"Just practicing." He picked up the tempo. "I've got to play this note perfect for my recital."
"Stop it, Charlie."
He played faster, his fingers flying over the keys. "No. I've got to play it twenty times a day to make sure—"
Lyle reached over and grabbed his brother's wrists. He tried to pull them away from the keyboard but his brother fought him. Finally Lyle threw all his weight into it.
"Charlie, please?"
They both came away from the piano together, Charlie tipping over backward on the piano seat and landing on the floor, Lyle staggering but keeping his feet.
For an instant Charlie glared at him from the floor, his eyes blazing with rage, then his face cleared.
"Lyle?"
"Charlie, what on—?" Then Lyle saw the blood on the front of his shirt. "Oh, Christ! What happened?"
Charlie stared up at him with a bewildered look. "What goin' on, bro?"
He started to rise but Lyle pushed him back. "Don't move! You've been hurt!"
Charlie looked down at the glistening red stain on the front of his shirt, then looked up again.
"Lyle?" His eyes were afraid. "Lyle, what—?"
Lyle tried not to lose it. His brother, something awful had happened to his baby brother. They'd been through so much and now… and now…
He wanted to run for the phone to call Emergency Services, but was afraid to leave Charlie's side. There might be something he could do, needed to do right now to make sure he survived until help arrived.
"Take your shirt off and let's see. Maybe it's not so bad."
"Lyle, what wrong with you?"
Lyle didn't want to see this. If it was only half as bad as it looked it was still terrible. He yanked up Charlie's shirt—
And gaped.
The skin of his chest was unbroken, without a trace of blood. Lyle dropped to his knees before him and touched his skin.
"What on earth?"
Where had all that blood come from? He yanked the shirt back down and gasped when he found it clean and dry and pristine white, as if fresh from the dryer.
"Lyle?" Charlie said, a different kind of fear in his eyes now. "What happenin' here? Is this a dream? I went to bed, next thing I know, I'm here on the floor."
"You were playing the piano." He struggled to his feet and helped Charlie up. "Don't you remember?"
"No way. You know I can't—"
"But you were. And playing pretty well."
"But how?"
"I wish to hell I knew."
Charlie grabbed his arm. "Maybe that it. Maybe that crack in the cellar let a little bit of hell into this house. Or maybe there always been a bit of hell in this place, considerin' what happened here over the years. Whatever it is, it's gettin' to you."
Lyle was about to tell his brother to cool it with that shit when the front door unlocked itself and swung open.
SUNDAY
1
Gia cleaned up the breakfast dishes. Not a task she minded as a rule, but today… scraping leftover scrambled eggs from the bottom of a frying pan roiled her already queasy stomach. The eggs had been for Jack; she'd whipped them up and mixed in crumbled soy bacon strips for a don't-ask, don't-tell breakfast. He hadn't asked if he was eating real bacon and she hadn't told. Not that he would have minded. Jack ate just about everything. Sometimes, when he was in his Where's-the-beef? mode, he'd complain about too many vegetables, but he rarely failed to clean his plate. A good boy. She never had to tell him about the starving children in China.
He'd said he had an appointment with a new customer this morning—someone who claimed he couldn't wait until Monday—and had wandered off to the townhouse's little library to kill some time before he had to leave.
"How about a shnackie?" he said as he wandered back.
She looked up and smiled at him. "You just ate breakfast an hour ago."
He rubbed his stomach. "I know, but I need a little shomething."
"How about a leftover bagel?"
"Shuper."
"You've been reading one of Vicky's Mutts books, haven't you?"
"Yesh."
"Well, get yourself out of Mooch mode and I'll toast you one."
He sat down. "After a week of this you'll never get me to leave." He looked at her. "Wouldn't be so bad if I stayed, would it?"
Oh, no. Their recurrent topic of contention: whether or not to live together.
Jack voted yes, and had been pushing for it—gently, but persistently—since late last year. He wanted to be a bigger part of Vicky's life, be the kind of father her real father had never been.
