Jack took hold of her upper arms and stared into her eyes.
"You won't. If we can't find a way out of this, and it takes me somewhere—I'll get back. Wherever that thing takes me, I'll find a way back to you."
"But what if it takes you somewhere else, someplace too far away… some other place you can't get back from?"
Jack knew what she meant: What if the Lilitongue transported the escapee to the Otherness? To where his life expectancy would be calibrated in nanoseconds.
Gia had her arms around him again.
"Why'd this have to happen? Why?"
The first words that leaped to his lips were, Because of my goddamn brother. But he bit them back when he realized that the recent string of incidents had not begun with Tom. It had begun with Dad's death. And a terrorist plot had preceded that.
Massacre… Joey hadn't returned his call… with all that had been happening, he'd forgotten about Joey.
"Who knows? Maybe Tom will steal the Stain from me."
She looked at him, shock on her face.
"What?"
"Only kidding."
"Didn't you read the coda to the recipe?"
Something in her tone…
"No. What—?"
She turned to the kitchen table. The Compendium was open to the Stain recipe. She ran a finger down the page and stopped.
"Read that."
Jack leaned over the book.
"'The Stain may be taken by yet another, but none shall take it from him. The third Stained is the last Stained.'"
Jack closed his eyes. That shut the door.
No. He wouldn't, couldn't, buy that. And he couldn't let Gia think he did.
"So they say," he said with more bravado than he felt. "This Lilitongue thing was made by a man, it can be unmade by another man. And I intend to be that man."
"Jack—"
He pressed a finger against her lips.
"Here's what we do. You finish reading the rest of the Compendium."
"And you?"
"I'm going to get some tools."
He went upstairs for another look at the thing and found it gone.
He knew where to find it.
7
-42:17
Jack stood in his bedroom before the floating Lilitongue and shoved a magazine into the grip of the Glock.
Why bedrooms? he wondered. Maybe because your scent was strongest there.
He pointed the Glock at the thing.
First he'd tried an ax. N-G. Did no more damage than the baseball bat. Not even a dent.
Next he'd fitted an electric drill with a diamond-tipped bit. Might as well have been trying to puncture steel with a pretzel stick. The drill whined and wailed as the tip slipped and slid all over the surface without leaving so much as a scratch.
How could something that felt like rough skin or old leather be so tough?
Well, he'd see how it stood up to his third and last tool: a bullet. Would have loved to hit it with a monster .454 Casull round from his Super Redhawk, but was afraid of killing someone with a ricochet. Hell, the slug might end up in Queens.
Instead he'd taken his Glock .40 out of storage—the highest caliber he had a suppressor for—and stuck a few hardball rounds in the magazine.
He had to admit he felt calmer knowing that Vicky and Gia and the baby were safe. He was in the stew now, but better he than they—He'd found himself in bad situations before. Not this bad, maybe, but hardly walks in the park. And somehow he'd always managed to find a way out. That was why he was still here.
But for how long?
He could almost feel the black ends of the Stain creeping toward each other, millimeter by millimeter.
He faced the Lilitongue and took a step back. He raised the pistol in a two-handed grip, positioning the muzzle about two feet from the Lilitongue. Worried that a direct, straight-on hit might bounce back at him, he aimed right of center and counted on a ricochet hitting the wall.
What he was really counting on was making a hole in the damn thing.
Although what he'd do with that hole once made was another question.
He took a breath and pulled the trigger. The pistol made a phut! and bucked in his hands. A wisp of powdered plaster puffed from a sudden ricochet hole in the wall on his right.
And the Lilitongue? Nada.
In a blind rage Jack dropped the pistol, picked up the ax, and started hacking at the Lilitongue like some sort of berserker.
Goddamn the thing!
If it were a person, or if it were alive and being controlled by someone, he could find a handle, have a chance. He could track down whoever it was and rearrange the guy's features and sundry other body parts until he gave it up. A person, no matter how sick or depraved, he could deal with, he could understand.
But this… this implacable, imperturbable, invulnerable, inexorably ticking bomb was indifferent, immune, just… there.
He swung at it until his arms gave out. Then, panting, sweating, he stopped, seething at his impotence.
His cell phone rang. His first impulse was to ignore it, but he answered and recognized Joey's voice.
"Jack? I got your message but was waiting to see if something panned out."
"And?"
"I think we got something. You free?"
Jack thought about that. Free? Hardly. Obviously Joey was looking to meet, but Jack was in anything but a meeting mood. Too much going on right here. But this had to do with Dad's killers. Joey wouldn't be calling about anything else.
"Depends. What've you got?"
"Got a face and a name and an address."
Jack hesitated and glanced at his watch. So little time left. And yet, if this led to Dad's killers…
Joey said, "Hey, if you're not interested…"
No way he could be not interested. If he had a chance to get his hands on the guys who murdered his father and settle that score before zero hour, he had to take it.
"Oh, I'm interested. When do you want to get together?"
"I've got my car. Where are you now?"
Jack didn't give out his address. He'd meet him in a busy public place.
"How about picking me up in front of the UN in twenty minutes?"
"UN? You ain't gonna tell me you're some kinda diplomat, are you?"
