it is.

  Barely aware. It does not know what or who it is or was. But it knows that at some time past it existed, and then that existence was ended. But now it exists again.

  Why?

  It does not know where it is. It reaches out as far as it can and vaguely senses other presences, some like itself, and many, many more unlike it, but can identify none of them.

  The disorientation makes it afraid, but another emotion pushes through the fear: rage. It does not know the source of the rage but clings to the feeling. Acceptance makes the rage grow. It nestles in the rage and waits for a direction in which to unleash it…

  IN THE WEE HOURS

  Lyle awoke shivering.

  What was wrong with that damn air conditioner? It was barely cooling the room when he'd gone to bed, now it was freezing him out. He opened his eyes. His first-floor bedroom faced the street, so he kept the blinds pulled at night; the light seeping between the slats now was the yellow glow of the street lamps, not the pale gray of dawn. He blinked the glowing clock display into focus: 2:32.

  He groaned softly. He couldn't find the energy to get up, so he pulled his sheet closer around his neck and tried to fall back into sleep. But thoughts of fires and attempts on his life wouldn't allow it.

  Someone wanted him dead…

  That had kept him up for a while. After a few more beers to take the edge off, he'd hit the rack; but sleep had played coy while he lay awake here in the dark listening for any unusual noises. Finally he'd drifted off.

  The room grew colder still, its chill seeping through the sheet to wrap him in an icy embrace. He kicked his leg out over the edge of the bed. Damn it all, he'd have to get up and—