Repairman Jack 06 - The Haunted Air

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Do you find me attractive, Lyle?"

  Lyle blinked. "Not at all. You're not my type."

  "Then why do you keep staring at me?"

  Lyle glanced at Charlie, then back to Jack. "If you must know, I'm trying to bring you into focus."

  Jack's turn to blink. "You want to run that by me again?"

  "When I look at you you're… fuzzy."

  "Maybe you ought to invest in some glasses."

  "It's not like that. I look at Charlie here and I see him bright and clear. I look at you and your features and most of the rest of you are clear and sharp, but around the edges… I don't have a better word for it than fuzzy."

  Jack had to smile. "Is this a character assessment?"

  "It's not funny, man." Lyle's eyes held a haunted look.

  "When did it start? I didn't notice you staring at me when we were meeting with the Greek."

  "It wasn't happening then. Maybe it's this house. I know it's done some weird shit to me."

  "Yo, like what?" Charlie stepped forward, staring at his brother, the animosity of a moment ago giving way to brotherly concern. "This got to do with you canceling all those sittings?"

  Lyle nodded, his haunted look growing. "Something's happened to me. I think it was that blood bath yesterday. It… did something to me."

  "Like what?" Jack said.

  "I can see things, know things I have no way and no right to know."

  He told them about the morning's sitters, about seeing one woman's runaway husband, about another's lost pet—dead pet, roadkill on Twenty-seventh Street. He couldn't contact another's dead wife; yeah, she was dead but she was gone. No messages from beyond her grave.

  "It's as if someone or something's playing games with me. Some of the powers I've been faking all these years… I really seem to have them now. At least while I'm in this house."

  "And I look fuzzy to you." Jack didn't know what to make of that, but he didn't see how it could be good.

  Lyle nodded. "Not when we were down at Kristadoulou's, but here, in the house… yes. There's more. With the sitters this morning… I think I could have handled what I was seeing and feeling from them if that had been all. But I was seeing into their futures as well. At least it felt like I was, but…" He shook his head. "I don't know. What I was seeing didn't seem right or… possible."

  "You got that right, bro," Charlie said. "Only God can peep the future."

  Again that haunted look in Lyle's eyes. "I hope you're right, because if what I saw has any validity, there's not much future left."

  "What's that mean?" Jack said.

  Lyle shrugged. "Wish I knew. The three sitters today… when I touched them I saw what their lives would be for the next year and a half or so, and they were each different up to a certain point, but after that it was all the same: darkness. And when I say darkness here I don't mean just the absence of light, I mean a cold, hard, living blackness that just seems to gobble them up."

  Jack's gut gave a twist as he remembered someone he loved talking about something very similar, telling him with her final words about a coming darkness that would soon "roll over everything," how only a handful of people would stand in its way, and that he'd be one of them.

  Could Lyle's darkness be the same?

  "When did you see this happening?"

  "Not long," Lyle said. "I got the impression with all three of them that it happens in less than two years."

  "Three random people," Jack said, "all buying it around the same time, in the same way. Maybe the explanation could be this new second sight of yours has a limit, or…"

  "Or one hell of a cataclysm is heading our way."

  "Praise God!" Charlie said, his eyes glowing again. "It's the Rapture! You seen the Rapture! It's like when God takes the faithful to heaven, leaving the rest behind in the darkness! Those sitters you touched, Lyle, they ain't been saved—if they were they wouldn't be foolin' 'round with no spirit medium. You touched lost souls, Lyle."

  "If that's what you want to believe—"

  "The End Times! Reverend Sparks been talkin' 'bout all the signs pointin' to the end comin' soon! Praise God, he's right!" He held out his hand. "Here. Touch me, bro."

  Lyle didn't actually move, but he seemed to shrink back. "Hey, Charlie, I don't think so. And anyway, I thought you didn't believe in this stuff."

  "Who can figure how God works?" Charlie stepped closer. "The Book say the dead'll rise come the End Times. Maybe this is where it starts. Come on, Lyle. Try me."

  Jack watched Lyle hesitate, then reach toward his brother's outstretched hand. A shock of alarm shot through him, urging him to warn Lyle off, tell him not to do it. But he bit it back. Lyle and Charlie were brothers. Where was the harm? What could happen?

