Jack kept his tone innocently blase. "I believe I heard that it once belonged to Luther Brady."
"The Dormentalist guy?"
"Yes. Did you ever meet him?"
"No. And if what he's accused of is true, I don't want to." Thompson's eyes narrowed. "You're not one of them, are you?"
"One of whom?"
"A Dormentalist?"
If you only knew…
"No. But if I were…?"
"Check out their Web site. See what lies they're spreading about me. Scientologists too."
"Why would they do that?"
"Because lots of their members are leaving to become Kickers. They're losing dues to my clubs and it's driving them crazy."
"Interesting. But back to the book: I think I saw it in a museum once, but I can't remember which one. I'll let you know if it comes to me."
"You do that."
A definite cooling on the far side of the table.
"Let's move on to another topic. Tell me about your stay at the Creighton Institute."
Thompson fixed him with his blue gaze. "Why do you want to know about that?"
"Well, Hank, as I told you, I read your book to prepare for this, but I also read a lot of your other interviews as well."
He smiled but it had lost some of its previous warmth. "Doing your homework. I like that."
"Well, I wanted my piece to be a little different. You've earned yourself a lot of column inches lately and I'm looking to cover some new ground, if possible. So… about Creighton…"
"If you want to cover new ground, that's fine with me. But why the Creighton Institute?"
"Well, it struck me as odd that after your conviction—and I must say, I was impressed with your candor—the federal government shipped you from Georgia all the way across the country to New York. I don't know a lot about the federal penal system, but I doubt that happens very often." Jack put on a smile. "I mean, ITSV hardly makes you public enemy number one. You must have wondered at that yourself."
"I sure did."
"Did you ever find out why?"
"Nope."
"Not even from the Creighton people?"
"Not a hint. Can we move on?"
Jack was far from finished. "Did you know that the Creighton Institute is listed as an incarceration facility for the criminally insane?"
A semi-strangled laugh, then, "I'm a little crazy, but I'm not that crazy. Seriously, though, they had two separate populations: the violent types in the lockdown wing, and the nonviolent sort in the medium-security area."
Violent types… lockdown wing… could Jerry Bethlehem have been one of Levy's patients at Creighton? Could they be connected?
"Did you make any friends there?"
"I suppose."
"Have you kept in contact with any of them?"
"One of the conditions of parole is that you avoid contact with any other criminals—and anyone I knew inside was a criminal."
"How about the staff?"
"Look," he said, his annoyance clear, "when I got out they shipped me back to Georgia."
"But now you've returned to New York. Do you like it here?"
He relaxed a smidge. "Yeah. A lot. I'm thinking of setting up the Kicker HQ here. The city's already got the biggest number of Kicker clubs in the country. Seems like a logical choice."
"Indeed it does. Does that mean we can expect to see a lot more Kicker graffiti around town?"
He frowned. "That's not approved nor encouraged, but it is an indicator of the level of enthusiasm for the evolution."
"You keep calling it 'evolution.' Why is that?"
"It's like when an ugly caterpillar makes a cocoon and then comes out as a big, kick-ass butterfly—it's kicked off its lower form and evolved into a higher one."
Jack wondered whether this would be a good time to tell him that he wasn't describing evolution at all.
Nah.
"Speaking of the Creighton staff—"
"We weren't speaking of the staff."
"—did they do any testing on you?"
"Sure. Blood tests, x-rays, psychological tests up the wazoo. Where's this going?"
"Did they perform any experiments on you?"
"What do you think I was living—a grade-Z horror movie?" He glanced at his watch. "Sorry. Gotta run. More interviews scheduled."
Yeah, right.
Jack rose and retrieved his recorder. "Same here. Gotta get back to Trenton and type this up. By the way, got a title for your next project?"
Like, maybe, Punt?
"Haven't decided what to write next, but I'm sure it will come to me."
They shook hands, assured each other it had been a pleasure, then Jack headed back to the street.
Not a wasted trip. He'd learned a few things about Hank Thompson.
First off, he was a little scary. A hint of Manson lurking beneath the Morrison.
Second, he'd seen the Compendium. Jack didn't know if he'd come up with the Kicker Man figure on his own, or from an earlier peek at the Compendium,
but the look in rus eyes when Jack mentioned the metallic cover… he'd seen it… maybe even had it now.
Third, he was defensive about the Creighton Institute. Maybe it was the "for the Criminally Insane" part that bothered him, but Jack had a feeling it might be something else. Something he didn't want made public.
Jack saw another trip to Rathburg in his future. The very near future.
5
"Who was that son of a bitch?" Hank said as he barged into Susan Abrams's office without knocking.
She jumped in her seat and looked up at him.
"Who? That reporter?"
"Who else would I mean? Did you check him out?"
"Well, no—"
He felt like strangling her.
"Damn it, isn't that part of your job?"
She blinked. "We—we don't vet every reporter who requests an interview. What happened?"
"Never mind that. Just call his paper—the Trenton whatever it is—and check on him."
"But—"
"Now!"
