"I connected with those people. I come from where they come from, and I've lived through what they've lived through, survived what they survived. No one else speaks to them or for them. They know I care about them and won't lie to them. And they listen to me because they know I'm a man with a mission."
I ask him what that would be.
"Why, to change the world, of course."
Jack looked up: "Jack's Law: Never trust anyone who wants to change the world."
He stared down again at the head shot of Hank Thompson. The same strange figure was either painted or hung on the wall behind him; the way it framed him, a few of its appendages seemed to be jutting from his head. Jack tapped the cover reproduction and then the figure on the Xerox sheet.
"What is this thing? It looks like a spider."
"Two more legs a spider should have. To me it looks like a four-armed man—or woman."
"Let's hope it's not a woman…"
Jack remembered the painting of a four-armed goddess—Kali—in the horror-filled hold of a freighter floating off the West Side.
"The 'Kicker Man,' Thompson calls it."
"Whatever it is, it's ancient."
Abe frowned. "How so?"
"Despite promises to the contrary, your professor friend copied this from the Compendium."
Abe looked offended. "Oh? You were there when he copied it?"
"No, but—"
"Then how do you know?"
Abe seemed to be taking this personally so Jack explained about their copying one of the pages together. He pointed to the squiggles accompanying the figure.
"That's what the original First Age writing looks like when you photocopy it—when it can't mutate into English or whatever your native language is."
Abe frowned. "You've told me this before but how do you know it's true?"
"To the prof's eyes it was written in German."
"A joke you're making, right?"
"I kid you not. The upshot is that this figure is O-L-D. You studied all kinds of ancient languages and stuff with the prof. Ever come across anything like this?"
Abe shook his head. "Never. But Doctor Buhmann might have. That was maybe why he copied it. Or he'd seen the cover of this guy's book and wanted to compare them, see how close they were."
Jack studied them. "Line for line, they're damn near identical. Question is, where does a high school dropout come across something like this? Where else can you find it besides the Compendium ofSremV
"Yours is maybe not the only copy?"
Jack gave the counter a shot with the heel of his hand.
"Damn, I wish I had the book. I'd like to read up on this thing, get the story behind it."
"Nu? You care?"
"Doesn't it do anything to you?"
Abe looked confused. "It should do something to me? What already? Tt's just a stick figure of a four-armed man."
"It doesn't make you feel… funny inside?"
"Not at all. The only funny-inside feeling I have is the need for another elephant ear."
Jack took one last look at the figure, then refolded the sheets.
"Got a phone book?"
"Only yellow."
"Fine."
Abe reached under the counter, came up with a fat one, and dropped it with a thud on the counter.
"You're looking up Muller's to order a delivery, right?"
"They don't deliver. I need info on a PI named Gerhard."
Abe shook his head as if to clear it. "He knows about the Compendium?'1''
"No, this is another matter. Although, the way things have been going lately, he just might."
He had contact information from Christy but wanted a look himself. Under Private Investigators and Detectives he found the Gerhard Agency, and listed under that was Michael P. Gerhard. The address was a "suite 624" on West 20th here in Manhattan, but the 718 area code of the phone number was the same Brooklyn number Christy had given him.
He pointed to the computer on the counter.
"Do me a favor and look up Michael P. Gerhard in Brooklyn."
Abe's pudgy fingers flew over the keyboard, then he adjusted his glasses and squinted at the screen.
"Plenty of Gerhards. No Michael P. but there's a Gerhard MP on Avenue M."
Avenue M ran through a number of Brooklyn neighborhoods.
"Can we narrow that down a bit?"
Abe pushed out his lower lip. "Can't say for sure, but I got a feeling that's a Flatlands address."
"How can you tell?"
"Old uncles I had used to live out there when it was predominantly Jewish. Now it's predominantly not Jewish."
