Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  Jack didn’t know what to do. What do you say to a crying drunk? He put a hand on the guy’s quaking shoulder.

  “Hang around. Maybe I can find you a place to stay.”

  The guy shook his head and stumbled away along the sidewalk, still sobbing.

  Jack hurried up the building’s front steps. He pressed the button for Walt’s room but got no answering buzz. The glass panel in the front door was broken. Maybe the buzzer was too. He reached through the shattered pane and let himself in, then hurried up to the third floor.

  Despite repeated knocks, Walt didn’t answer his door.

  Concerned now, Jack pulled the piece of clear, flexible plastic he kept in his back pocket, slipped it between the door and the jamb, and jimmied the latch. The door swung open.

  “Oh, shit,” he said when he saw the carnage within.

  The front room was a shambles of shattered glass, torn upholstery, and broken furniture. Jack dodged through the wreckage and hurried to the bathroom where he’d installed Walt last night.

  Empty, damn it. He went to the one remaining place to look, the tiny bedroom.

  Blood. Blood on the sheets, on the floor, on the glass daggers remaining in the frame of the smashed bedroom window.

  “Walt,” Jack said softly, staring at the dry brown streaks on the glass. “Why didn’t you come back with me last night? Why didn’t you stay locked up like I told you?”

  Angry and sad, and not sure which to give in to, he wandered back to the bathroom. Walt’s metalworking tools were set up across the rust-stained tub.

  But where were the necklaces? Probably hadn’t finished them, but Jack knew he’d started them.

  And what was Jack going to do without them?

  Then he spotted something silvery and serpentine in the tub, under the work board. He dropped to his knees and reached in.

  Out came a necklace.

  Jack cupped it in his hands and inspected it. The sculpted, crescent-shaped links, the weird engraved inscriptions, the pair of topazes with dark centers. The look of it, weight of it … perfect.

  A deluge of memories, most of them bad, engulfed him. He especially remembered the night he had worn the genuine article, how it had kept him alive when he should have died, how removing it had damn near killed him.

  He shook off the past and felt a lump form in his throat for the man who had made this.

  “Walt. You were the best.”

  He reached into the tub and found the second necklace, but groaned when he got a good look at it. Only half done. The links on the left side were blank. Walt hadn’t got around to engraving them before … well, before whatever had happened to him.

  One and a half necklaces wasn’t going to cut it. Jack’s plan required two phonies to get the real ones.

  He got to his feet and stuffed the completed copy into his pocket. He’d have to come up with a new plan.

  Out on the street again he looked around for the drunk and spotted him sitting on the curb at the corner. He called to him, but the guy was absorbed in staring down at the sewer grate beneath his feet. Jack walked toward him.

  “Hey, fella! I’ll get you to a safe place where you can sober up.”

  The guy looked up. “Somebod’s downair,” he said, pointing into the sewer. “Can’t see’m but I hear’m movin’ ’round.”

  Jack wondered if people were hiding in the sewers.

  “Swell. But I don’t think you’ll fit through that opening, so—”

  “Prolly c’use a drink.”

  The guy reached down to pour a taste of his rum through the grate.

  Something flashed up from the sewer, something long and thick and brown whipped out and grabbed the drunk by his neck and yanked him down facefirst onto the grate. Then it began tugging him into the opening in the curb face. Not slowly, smoothly, inexorably, but with violent heaves, accompanied by sprays of blood and frantic but futilely flailing arms and legs. Three heaves did it.

  Before Jack could recover from his shock and take a single step forward to help, the man was gone. All he’d left behind were splashes of blood and a bottle of rum on its side, slowly emptying into the sewer after its owner.

  No people hiding in the sewers from the night things … night things—big night things—were down there hiding from the day.

  Jack backed up a few steps, then turned and hurried for his car. He had one last stop before heading for Monroe: Astoria.

  WFPW-FM

  FREDDY: —and at sea, the QE2 appears to be missing, man. She was last heard from Sunday evening and since then, nada. If she hit one of the gravity holes she’d have radioed for help. The single air-sea rescue plane that was sent out has found no survivors. Bummer, man.