He paced back and forth outside her door—no room for it in her tiny office—as she fumbled with this and that trying to get in touch with the paper.
John Tyleski… he'd bet his next six months of royalties that guy was no reporter. Because a simple everyday reporter from a hick paper in Trenton wouldn't know about the Compendium of Srem. Hank had known about it for only a couple of days himself.
What a find!
And all because one Marty Pinter, a janitor at the museum, just happened to notice the Kicker Man in an ancient book on the desk of a professor who just happened to have had a stroke; and Marty, who just happened to be a
Kicker himself, decided that the old book belonged in the hands oi the Alpha Kicker.
Almost as if Fate had been pulling a few strings…
Hank had known at first sight it was a hell of a find—especially with the Kicker Man big as life inside. The book called the figure something else, something unpronounceable beginning with a Q, but no matter. Hank was itching to go through that Compendium with a fine-tooth comb and learn all he could from it, but he had no time, damn it. He'd had it almost three days now and he'd only been able to skim the surface. If he wasn't doing interviews and radio and TV, he was speaking at Kicker rallies. He didn't have a life of his own anymore.
Well, he'd make time. He had a feeling it was going to be very important to his future, and the future of the Kickers.
Maybe it would give him a hint of where they were going. He wanted to know because he had no idea where this movement he'd started was headed.
No way he'd ever admit that, but it was true. Sometimes he'd wake up at night bathed in sweat, scared by the numbers of people responding to his words, to his book—joining Kicker clubs all over the country, paying dues, donating money.
Every few days, for maybe a few seconds, he missed his old life before he got inspired to write the book. His job in the slaughterhouse had alternated between bein
g a "knocker"—shooting the steel bolt into the cow's head to knock it out—and a sticker—slitting the cow's throat after it was hung upside down by a leg from the overhead rail.
Hot bloody work, dressed head to foot in a yellow rubber suit that was red after the first ten minutes of the shift, but very satisfying in some ways. At least he'd known what he was doing. Now…
He had to trust in whatever had brought him this far. He felt like a human antenna, receiving signals from someplace far off in the universe. He sensed it most when he was speaking. The words, the rising and falling in volume, the gestures, they just came to him. And as for writing the book… he'd never been much of a reader, but the words had just flowed from him through his pen and onto the backs of flyers or envelopes until he'd graduated to yellow pads.
He hoped to hell whatever had inspired and guided him this far would take him to the next step.
The question that nagged him the most was, Why me?
He made a point of coming on strong and confident in public, but in private he hadn't the vaguest clue what he'd tapped into. He knew it was powerful, and he knew his words were appealing to others like him, sending out some sort of vibe that was picked up by their own antennas. They all seemed tuned to the same wavelength, but was his the most sensitive? Was he the alpha antenna who broadcast to the rest?
He wished he knew.
But what he did know was that this was the greatest high he'd ever experienced. Pot, coke, crank—he'd tried them all, but nothing compared to bringing a crowd to its feet and hearing them clap and yell and whistle and stomp their feet. He'd thrown out the drugs, vowing never to touch them again—not because he was no longer interested, but because a bust could land him in the slammer, cutting him off from his audience, his people.
The money was rolling in and the women were rolling over—as long as they liked it rough, that was fine. He felt like a goddamn rock star. The sky was the limit.
This reporter, though… this John Tyleski… he'd become a little cloud in that sky.
He turned back to the publicity bitch just as she was hanging up.
"Well?"
Susan Abrams chewed her upper lip and looked miserable. "That was the managing editor of the Trenton Times."
"And?"
She cringed. "There is no John Tyleski on their staff."
"What?"
He'd sensed it, suspected it, but to hear it from this stupid bitch's mouth…
"You've got to understand," she said, "this was an interview conducted in our own offices. We wouldn't normally—"
"What if he'd been some nut with a knife or a gun?"
"I'm terribly sorry about—" she began as she started to rise.
Hank shoved her back into her seat. "Damn right you are, you stupid, useless bitch! You're finished. I'm getting someone else for PR—someone who knows what she's doing."
She began to cry and that only made him want to smash a fist into her blubbering face. But he held back—last thing he needed was an A-and-B charge. He stomped out, leaving her sobbing at her desk.
Count yourself lucky, honey.
He went back to the conference room and slammed the door behind him. He stood there until his anger faded a little.
What had happened in here?
Pretending to be a journalist was a good way to get close to a celebrity or someone with notoriety, into places other folks weren't allowed. Hank should know—he'd been playing that card for years.
Hank knew why he'd done it, but what had Tyleski—bet the ranch that wasn't his name—wanted? Was he looking for that old book—to get it back for the professor? No biggy then. He'd never find it. And with Pinter hidden away in the Lodge downtown, he'd never find the thief either.
But the questions about Creighton bothered him. In all his interviews, lots of folks had asked about the events leading up to getting sent to Creighton, but this was the first time anyone had asked about what had gone on inside. This guy had asked about tests and, worse, about keeping in touch with anyone he'd met inside. What had made him ask that? If he knew something he shouldn't, could be big trouble brewing.