Jack pulled out his cell phone and called the number Abe gave him. After four rings he was shunted to voice mail. He listened to the standard message—''Hi, this is Mike, blah-blah-blah"—and hung up. Then he called the office number and got voice mail again. A more formal message this time: "Hello. You have reached the Gerhard Agency …"
No question: Same voice both times.
Jack left a message: "Mister Gerhard, this is Jack—"
He needed a last name. He glanced around, saw Nike on a shoebox. No. Saw Prince on a racket.
"—Prince and T wish to engage your services. Please call me as soon as possible. It's an urgent matter." He left his Tracfone number.
There. All he had to do now was wait for his callback, arrange a meet, and convince him to square his accounts with Christy Pickering.
But while he was waiting, why not check out his "office."
3
ack hopped the A train down to 23rd, then walked over to the address of the Gerhard Agency. As Christy had said, a mail drop. Jack used a number of them himself, in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens, but this one was new to him.
He peeked through the window of box 624—Gerhard's "suite" number—and found it crammed with mail. Too bad this wasn't the drop Jack used a few blocks from here. He was sure he could wheedle a look at Gerhard's mail from Kevin, the guy who ran that place. But here, knowing nobody, he wouldn't even try.
His cell started to ring. He smiled as he pulled it from his pocket.
Mr. Gerhard, I presume.
But no. Abe's voice came through instead.
"I just called the hospital. Doctor Buhmann is awake and speaking. Shall we pay a visit?"
Oh, yeah. He had a few questions he wanted to ask the good professor.
4
"One-sixty-one."
Jack stared down at Doc Buhmann. He seemed to be fading into his pillowcase. The right side of his face drooped. The thin fingers of his left hand plucked absently at the bedsheet while the right lay limp at his side. Once he'd come to they'd moved him out of intensive care to this semiprivate room. Jack was glad for that. If he never saw the inside of an ICU again it would be too soon.
"I said, it's good to see you awake," Abe repeated.
The prof gave him a weak, lopsided smile. "Three-twenty-nine." The words slurred like someone at the end of a long bender.
Abe looked at Jack across the bed and muttered. "Three-twenty-nine? What's with these numbers already? I ask him a question, he gives me a number."
"Numbers are all he's said since he came to," said an accented female voice.
Jack looked toward the door and saw a heavyset nurse with coffee-colored skin approaching. She stopped at the foot of the bed.
"Is this usual after a stroke?" Abe said.
She shook her head. "First time I've seen it, but Doctor Gupta didn't seem too surprised."
"That's his neurologist, right? The one I spoke to. Where is he?"
"Down the hall. He should be here soon." She grabbed the small tent made by the prof's right foot and wiggled it. "Can you feel this, Peter?"
He gave her a watery stare. "Forty-nine."
"See?"
The prof was obviously responding to questions, but why with numbers instead of words?
Creepy.
A lean, dark-skinned man with a Saddam mustache strolled in carrying a cha
rt.
"I am Doctor Gupta." His voice was high pitched, with a lilting Indian accent. "Which one of you is this man's son?"
Abe seemed to be in a trance, staring at the prof. When he didn't answer, Jack pointed to him.
"He is."
Jack wondered how Dr. Gupta could buy that fiction. Hard to imagine a less likely father-son pair.
Abe shook himself. "What? Oy. Yes. I'm him." They shook hands. "Tell me about this stroke."
"It's worse than a hemorrhagic stroke, I am afraid, although that would be serious enough. Your father has a brain tumor. That is what hemorrhaged."
"Gevalt!" He turned to the prof. "You never told me!"
"It's not exactly a brain tumor because it didn't originate there. It's metastatic from a lung mass which is in turn metastatic from a renal carcinoma. At least that is what we assume because his right kidney was removed not too long ago. Where would we find his medical records?"
Abe looked flustered. Jack knew he'd kept in touch with his old professor but this was obviously all news to him.
Jack jumped in: "But why is he speaking in numbers? I've heard of speaking in tongues, but—"
"The damage reached the Wernicke's area on the left side of the brain and thus has caused a form of receptive aphasia."