 

  Astoria, Queens

  With the Queensboro Bridge out of commission, Jack had to take the Triboro, which was jammed. Not like it had been during the Internet crash, but slow, slow going.

  When he finally reached Menelaus Manor in Astoria he was struck by its condition: The neighbors up and down the block showed extensive bug damage, but the old stone house remained intact, almost … pristine.

  Jack knocked on the front door. Lyle Kenton answered. He looked awful—eyes sunken, skin a dull black, his usually neat dreads in disarray.

  “Jack?” He stepped back and opened the door wider. “You’re just about the last person I expected to see.”

  Jack stepped inside. “Hey, you’re the psychic. Should’ve seen me coming.”

  Lyle didn’t smile. “Charlie’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  Lyle’s brother had died a couple of years ago, but part of him—his ghost, his spirit, his personality, whatever—had hung around.

  “As in not here anymore. As in I can’t contact him. As in he doesn’t answer when I call his name.”

  “Since when?”

  Lyle ran a hand over his face. “Last Wednesday. He woke me up early—still-dark-out early—and said something was wrong. No, wait. He said everything was wrong. Said he’d hit the wall.”

  “What wall?”

  “You know how he can see some of the future.”

  “Yeah. Up to a point, and then he couldn’t see any further.”

  “Right. He said everything was darkness after that certain point. He called it ‘the wall’ that he couldn’t see over. Well, early Wednesday morning he said he’d hit it. I was beat so I told him we’d talk about it in the morning. But in the morning he was gone. Haven’t heard from him since.” Lyle’s eyes puddled up. “He’s gone, Jack. Charlie’s gone.”

  Jack didn’t know what to say. He laid a hand on Lyle’s shoulder.

  “He’ll be back.” Lame … so lame. Then a thought. “Look, Wednesday was the first day the sun rose late. That’s got to have something to do with it. When this mess is straightened out, he’ll be back.”

  Lyle looked at him. “Straightened out? How’s it going to get straightened out? Maybe there’s a reason Charlie couldn’t see the future past a certain point. Maybe because there isn’t one.”

  Jack didn’t like the sound of that. It struck a little too close to home.

  “It’s not over yet. There’s a guy who might have a way out. He’s got a place that’s temporarily safe. I came over to invite you to stay.”

  Lyle shook his head. “Can’t leave. What if Charlie comes back and can’t find me?”

  “He’ll know you’re safe—and he’ll be glad.”

  “No. Got to stay here. Got to be here if he comes back. Besides, the bugs seem to avoid the house.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. Because of Charlie, you think?”

  Another head shake. “The stones in the cellar—the ones Dmitri Menelaus moved in. Don’t know where he got them, but I think they scare off the bugs. I’m probably safer here than in your place.” A wan smile. “Want to move in?”

  Am I going to lose you too? Carol thought as she stood next to Bill in his bedroom and helped him pack a small duffel bag
with some extra clothes for the trip.

  Why was it always she who was left behind? Jim had died and left her—although that certainly hadn’t been his choosing. And her son—at least at the time she had thought of him as her son—had left her. Nelson had run off like a thief in the night, and now Bill was preparing to fly to Romania.

  “What are your chances of getting back?”

  “I don’t know. Not great, I think.”

  “Oh.” Carol couldn’t manage any more than that.

  Bill straightened and looked at her. “Do I sound brave? I hope so. Because I sure as hell don’t feel it. I mean, I want to do this, but I don’t want to die or even get hurt. But I’ve got to do something.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  Anything would be better than being left behind again, especially now when she had nothing else to do but sit around and wait.

  “To Romania?” Bill said, staring at her. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Is anyplace safe anymore?”

  Even the daytime was no longer safe. Jack had returned a short while ago with a story of horrors hiding in the sewers and storm drains.

  “You’re safe here. And Glaeken seems to want you around.”