  Lyle's fingers gripped Charlie's in a firm handshake. The two stood staring into each other's eyes.

  "Well?" Charlie said.

  Lyle's mouth worked, then he let out an anguished cry. His eyes rolled back as he sagged to his knees and started coughing. He clutched at his throat with his free hand as if he were choking.

  "Let go!" Jack shouted to Charlie.

  "Can't!" Charlie's eyes were wild as he pulled at Lyle's fingers, trying to loosen them. "He crushin' my hand!"

  Lyle was kicking and writhing now, looking like a man in his death throes. This was scary as hell. Jack stepped forward, ready to help Charlie break contact, when Lyle suddenly quieted. His rasping breaths stopped for an agonizing moment, then restarted with a cough and a gasp. Finally he released Charlie's hand and slumped the rest of the way to the floor.

  Jack bent over him. "Lyle! Lyle, can you hear me?"

  Lyle rolled over and opened his eyes. They looked dull, bloodshot. He looked around and blinked as if he'd just stepped out of a cave. His gaze came to rest on his brother standing over him, frozen in shock.

  Charlie's voice was very small. "Lyle? You okay?"

  "Dumb question," Lyle croaked as he propped himself up on one elbow. "Do I look okay?"

  His tongue worked in and out of his mouth as he sat up.

  "What's wrong?" Jack said.

  "My mouth. Tastes like dirt."

  "It bad, ain't it," Charlie said in that same small voice.

  Lyle bent his knees and rested his forehead against them. "It started out bad, I can tell you that. It's mostly a blur, but I know for a moment there I felt as if I was suffocating, really and truly choking to death, but then the feeling passed. After that it all became pretty vague and jumbled for a while, but then I came to that same hungry darkness I saw with the others." He looked up at his brother. "But we come through it, the both of us. I mean, it seems like we do because we're still together when it's all over."

  "Praise God!" Charlie said, his voice stronger now. "That can only mean you get yourself saved before the Rapture." He lifted his arms and looked up. "God, you are so great and good to have mercy on my brother and I."

  Lyle glanced at his brother, sighed, then held out a hand for Jack to help him up.

  Jack hesitated. "You sure you want to do that?" Jack was sure he didn't want anyone looking into his future. And they could stay out of his past and present too while they were at it.

  "You've got a point there." Lyle pushed himself to his feet. He staggered a step when he was fully upright. "Man." He shook his head. "Maybe we'd better call it a day."

  "Probably a good idea," Jack said. "We haven't found one loose stone in the whole damn wall. That means tomorrow we start on the floor. Probably should have started there in the first place."

  Lyle nodded. "Yeah. If Dmitri was involved with Tara Portman, and maybe more missing kids, I can think of only one reason for a dirt floor all those years."

  Jack walked over to the gap in the floor and examined the edge of the concrete.

  "Shouldn't be too bad a job. Looks like it's only two inches thick. You could rent a jackhammer and make short work of it."

  Lyle shook his head. "Rather not if I can avoid it. Too much noise. I'm not looking
to attract attention."

  Jack glanced at him. "Not yet, anyway."

  A flat smile. "Right. Not yet. You mind if we try by hand first?"

  "Sure. If you think you'll be up for it tomorrow, so will I."

  "I'll be up for it. But only till mid-afternoon. I'm speaking to a women's club in Forest Hills tomorrow." He held up a pinky and pursed his lips. "Pre-dinner speaker to the ladies, don't you know."

  "Hoping to expand your clientele?"

  He sighed. "Yeah. That was the case when I arranged the gig." He glanced at his brother. "Now, maybe I'm just wasting my time." He perked up as he faced Jack, but it seemed to take effort. "Anyway, I'll cancel tomorrow's sittings and we'll start off bright and early. If nothing else, it'll be a good workout."

  A good workout… right. What would also be good, but far from pleasant, would be finding Tara Portman's remains and putting her to rest. Maybe then Gia would put the little girl behind her. And maybe then Jack could find out what all this meant and why he was involved.

  Maybe.