"It would be great," Gia said. "As soon as we're married."
Jack sighed. "You know I'd marry you in a heartbeat if I could, but…"
"But you can't. Because a man with no official existence can't apply for a marriage license."
"Is a piece of paper so important?"
"We've been over this before, Jack. Marriage wouldn't matter if I weren't Vicky's mother. But I am. And Vicky's mom does not have a live-in boyfriend, or manfriend, or significant other, or whatever the latest accepted term is."
An archaic mindset. Gia freely admitted that, and had no problem with it. The values by which she guided her life were not weather vanes, changing direction with every shift of the social climes; they were the bedrock on which she'd grown up, and they still felt solid underfoot. They formed her comfort zone. She didn't care to impose them on anyone else, and conversely, didn't want anyone else telling her how to raise her child.
She believed in raising a child by example. Definitely hands-on, setting rules and limits, but being bound by her own rules as well. None of this do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do nonsense. If Gia wanted Vicky to tell the truth, then Gia must never lie; if Gia wanted Vicky to be honest, then Gia must never cheat.
The perfect example had presented itself last week when she and Vicky had gone to the liquor store. Knowing Jack would be around a lot during Vicky's absence, Gia had picked up a case of beer, plus a couple of bottles of wine. On the way out of the store Vicky whispered that the cashier hadn't scanned one of the wines. Gia had checked her receipt and, sure enough, Little Miss Never-Miss-a-Trick was right. She'd turned around, pointed out the error, and paid for the extra bottle. The clerk was astounded, the manager had wanted to give her the bottle for free, and two other customers waiting on line had looked at her as if to say, What planet are you from?
"Why didn't you just keep the bottle, Mom?" Vicky had asked.
"Because it wasn't mine."
"But no one knew."
"You knew. And once you told me, I knew. And then keeping it would have made me a thief. I don't want to be a thief."
Vicky had nodded at the obvious truth of that and then started talking about the dead bird she'd seen yesterday.
But living the life she wanted Vicky to live meant sacrifices. It meant no moving in with Jack, no Jack moving in with her. Because if sixteen-year-old Vicky one day asked if her boyfriend could move into her bedroom, Gia wanted to be able to look her daughter straight in the eye when she said no.
How in the world could Gia ever explain to Vicky her love for Jack? She couldn't explain it to herself. Jack flouted all the rules, thumbed his nose at society's most basic conventions, and yet… he was the most decent, most moral, truest man she'd met since leaving Iowa.
But as much as she loved him, she wasn't sure she wanted to live with him. Or with anyone else, for that matter. She liked her space, and she and Vicky had plenty of that here on Sutton Square. This high-priced, oak-paneled, antique-studded piece of East Side real estate belonged to the Westphalen family, of which Vicky was the last surviving member. Her aunts had left the townhouse and most of their considerable fortunes to her in their wills, but they were listed as missing instead of dead. It would be years before the place and the fortunes were officially Vicky's, but until then the executor let them live here to keep up the property.
So… if Gia and Jack ever came to a living arrangem
ent, she and Vicky would not be moving to Jack's little two-bedroom apartment. He'd come here. After they were married.
"What do we do, then?" he said.
She buttered the bagel and placed it before him. "We go on as we are. I'm happy. Aren't you?"
"Sure." He smiled at her. "But I could be happier waking up with you every morning."
That part she'd love. But the rest… she wasn't sure she could handle living with Jack. He kept bizarre hours, sometimes out all night if one of his jobs called for it. She became aware of these incidents only after the fact; she'd sleep through the night thinking he was safe in his apartment watching one of his strange old movies. Living with Jack would change all that. She'd be wide awake wondering where he was, if he was in danger, praying he'd come back in one piece, or come back at all.
She'd be a wreck. She didn't know if she could live like that.
Better this way. At least for now. But what if…?
Gia suppressed a groan of frustration. If only she knew the results of that pregnancy test. She'd sneaked a call to Dr. Eagleton's service while Jack was in the library and was told she was off until Monday. The same uncooperative doctor was covering for her, so Gia didn't bother calling him. She'd have to wait till tomorrow.