"Want to try that again in real-people talk?" Jack said.
"His speech is preserved but the content is garbled. He is most likely not understanding what we say to him."
Abe waved a hand at the prof. "But always with the numbers—why?"
"Ah, that is most interesting." Gupta seemed excited beneath his blase surface. "What numbers has he spoken to you?"
"Forty-nine just before you came in," Jack said.
Gupta jotted something on the chart cover.
Abe added, "One-sixty-one and three-twenty-nine before that."
More scribbling as he muttered, "Fascinating . . .fascinating.""
"Not so fascinating," Abe said, his face darkening. "More like tragic."
"Ask him something."
Abe shook his head, so Jack leaned over the man and touched his hand.
"Doctor Buhmann—where's the Compendium? It's not in your office. Did you hide it somewhere?"
The prof looked up at him. "Ninety-one."
"Yes!" Gupta muttered as he scribbled.
Abe's fury seemed to be growing.
Jack pulled out the Xerox of the Kicker Man and held it up.
"Why did you copy this?"
The prof's eyes widened. He raised his shaky left hand and pointed at the figure.
"Six-five-fifty-nine! Two-seventeen!" He snatched the sheet from Jack's hand and stared at it adoringly. "Seven-ninety-one!"
More scribbling by Gupta. "Amazing!"
Abe took a step toward him. He had mayhem in his eyes.
"Enough already! What's going on?"
"Multiples of seven! Every number he says is a multiple of seven! Seven-ninety-one is one-thirteen times seven. Two-seventeen is thirty-one times seven. One-sixty-one is twenty-three times seven. Six-five—"
"We get it," Jack said. "So what?"
Gupta looked up with bright eyes. "I have never heard of such a thing. I'll have to do a search to see if it's ever occurred before."
Jack could see visions of publishing a paper dancing in his head.
"But what are you doing about it?" Abe said.
"We have excellent speech pathologists on staff. I've already ordered a consult."
"What's that going to do for his cancer?"
"I have an oncologist coming in later, but renal cancer at this stage…" He shook his head.
Abe looked heartbroken.
Gupta said, "Tell me, he is a professor, yes?"
Abe nodded.
"Of mathematics?"
"No. Linguistics."
Gupta frowned. "Odder. One would expect—"
"Odd you want? Try this: All those numbers he's multiplying by seven are prime."
Gupta stared. "You are sure?" He looked down at the chart cover and checked through the list. "Yes, I believe you are right! Oh, this is marvelous, simply marvelous!"
He turned and hurried from the room, leaving Jack and Abe staring at each other.
"All prime numbers?"
Abe nodded. "And all multiplied by another prime."
The creep factor had just doubled.
They stood and watched the prof stare adoringly at the Kicker Man. His eyes shone like Gawain contemplating the Holy Grail.
5
Jack pulled his big black Crown Victoria out of the Upper West Side garage where he kept it for a monthly fee that equaled a mortgage payment in some states. He headed east through the fading light.
Three messages left with Michael Gerhard's office voice mail had sparked no callback. Haifa dozen calls to his house had gone unanswered as well. Add to that the stuffed mailbox and maybe Mr. Gerhard was on vacation.
And maybe not.
Whatever the reason, a knock on his door was called for, which meant a trek out to Flatlands.
Swell.
The Flatlands section lay on the far side of Brooklyn. Not even a subway stop out there. He had to drive. And driving anywhere in the city lately made him crazy.
Ten miles and forty minutes later he was driving past Gerhard's house on Avenue M. It stood midway along a line of detached, two-story, cookie-cutter houses that must have been depressingly identical when built half a century before, but changes in siding and different plantings over the years afforded them a modicum of individuality. The area had been farmland in the old-old days but was purely residential now.
Jack slowed as he passed…
The place looked dark and empty except for one lighted upstairs window. Maybe a security light, but Jack would have expected one downstairs as well.