  14

  Jack loped down Ditmars toward the subway, passing rows of ethnic stores propping up gray-stone triple-decker apartments. Rush hour was in full swing with the sidewalks cramped and the streets stop and go. He turned onto Thirty-first Street and was headed toward the looming elevated N line when his phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and hit the send button.

  "Hey, hon. What's up?"

  But it wasn't Gia on the other end.

  "Am I speaking to Jack?" said a faintly accented male voice that cracked his name like a whip.

  Jack stopped walking. "Who's this? Who're you calling?"

  "I'm calling the one who tried to kill me Monday night. Would that be you, Jack?"

  Bellitto! How had he got this number? That bothered him, but the scalding fury of realizing he was speaking to Tara Portman's killer engulfed his concern. He looked around, then backed into the doorway of a gyro-souvlaki shop.

  "Eli!" Jack said. He felt his lips tightening, pulling back from his teeth. "If I'd wanted to kill you, you'd be making this call from your grave. I didn't recognize your voice. Maybe that's because last time I heard it you were whining like a frightened child. You know what a frightened child sounds like, don't you?"

  "Just as you do, I'm sure."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Oh, come now, Jack, or whatever your real name is. Don't take me for a fool. I know more about you than you think I do."

  Unease blunted Jack's fury. Was Bellitto bluffing? He knew Jack's name—no, wait. Jack had had Eli's clerk write Jack next to Tara's key-chain entry in the sale book. That was how he'd got the name. But somehow Eli had found Jack's Tracfone number. What else did he know?

  "Such as?"

  "I know you're a practitioner."

  "Really?" Where was this going? "Of what?"

  An instant's hesitation, as if Bellitto was unsure of how much he should say, then, "The Ceremony, of course."

  The word meant nothing to Jack, but Bellitto's tone had loaded it with so much portent he knew he had to play along.

  He feigned a gasp of shock. "How… how did you know?"

  Bellitto laughed softly. "Because I've been a practitioner so much longer than you, so much longer than anyone. And your designs are pathetically transparent."

  "Are they now?"

  "Yes. You want to take over my Circle."

  Jack had no idea what he was talking about but wanted to keep him going, maybe find out what made him tick and use some of that as a point of attack. Because Eli Bellitto was going down. Hard. Only a matter now of when and where.

  "I have my own circle, so why would I want yours?"

  "Because mine is so much more powerful. I've been performing the Ceremony for hundreds of years and—"

  "Wait. Did you say 'hundreds'?"

  "Yes. Hundreds. I am two hundred and thirty-two years old."

  Jack shook his head. This guy was Froot Loop city.

  "I had no idea."

  "Now you see what you're up against. My Circle extends into all areas of power and influence. And you want it for yourself, don't you."

  "My circle runs pretty deep and wide itself, and—"

  The voice hardened. "Yours is nothing! Nothing! You caught me by surprise Monday night, but that won't happen again. I have my Circle casting its net for you. You're clever, but you're no match for me. We have your Tracfone number and soon we'll have your name, and once we have that, you're finished!"

  Jack had a pretty good idea of how they'd got his phone number. He'd made only one call since his tête-à-tête with Bellitto, and that had been to 911 to report the kid. EMS would have recorded the number on caller ID. Figuring out from there that it was a Tracfone was no big deal, but to get the number in the first place did indicate a certain amount of suck with officialdom, maybe even the NYPD itself.

  Maybe Bellitto wasn't blowing smoke. Maybe he was as well connected as he said.

  And maybe he was trying to keep Jack talking instead of the other way around. If his "circle" had a couple of tracking cars riding around, tracing this call, could they triangulate on Jack's position and move in?

  Lucky for him he was far from home.

  Jack stepped away from the building and rejoined the pedestrian flow toward the elevated tracks. He'd keep the call going for a while longer, then step on a train and zoom away.

  "What's the matter?" Bellitto said. "Cat got your tongue?"

  Jack forced a laugh. "How typically unoriginal. You haven't a clue as to who I am or what I'm up to. And you never will. Your time is finished, Eli. Time for a new generation to take over. Step aside or die."