She watched Jack wolf down his bagel. If that test comes out positive tomorrow, she thought, what will you say?
2
"This is wack, dawg!" Charlie said angrily, slapping the newspaper against the kitchen table and rattling the breakfast dishes. "Totally wack!"
Lyle looked up at his brother over the edge of the Times sports section. "You okay?"
He'd been worried about Charlie since that strange episode last night, but Charlie seemed unconcerned; maybe because he didn't believe he'd been playing the piano. He thought Lyle had had another nightmare.
And who could blame him? Especially after Lyle wailing about blood all over his chest and then finding no wound. But this was the second time he'd seen Charlie with a hole in his chest. He didn't believe in premonitions, and considering what he'd been seeing, he didn't want to.
As he sat here with the sun and a summer breeze pouring through the open—what else?—windows, worrying about portents of future calamities seemed silly.
"Trip to this," Charlie said, a mixture of anger and disgust twisting his features as he shoved a section of the News across the table. "Top right column."
When Lyle saw the headline he had a premonition—oh, yes—as to what it was about. The first sentence confirmed it.
SHE SHOULD'VE SEEN IT COMING Elizabeth Foster, known to certain wealthy Manhattanites as psychic advisor Madame Pomerol, was picked up in the financial district last night wearing nothing but a large piece of cardboard. Her husband Carl was similarly attired. The couple explained that they had been driving near their home on the Upper East Side when suddenly they were "aported" out of their car—and their clothes as well!—by mischievous spirits who were angry at them. The spirits whisked them through the night and dumped them naked in Lower Manhattan. Madame Pomerol claims that certain spirits are angry at her for forcing them to return many items that they have previously stolen from her clients.
"I don't believe this!" Lyle said, looking up at Charlie. "She's turning the whole thing into a commercial for herself!"
He read on…
Two years ago, Madame Pomerol was just another among the scores of spiritualist mediums working the city's psychic beat until she appeared on The Late Show with David Letterman. Although Letterman generally made light of her psychic claims during her appearance, the exposure made her a celebrity and she has become one of the most prominent and prosperous mediums in the five boroughs.
Despite her claims of psychic abilities, however, Madame Pomerol didn't know where her car was. Police had to tell her that they'd located it shortly after they found her, not on the Upper East Side where she claimed to have been snatched from it, but on Chambers Street, a short distance from where the couple was found.
"The spirits must have apported the car after they apported us," Madame Pomerol said.
The psychic couldn't explain how this was done. Nor could she explain the .32 caliber pistol found in the trunk of the car, other than to say that, "The malicious spirits must have placed it there. They want to get me into trouble because they're furious at my ability to undo their mischief."
The Fosters were not charged at this time, but might be in the future, pending investigation of the weapon.
"They damn well better be charged!" Lyle said. "They tried to kill me with that gun!"
"She pretty quick on her feet, ain't she," Charlie said.
"Yeah. Too quick, maybe."
That harpy had turned what should have been humiliation into a publicity stunt. Lyle wondered if he would have been quick enough to do the same.
Charlie said, "Ay, yo, leastways now she got something else to think about besides us."
"Yeah. She and the mister have got to be worried about that gun. But even if they skate on that, maybe all this publicity'll help her pick up enough new business so she'll stop caring about the clients we siphoned off."
Charlie grinned. "She ain't gonna be so crazy about one new client comin' in today, know'm sayin'?"
"You mean Jack."
"Yeah, my whodi, Jack."
"You really like him, don't you."
Charlie nodded. "I first saw him I'm thinkin', this the guy gonna pull our butts outta the fire? Nuh-uh. But was I off. My bad. He rag out like some kinda bama, but he the furilla gorilla, bro."
Lyle felt a twinge of jealousy at the admiration in his little brother's voice.
"Think he's up to putting Madame Pomerol in her place?"