Did a piss-poor job of handling that, Hank, he told himself. Let him get under your skin. Most likely gave something away.
The worst part was realizing someone knew too much about him. Someone was gunning for him, and Hank had no idea why.
Unless… the Enemy?
He clenched his jaw. Keep your distance, asshole. I see you again, I'm taking you out.
6
Christy sat before her computer in her home office, staring at the screen but only dimly aware of the numbers scrolling past.
She wandered out into the living room and looked around at the antique furnishings, the paintings she'd picked up at various galleries in SoHo. A nice home—part of the life she'd built for Dawn and herself. All from nothing.
She remembered arriving in New York City all those years ago with a few hundred dollars in her pocket, a suitcase in one hand, and a baby in the other.
Now look at me.
She could buy pretty much anything she wanted without a second thought. But she usually did give it a second thought. And sometimes a third. And very often she said no. Better to save it for the inevitable rainy day. She'd spent too many years counting pennies to feel comfortable with careless spending. Old habits died hard.
She'd done it lor Dawnie. JNot all of it, of course. Some had been for her own sake, but the driving force had been building a secure life for her daughter to give her the kind of home she'd never had. And now everything seemed ready to go up in smoke.
Because she'd really blown it with Dawn today.
Why on Earth hadn't she listened to Jack and kept her mouth shut? She'd planned on doing just that, and when she'd come home and found Dawn doodling on the computer, everything had been fine. If nothing else, this relationship with Jerry had made her start taking better care of herself. She'd slimmed down some, started wearing a little makeup. She seemed to glow with happiness. Soon—not today, but soon—Christy would be forced to douse that glow. It would hurt, but it would be for the best.
They'd made small talk, then Dawnie announced that she had to get changed to spend the rest of the afternoon at that man's place. That was when Christy lost it.
She'd told her about hiring Mike Gerhard to investigate Jerry and how Gerhard was found murdered, and how the detective she'd hired to find Gerhard had witnessed Jerry kidnap someone.
Christy had seen the look of horror growing on Dawn's face and that had spurred her on. But then she realized that the horror wasn't at what her beau had done, but at her mother hiring a detective and then making up these awful stories.
She'd run out of the house before Christy could stop her. She prayed she hadn't caused an irreparable breach. If only—
She jumped as she heard the front door open. She always kept it locked.
"It's me."
Dawnie's voice. Thank God!
She rushed into the living room only to stop cold at the sight of that man.
"This is so not my idea," Dawnie said, glaring at her. "If it was up to me, I'd never come back here again. But Jerry wanted to talk to you."
Christy looked at him and shivered at the cold menace in his eyes. But his voice was calm and measured.
"I'm not sure what to say about all this," he drawled as he rubbed a hand through that short, neat beard. "But, unbelievable as your accusations sound, I can't let them go without sayin somethin."
That drawl… how could a cracker like this develop video games? Then again, you didn't need a degree from Harvard or even Queensborough Community College for that. You just needed cunning, and Christy sensed he had plenty of that.
But she was damned if she was going to back down. "Everything I said is true!"
"I'm sure you believe that, but you been lied to."
"J have not! I—"
"You say you hired a detective and that he was murdered. What was his name?"
His name? He ha
d to know his name—if he'd killed him.
"Michael Gerhard—as you well know."
"And you say he's dead. Murdered."
"I have a witness."
"Who?"
Christy didn't think it wise to identify Jack.
"I'm not telling you that."
"And why not?"
"Because I don't want him to end up dead too."
She thought she caught a hint of a smirk, but couldn't be sure through the beard.
Dawn said, "That's it, Jerry! I told you this was totally a waste of time! We're going!"
"No-no. Just a second, darlin. This is your mother and she's got some bad ideas about me. I don't know why and I don't know who, but someone's been feedin her lies and I need to set her straight. I can't have her or anyone else be-lievin this about me."
So calm and reasoned… an excellent portrayal of an innocent man confronting his accuser. If it weren't for those eyes, Christy could almost believe…
"Just get out of Dawn's life and I won't say a word about this."
He smiled sweetly and put his arm around Dawn. "But I want to be a part of her life. She's become very important to me. So let's get back to this man I supposedly murdered—Gephardt, was it?"
"Gerhard. Michael Gerhard."
"I haven't read or heard anything about this. Where did it happen and what was the time of his death?"
Dawnie tugged on his arm. "Come on, Jerry. This is total bullshit."
"Just give me a minute, darlin. If he was killed while you and I were together, that'll prove I had nothin to do with it." He turned back to Christy. "If you'll show me the news article, we can probably settle this here and now."
Oh, hell.
"There is no article."
"Well then, a police report."
"I don't have that."
His expression turned puzzled. "Then… what do you have?"
"The man who found the body."
"The man you can't name. Well, if he reported the crime—"
"He did, but by the time the police got there the body was gone."
"What?" He laughed. "Somebody tells you a man was murdered but there's no body? How do we know this Gerhard ain't sittin in some bar in Florida drinkin up the money you paid him? I think you've been sold a bill of goods, Mrs. P."
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