He found a parking space two blocks past and walked back. He'd dressed in construction-worker casual for the trip: flannel shirt, jeans, and six-inch, steel-toed Thorogrip Commando Deuces.
He skirted a puddle on the front walk and stopped on the steps before the door. The place looked like it once had sported a front porch, but that had been enclosed for extra living space. He was raising his hand to knock when he noticed the steps were wet. Hadn't rained in days. He bent and touched the weather stripping along the bottom of the door… worn… with water leaking through from inside.
Something wrong here.
Ya think?
His instincts urged him to turn and run—not walk, run—back to his car and get the hell out of here. But a need to know made him stay. He promised himself if he could find an easy way in, he'd take a quick look and then be on his way. If a break-in was necessary, he'd skip it and go home.
He pressed the doorbell button and heard it ring inside. He didn't expect an answer but you never knew. As he rang it again he turned the doorknob and gave a push.
Locked.
He looked around. Nobody about, and he was pretty well hidden in the shadow of the door's overhang.
He slipped around the side and found a basement window behind some bushes. He pulled out his little key-chain penlight and briefly flashed it a few times through the dirty window. The beam reflected off a pool of water within.
Whatever was leaking had been doing so for a while.
Jack saw no sign that the window was wired, so he tested it—not that he wanted to wade through that water, but he felt obliged to check.
No luck.
He could have taken off his jacket, wrapped it around his fist, and broken the window, but he'd promised himself no break-in. So he rose and walked around to the back door. No water leaking out here. He turned the knob and pushed.
It swung inward with a melodramatic creak.
Jack pulled his Glock from the nylon holster at the small of his back and stepped inside.
"Hello? Mister Gerhard? This is Jack Prince. I've been trying to reach you all day. Anybody home?"
No answer.
He closed the door behind him and started thr
ough the kitchen toward the front. The inside of the house was a moonless night. The floor stayed dry until he reached the living room. There the carpet began to squish under his boots. When he reached the stairs he risked a quick flash of the penlight. The runner was saturated. Water dripped off the uncarpeted edges of the treads. He touched it—cold.
From somewhere above, the light he'd seen from outside threw just enough illumination to silhouette the banister and newel post on the upper floor.
He called out again but received no answer.
Okay. Time to go see what's what.
Keeping the Clock ahead of him and pointed up, he took the steps two at a time, squishing and creaking all the way. So much for stealth. When he reached the top he stopped and listened.
There… to his right… light and water running under a closed door, the faint splash and gurgle of running water within. Three strides took him to the threshold where he pushed the door open.
Jack's stomach lurched at the sight of a fully dressed man crouched facedown in an old-fashioned pawfoot tub. Underwater. The bloated condition of the corpse and the attendant stink said he'd been there awhile. Probably be stinking worse if not for the continuous flow of cold water.
Mr. Gerhard, I presume.
Jack stepped into the tiny room and did a quick check to make sure he was alone. Then, keeping his pistol trained toward the door, he squatted next to the tub for a closer look.
The back of the guy's head and a stretch of his lower back were the only parts above water. Jack was glad he couldn't see the face. He didn't know what Gerhard looked like and probably wouldn't recognize him if he did. The cold tap was running at maybe half speed, keeping the tub overflowing.
He groaned aloud when he spotted the bungee cord knotted around the corpse's swollen neck.
Swell. A murder. How much trace evidence had he left already?
Another look revealed handcuffs around the wrists; the cord from the neck fed through the eye of a bolt fastened to the bottom of the tub. No, not fastened—drilled through a hole in the bottom of the tub and screwed into the flooring beneath. Another look at the corpse showed the legs bound together at the thighs, knees, and ankles.
Not just murder… some form of ritual. Or torture.
This was no place to be hanging out. Past time to get out. But as long as he was here… why not see if Gerhard had any notes on Jerry Bethlehem?
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