  “But why? What can I do besides help him take care of Magda? Not that I mind, but what else?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’re part of the equation. I don’t pretend to understand why he’s doing what he’s doing. Sometimes I wonder if he knows. But he’s all we’ve got. And if he says we need these bits of metal from Romania, and I’m the only one left who can get them, then I’ll give it my best shot. And if he says you’re important to the solution to what’s happening to the world, then I’ll go along with him. He hasn’t let us down yet.”

  “‘Part of the equation.’” Her throat constricted around the words. “I’ve been part of some sort of equation since I got pregnant and provided the body that allowed this … this monster back into the world.” Her voice cracked. “He took my baby, Bill! He kicked out whoever my real baby might have been and took over his unformed body. And now he’s going to take you!”

  She felt Bill’s arms go around her shoulders and pull her tight against him. His flannel shirt smelled lightly of detergent, and as its rough surface pressed against her cheek, the thought that he really should use fabric softener wafted inanely across her mind. She slipped her arms around his waist and pulled herself closer. If she could just hold him here like this it soon would be too late for him to leave, and then she wouldn’t lose him.

  She realized then how much she wanted him. Not like the last time, not like back in ’68 when the beast that had usurped her womb twisted her into trying to seduce Bill from his vows. That had been lust, induced lust. This was something else. This was love. An old love, following a long and winding road from the puppy love when they’d dated in their teens, to something deep and real. In a way, perhaps she’d always loved Bill. And now that he’d turned away from his church and his old beliefs, now that the cocoon of his priesthood had unraveled, he seemed real again, flesh and blood. She wanted to tell him how she felt but the decades-old memories of that degrading scene of attempted seduction still echoed around her and held her back.

  And yet, if she didn’t tell him now, would she ever get the chance again?

  Jack’s voice shattered the moment: “Time’s a-wastin’, Bill. We’ve got to make a stop in Monroe on the way.”

  Monroe … her hometown. Bill’s too. Where Rasalom had usurped her child’s body at conception. The torrent of memories was cut off as Bill pulled free of her arms.

  “Got to go, Carol.”

  He went to kiss her on the forehead. Impulsively, Carol lifted her face and kissed him on the lips. From the way he pulled back and the way he looked at her, she knew that he hadn’t forgotten 1968 either.

  “Come back to me, Bill,” she said softly. “I don’t want to lose you too.”

  He swallowed, nodded. “Okay. Yeah.” His voice was sandpaper dry. “I’ll be back. We can talk more about this then.” He picked up his duffel and started for the door, then stopped and turned. “I love you, Carol. I can’t think of a moment when I didn’t.”

  And then he was gone. But his final words lingered after him, filling Carol with a bewildering mix of emotions. She wanted to laugh with joy; instead she sat on the edge of the bed and cried.

  Long Island

  It took Jack longer than he’d planned to reach Monroe. A lot of traffic outbound on the LIE. Maybe they thought it would be better out on the Island. He’d talked to Doc Bulmer on the phone this morning, and from what he’d said, things didn’t seem a whole hell of a lot quieter out here.

  So he did the best speed he could. Nick sat in the backseat, his zombie stare fixed straight ahead. Bill wasn’t much better company. He sat in the passenger seat and said nothing, just gazed out the window, lost in a world of his own.

  Jack wondered what was going on between him and that Mrs. Treece. Her husband had run off and left her. Was Bill moving in? He’d been a priest for most of his life. Had a lot of lost time to make up for. Jack couldn’t blame him. She was attractive, even if she could have been Jack’s mother. But he sensed more to it than opportunity knocking. Those two seemed to go back a long way.

  So Jack thought about his conversation with Gia—his last for a while. She hadn’t liked the idea of him taking to the air in all this, but seemed to realize that he was the only one for the job. The good news was that everything was fine in and around Abe’s bunker. That was a load off his mind. His ladies were safe—he couldn’t have made this trip if he’d had the slightest doubt about that.

  He tried the radio. A lot of stations were gone, nothing but static in their slots on the band, but a few DJs and newsfolk were hanging in there, still playing music, still broadcasting the news, keeping their listeners informed to the best of their ability as to what was fact and what was merely rumor. He had to hand it to them. They had more guts than he would have given them credit for.