Charlie shrugged. "Sure had her in her place last night, yo. We checked her appointments when we was over her 'temple.' She got four flush fish set for a group sitting this afternoon. Jack gonna try to wheedle his way in." He grinned. "And that's when the fun'll begin, know'm sayin'?"
"We should be doing our own Sunday sittings," Lyle said. They'd been over this countless times before, but he couldn't help bringing it up again. "It would be a big day for us. People are home, it's a spiritual day, and if they're not going to church, maybe they'd come here."
Charlie's grin vanished. "I told you, Lyle, you do a sittin' on a Sunday, you do it without me. I hope someday I be forgiven for what I help you do the other six days of the week, but I know I'll burn in hell sure for luring Godfearing folks away from praising the Lord on a Sunday. If I ever—"
Lyle started as a voice spoke from the adjoining room. He gripped the edge of the table and was halfway to his feet when he recognized Bugs Bunny.
"The TV," he said, feeling his muscles start to uncoil. For some reason it had suddenly blared to life. He glanced at Charlie. "You got the remote in your pocket or something?"
Charlie shook his head. "No way. Never touched it."
They both jumped at the sound of gunfire, then Lyle realized that too came from the TV. He might have laughed then, but it wasn't funny. The TV room was what remained of the old dining room, which used to connect to what was now the waiting room, but they'd closed off the opening during the remodeling. No way in or out of the TV room now except through here, the kitchen.
Lyle stared at his brother for an uneasy moment, then he picked up a knife and straightened to his feet. No way anyone could be in there, but it never hurt to be ready.
"Let's go see what's up."
Knife held low against his thigh, Lyle stepped into the next room, but found it empty. On the screen the early, long-snouted Bugs was taunting a shotgun-toting Elmer Fudd. Lyle spotted the Cartoon Network logo nestled in the lower right corner.
"You been watching cartoons?" he asked Charlie.
"Not lately."
He glanced around, found the remote on the recliner, and hit the number of the Weather Channel. "Might as well see what the weather's going to be."
The Weather Channel came on, but the set immediately flipped back to th
e Cartoon Network. Lyle tried again, with the same result. Annoyed now, he punched random numbers, but the set always returned to the Cartoon Network.
"What is this shit?"
He went to the window and peered outside.
"What you looking for?" Charlie said.
"Oh, I've heard stories of pranking kids using a universal remote on a neighbor's set."
The yard was empty.
"Yo, maybe it the Fosters, you know, messing with our heads again."
"This seems too petty, even for them. Besides, I'm pretty sure they've got other things on their minds this morning."
Hell with it, he thought, and hit the power button.
The screen went dark. But a second later it buzzed to life again. He hit power half a dozen times in a row but the damn set kept turning itself back on.
Charlie said, "Lemme deal with this."
He reached behind the set and pulled the power plug, killing the picture.
Lyle held out a hand for a five. "Now why didn't I think of—"
They both jumped as the screen lit again, this time with Jerry the mouse flattening the head of Tom the cat with a frying pan. Lyle pointed to the plug in Charlie's hand.
"You must have pulled the wrong one."
"The other's the VCR. Look at it. The display still lit."
"Pull it anyway."
Charlie reached back and yanked out the other cord, but Tom and Jerry kept up their nonstop mayhem.
Charlie threw down the cords as if they were live snakes. "I'm geese, man."
"Hey, don't bail on me. You're the electronics guru here. Figure this out." But Charlie kept moving, disappearing into the kitchen. "Where you going?"
"Where I go every Sunday at ten: church. You should give it a shot, bro, because there ain't nothin' electronic wrong with that TV. It's haunted, yo, know'm sayin'? Haunted?"
Lyle turned and watched the cartoon characters race about on the screen of the unplugged TV. After the last couple of night's crazy visions of Charlie with a hole in his chest, Lyle had begun to wonder if he might be cracking up. But he wasn't imagining this TV thing. They'd both seen it.
Repairman Jack 06 - The Haunted Air Page 12