  "Never! The Ceremony is mine! I don't know how you found out about it, but no Johnny-Come-Lately is going to usurp my power!"

  Johnny-Come-Lately? Usurp? This guy was too much.

  But this Ceremony he was ranting about… Jack had a sick feeling it might involve killing children. If he was right, maybe he could turn it on its head to give Bellitto a swift kick in his already cut-up balls.

  "The old original recipe Ceremony might be yours, Eli, but I've done my own variation on it. The Ceremony, Version two-point-oh, is all mine."

  "What?" An uncertain note here. "What are you talking about?"

  "I've reversed the Ceremony, Eli."

  "I don't understand."

  "I can bring them back."

  "What? Nonsense! That's impossible!"

  "Is it? That was me in the store on Sunday trying to buy the Roger Rabbit key ring."

  "You? But… but why would you want it?"

  "Not me. I didn't want it. Tara wanted it."

  "Who?"

  "Tara Portman." Jack swore he heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end. "You remember her, don't you. The pretty little nine-year-old blonde you snatched by the Kensington riding stables back in eighty-eight." Jack fought to keep the growing rage out of his voice. Had to sound cool, play it like someone as sick as the guy on the other end of the line. "She's back, and she wanted her key ring. So I went and got it for her. Tara's back, Eli. And is she ever pissed."

  With that Jack broke the connection and gave the off button a vicious jab, damn near punching it out the back side of the phone as he cut the power.

  Chew on that for the rest of the night, scumbag.

  15

  "Slow down." Eli said, peering through the passenger window into the growing darkness. "It's just a little ways ahead. Number seven-thirty-five."

  Adrian had the wheel of Eli's Mercedes, a black 1990 sedan. Despite its age its mileage was low. Eli used it infrequently and only for short trips. He preferred this old classic for its room and comfort and lines. The new models held no appeal for him.

  Eli's wounds were feeling much better tonight, but not well enough to drive. Moving his leg back and forth to work the brake and gas pedals would flare his pain, so he'd given Adrian the keys. Adrian was still having some trouble with his knee, but fortunately it was his lef
t that had been injured, so he could still drive.

  Just as well that Eli had a physical excuse for not driving, for he wasn't up to it emotionally either. Not tonight. Too rattled, too distracted… why, in his present mood, he might very well drive into oncoming traffic without realizing until it was too late.

  But he couldn't let Adrian and Strauss see his unease, his uncertainty. He had never been in a situation like this, and found this inexplicable turn of events almost overwhelming. Everything had been going so well for so long, and now…

  Initially he'd been delighted to make contact with his attacker, the mysterious "Jack." He'd called with the intention of shaking him up, of letting him know that he hadn't got away clean with his vicious, underhanded act, that he was being hunted and would be found.

  Instead, it had been Eli who had been left shaken.

  The man knew that he'd abducted Tara Portman, knew that the key ring had been hers. How? He didn't believe for a second that the Ceremony could be reversed, and yet… how did the man know about Tara?

  The questions had plagued Eli until he'd given into a yearning to return to the house where the Portman child had died. Just for a look…

  "I still think this is a lousy, stupid idea," said Strauss from where he slouched in the rear seat. "Lousy because this whole deal could be a trick to get us to come back to this place, which we're doing. And stupid because Tara Portman ain't back and she ain't never coming back. Did we or did we not cut up her heart and eat it? No way that kid is back and looking for her key ring."

  Eli winced at Strauss's casual mention of these Ceremony details. They were never to be spoken.

  "First of all," Eli said, "we are not going back to Dmitri's house, we are simply driving by. Just another car passing on the street. As for the other matter, I fully agree that Tara Portman cannot be back, but we must find out how this man knows about her."

  "Easy," Strauss said, the edge still on his voice. He leaned forward and jutted his head over the back of the front seat. His breath reeked of garlic. "Somebody talked."

  "No one talked," Eli said. "I've spoken to our other members, all ten of them, since this afternoon. No one has been kidnapped and tortured into a confession. Everyone is fine and looking forward to the next Ceremony. And think about it: If someone did talk, why talk about Tara Portman? Why not last year's lamb, or the year before? Tara Portman was ages ago."