  He clicked it off. Not in the mood for music.

  “So, Bill,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the backseat. “How are you going to handle Renfield back there?”

  Bill turned from the window and fixed Jack with a stare.

  “Don’t make fun of him. He’s an old friend and he’s a victim, just like a lot of other people these days.”

  Jack instinctively bristled at the sound of someone telling him what to do, then realized that Bill was right.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know him before he … before he went down into the hole.”

  “He was brilliant. Hopefully he’ll be brilliant again. A mind like a computer, but a good heart too.”

  “Bit of a spread in age between the two of you. How’d you meet?”

  “I was his father for a few years.”

  When Jack shot him a questioning look, Bill went on to explain about his stint as director of a Jesuit orphanage in Queens, and how a certain little boy had died and how he’d spent years on the run as a result.

  Jack was shocked to realize he was sharing the car with the kidnapper priest who’d been all over the news years ago, the object of a nationwide manhunt—still hunted.

  The story fascinated him. He’d been seeing this guy every day lately and never guessed what kind of a man he was, or the hell he’d been through. How could he? Bill seemed to have built a wall around himself, as if he were practicing being a nobody.

  But now that Jack had got a peek over that wall, he decided he liked Bill Ryan.

  And besides, the story made the trip pass faster. Here they were in Monroe, on Shore Drive.

  Ba must have been watching from one of the windows. He stepped out the front door as they pulled in the driveway. He approached the car with only a Macy’s shopping bag dangling from his hand. The Nash lady, Doc Bulmer, and the kid, Jeffy, were all clustered at the front door to see him off, like the Cleavers sending an Asian Wally off to war.

  Jack got out, waved Ba toward the car,
then trotted to the front door.

  “Glaeken wants me to urge you folks—his word—to come stay with him in the city. He says it’s going to get a lot worse out here.”

  “We’ll be okay,” the doc said. “We’ve got our own protection.”

  Jack glanced around at all the steel storm shades. The place looked like a fortress.

  “Maybe you do,” he said, nodding. “But I promised him I’d ask.”

  “You’ve kept your promise to Glaeken,” the Nash lady said softly, and Jack thought he saw tears in her eyes. “Now keep one to me: You bring Ba back, okay?” Her voice sounded like it was going to break. “You bring him back just the way he left, you hear?”

  “I hear you, Mrs. Nash.”

  Jack was touched by her show of emotion. No doubt about it, she genuinely cared about the guy. Maybe he’d misjudged her. Maybe she wasn’t quite the hard case she pretended to be.

  “Either we both come back,” he added, “or neither of us comes back. You’ve got my word on that.”

  “I’ll hold you to it,” she said, her eyes steely blue.

  As Jack hurried to the car he figured he’d damn well better get Ba back safe and sound.

  The sign atop the hangar read TWIN AIRWAYS in bold red letters. Tension coiled around Bill’s gut as they bumped toward it along a rutted dirt road. Where were they? Somewhere off Jericho Turnpike was all Bill knew.

  And the Ashe brothers. Who were they? He’d never heard of them and didn’t know a thing about them and yet he was going to get into a jet and let one of them fly him across the Atlantic. And why? Because this fellow named Jack—who had maybe a dozen last names and an immediate avoidance response to anything labeled Police, who carried two or three pistols and God knew how many other weapons at all times—had said the Ashe brothers were “good guys.”

  Glaeken, old boy, he thought as they skidded to a halt beside the hangar, I hope this trip is worth it.

  Two reed-thin, blue-eyed men with fair, shoulder-length hair came out to meet them. They might have been mirror images had not one of them sported a stubbly beard and the other a long, droopy mustache. Both wore beat-up jeans so low on their hips they looked ready to fall off; the bearded one wore a purple paisley shirt tucked in behind a Jack Daniel’s belt buckle. The one with the mustache had on a fringed buckskin jacket over a Gov’t Mule T-shirt.