"It's my secret shame."
8
-41:46
Right on time, Joey pulled up in a beat-up 1995 Grand Am. Jack slipped into the passenger seat. They shook hands and Joey roared off. He was wearing a navy blue windbreaker over a black T-shirt. He didn't look so hot. He'd lost weight, had bed head, and needed a shave. Looked like the kind of guy who'd own this car.
"Where's your Merce?"
The last time Jack had seen him he'd been getting into a sporty silver SLK roadster.
"Borrowed this for the day."
"Yeah? Why?"
"Got my reasons. But before we get into that, check out that envelope there."
Jack spotted a manila envelope between his seat and the center console. He pulled it out and dumped the contents onto his lap.
He saw a blurry black-and-white photo of a bearded man in a knit skullcap. Next came a Xerox of what looked like a page from a work visa file with a photo of a man identified as Hamad bin Tabbakh bin Sadanan Al-Kabeer.
Joey reached over and tapped the sheet. "You believe that fucking name?"
"A mouthful."
"I had it explained to me that 'bin' means 'son of.' So this fuck's first name is Hamad and his last name is El-Kabong, and he's the son of Tobacco who's the son of Santana, or whatever."
Under that lay a slip of paper with an address.
Jack stared at it. "Paterson, New Jersey? Really?"
"Yeah. Paterstine. Dune Monkey City."
"So why's this El-Kabong, as you put it, our most favored suspect?"
"Because I know a guy who sold him two Tavor-twos and a bunch of nine-millimeter hollow-points."
Jack felt a burner ignite in the base of his bra
in.
"Really. Who?"
"You know Benny?"
"The guy that always sounds like a bad imitation of Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins?
"That's the one. He gave me a videotape and something with El-Kabong's prints on it. I had one of my men in blue run them for me. This is the guy who popped up."
The heat in Jack's brain jumped a hundred degrees.
"That's a slam dunk."
Joey sighed. "Not quite. He bought the Tavors last Thursday."
"Thursday? Shit, Joey. That's no good. He couldn't have used them at the airport."
"Yeah, but he could be replacing the ones he left there. Which means he's probably planning another massacre."
"You've got to get this to the feds."
Joey gave his head an emphatic shake. "Can't do that, man."
"Why the hell not? They've got tech and manpower we can't even dream of."
"No-no. Think about it: I go there I've got to tell them where I got this info. I can't give up Benny. He gave it to me 'cause he knows I'm stand up. I mention his name his ass lands in the joint. For a long, long time. No way I can do that to him."
"I still think—"
"Shit, Jack, you know the feds. Everything by the book. Take them weeks, months to move, if at all."
"Why wouldn't they move?"
"Looking for bigger fish. And you know them—always making deals. Who knows? They may let these guys walk."
The heat turned higher.
"So why show this to me if you're not going to do anything with it?"
Joey's expression took a grim turn. "Oh, but I am. And you damn fuck better believe that."
"Like what?"
"Like take a little trip to Paterstine and check out this sand nigger."
"And then what?"
He shrugged. "Play it by ear. My guy called the Paterstine cops and heard this Hamad's active in a small group called the Center for Islamic Charities. They said it's suspected of raising cash and funneling it to dune-nigger groups in Palestine. Like I give a shit what they do over there, but when they come over here and shoot my brother down like a dog…"
Jack noticed Joey's knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel.
"All right. If they—"
"Look." Joey nodded toward the street ahead. "A fucking towel head. Think anyone mind if I run him down?"
Jack looked and recognized the distinctive peaked wrap of the turban.
"I would. He's not an Arab, he's a Sikh."
"Same difference."
"No—big difference. He's Indian. No relation at all to the guy we're after. He's on our side."
"Yeah? Well then he should damn well look it."
Jack had no response. Better not to say anything at all. Joey's blood was up and his rage encompassed anyone from anywhere in and around the Middle East. He was looking for someone to hurt and not too particular.
Jack knew the feeling, but he wasn't to the point where he was planning to walk into a mosque and open up with an MP-5.
"Forget him for now and answer me this: If this Islamic Charities group ships money to terrorists, why's it still operating? The feds have shut down other operations like that."
"Because they're only suspected. No one's been able to nail them. And they're so small, no one's devoting time to them. But… what if this Islamic Charities place is really a cover for Wrath of Allah?"
Jack thought about that. Yeah. What if?
Joey added, "What all this comes down to, Jack, is I'm asking you want in."
Jack thought about that. Part of him still wanted to let the feds take it from here, but another part—the part boiling on the rear burner in his brain—screamed for blood.
As much as he wanted to spend all the time he had left with Gia and Vicky, he had to devote some time to this thing. If this Hamad Al-Kabeer had anything to do with Dad's death, then Jack wanted to settle with him before he went wherever he was going.
"All right. I'm in. But I want a little more than what we have."
"That's why we're headed for Paterstine."
"Now?"
"We can be at the GW in a few minutes, and after that it's into the wilds of darkest New Jersey."
"Step on it then. I don't have a lot of time."
9
-40:52
They'd found Al-Kabeer's apartment house—a battered three-story brick-front building—and had driven by without stopping. Then they found the Center for Islamic Charities—a storefront space with curtained windows on a tattered commercial block—and circled it about a dozen times before parking half a block down and across the street.
"Now you know why I didn't bring the Merce."
Jack nodded. Crummy neighborhood. Not the kind of place two white guys in a high-ticket sportster would go unnoticed.
"He in there?"
Joey shrugged. "Don't know. But I figure we watch his house and he's already out, we sit there all day and get nothing. We wait here we got a chance to catch him coming or going."
"Double your pleasure, double your fun."
"Zackly."
Jack glanced at his watch. "I can give it two hours tops, Joey, then I've got to get back."
"C'mon, Jack. We're on a stakeout, only this time we're the cops. You can't bail out."
"No choice. If I had the time I'd sit here all day and night, but time is tight right now."
Wasn't that the truth.
Somewhere around the thirty-minute mark a bearded guy with a pleated kufi hat and a long gray jubba stepped out of the center and walked their way.
"Jesus," Joey said. "That our guy?"
Jack glanced back and forth between the man and the photos.
"Could be."
"Shit. The beards make all these fucks look the same."
Jack pointed to the visa photo, bull's-eyeing the mole on the right side of Hamad Al-Kabeer's nose.
"See that?" The guy was about even with them now, but even from across the street Jack could make the spot on his nose. "Tell me it's not the same."
A flat-finish 1911 .45 appeared in Joey's right hand. His left was reaching for the door handle.
"Let's get him."
"Whoa-whoa. He's just one guy. We want more."
Joey, grim-faced, waggled the pistol. "Oh, we'll get more. El-Kabong's gonna tell us everything we need to know."
Jack knew how Joey felt, and wouldn't have minded a little of that action for himself—if this was the right guy.
Jack popped open his door. "Just sit tight a sec. I'm going to see where he's going."
"What for?"
"You never know."
Jack hit the pavement and left the door closed but unlatched behind him. No use in drawing attention with a slam. He kept to the opposite side and far enough behind Al-Kabeer to stay beyond his peripheral vision.
He maintained his position for two and a half blocks until the Arab made a left turn and disappeared around a corner. If Jack's sense of direction was working, the guy looked like he was heading back to his apartment. Jack trotted to his corner and made a point of not looking left until he'd crossed.
He spotted Al-Kabeer standing midblock with a cell phone to his ear. Incoming or outgoing? Maybe incoming because he turned and started retracing his path.
Jack positioned himself directly behind him. Yeah, Al-Kabeer was headed back to the Center.
This sucked. This meant…
Jack had an idea.
As Al-Kabeer crossed the street half a block from the Center, Jack picked up speed to close on him. He saw Joey watching. He signaled to bring the car around. As soon as he saw Joey nod, he raced up behind Al-Kabeer and knocked him flat. Jack landed with both knees on his back, knocking the wind out of him.
As the Arab struggled for air, Jack grabbed his cell phone and rifled through the pockets of his long coat where he found another phone. He took that and snaked a wallet from a rear pocket—this needed to look like a mugging—then jumped up and ran for the car. Joey tromped the gas as soon
as Jack hit the passenger seat and the Ponti squealed down the street.
A few quick turns and they hit the on ramp to 80 East.
"Remind me not to get you pissed at me, all right?"
"Why?"
"Shit, you move fast. That's what I call kicking ass. One second you're behind him, next second you're on top of him, third second you're in the car."
It hadn't been that fast.
"Didn't want him to see me, and definitely didn't want any of his pals coming to help."
"What'd you get?"
Jack flipped through the wallet. Found a couple of credit cards in Al-Kabeer's name, half a dozen business cards, and forty-two bucks. But Jack found the phones more interesting. The first—the one he'd been using when Jack hit him—was a standard Verizon model. The second, however…
"How about that? A prepaid phone."
Just like mine.
Joey glanced at it. "So?"
"No contract, no credit check, no name connected to the number. So why's he got a regular phone plus one that leaves him anonymous."
Joey's grin would have made a shark wince. "So he can't be traced when he calls his fellow dune coons."
"We need a way to see who he's been calling on this."
"No prob."
Jack looked at him. "You've got an in?"
"Hey, Frankie and me, we used to hawk cell phone licenses. I got tons of connections. We'll get those numbers."
"Great. But make it fast."
Make it very fast.
"And one more thing," Jack said. "I need you to take me on a quick detour."
10
-39:51
"Wait here. I'll only be a minute."
Joey nodded and reached for the radio. As Jack walked away he recognized the unmistakable sound of Mad Dog Russo's voice on WFAN.
Joey had groused a little about swinging through Astoria, but they'd hit no backups on the Cross-Bronx or the Triboro and made decent time. Jack had the photos of Al-Kabeer in hand as he stepped up on the front porch of Menelaus Manor. He'd called Lyle from the car to make sure he wouldn't be interrupting a seance.
"Hey, Jack," Lyle said as he opened the door. "Charlie's been waiting for you. Want a beer?"
Jack's impulse was to refuse, then he figured, Why not?
A few minutes later he and a Heineken keg can entered the channeling room.
Infernal rj-9 Page 27
