Repairman Jack [09]-Infernal (2 page)

But where?

He scanned the faces, looking for his son’s familiar features. There—a brown-haired man waving at him. Jack. Good thing he was waving or Tom would have missed him. He could have been anybody in his hooded blue sweatshirt, plaid flannel shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Virtually invisible.

Tom felt a flood of love tinged with relief. He didn’t understand his younger son—didn’t much understand the older one either, for that matter—but his time with Jack back in September had been an eye-opener. The affable, laid-back man he’d come to think of as rudderless, perhaps even something of a loser, had metamorphosed into a grim warrior, intensely focused, who’d wrought a terrible vengeance on a murderous crew.

Tom had participated in the killing and afterward had expected fits of guilt and remorse. They never came. Strangely, the killing didn’t bother him: The dead in this case deserved it. And taking the long view, hell, he’d killed more and probably better men during his tour in Korea.

But though he’d learned to respect Jack that night, he still didn’t understand him. Which was why he’d decided to come here. He wanted time with his son in his own environment.

Jack’s excuse about his apartment being too small… it didn’t ring true. He’d been disappointed and even tempted to call him on it, but decided to go along. Just more of his number-two son’s obsessive secretiveness. He guessed he’d have to accept that as part of the package.

Tom locked on to Jack’s deceptively mild brown eyes as they worked toward each other through the crowd. Jack waited as the line of Hasidim passed, and then he was reaching for Tom’s hand. What started as a shake turned into a brief embrace.

“Hey, Dad, you made it.”

For a reason he could not explain, Tom filled up. His throat constricted and it took him a few seconds to find his voice.

“Hi, Jack. Damn, it’s good to see you again.”

They broke apart and Jack grabbed Tom’s carry-on.

“I can handle that,” Tom said.

“What a coincidence. So can I.” He nodded toward the small horde of Hasidim. “What’d you do, come in on El Al?”

“I remember reading about some gathering in Miami.”

On the way to the baggage carousel Jack pinched a fold of fabric on Tom’s green-and-white jacket.

“Look at you—puffy starter coat. Very cool. Eagles colors, no less.”

Tom nodded. He’d been a lifelong Eagles fan.

“Bought it last week. Figured I’d need something to protect me from the cold.”

As they joined the passengers and waited for their luggage, he studied his son. Hard to believe that this regular-looking Joe had led them into a firefight in the Everglades and saved him from being sucked into a tornado.

He owed Jack his life.

“Well, Dad, anything special you want to do while you’re here?”

“Spend time with you.”

Jack blinked. The remark—the bold-faced truth as far as Tom was concerned—seemed to take him by surprise.

“That’s a given. I’m just putting the finishing touches on a job, and after that, I’ve cleared the deck.”

“What sort of job?”

A shrug. “Just fixing something for somebody.”

…
.fixing something for somebody
… not big with the details, his son.

“But other than hanging out,” Jack went on, “is there any play you want to see, restaurant you want to try?”

“I’d like to go to the top of the Empire State Building.”

Jack grinned. “Really?”

“I’ve never been. Lived less than two hours outside this city most of my life and never once made it there. So, before I die—”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Oh man!”

“No, seriously. I’ve decided to make a list of certain things I’ve always wanted to do, and the Empire State Building is one of them. Have
you
ever been to the top, Mr. New Yorker?”

“Lots of times. I always bring flowers and leave them there.”

“What? I’d never take you for a fan of
An Affair to Remember.’“

He laughed. “No, I bring them for Kong.”

“Kong?”

“King Kong. That’s where he was killed.”

Tom stared. “You were always a weird kid, Jack. Now you’re a weird adult.”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. Still a kid.”

But not acting like one now, Tom thought as he noticed the way Jack’s eyes darted back and forth, constantly on the move. Watching for what? Terrorists?

No… his gaze seemed to linger more on the security personnel than on the Arabic-looking members of the crowd. Why? What about them concerned him?

He realized Jack looked edgy. He suspected that whatever it was Jack did for a living, it probably wasn’t on the right side of the law. Tom hoped that was only a sometime thing.

After what Tom had seen of Jack’s capabilities back in Florida, he’d make one formidable foe, no matter which side of the law he was on.

But from what Tom had seen during Jack’s visit he knew that his son was involved in something else, something beyond legal systems. Perhaps even beyond normal reality.

A girl who could control swamp creatures… a hole in the earth that went God knew where… a man who could walk on water, who Jack had called by name. They seemed to be enemies.

And that was all Tom knew. He hadn’t been able to squeeze much explanation from Jack beyond cryptic statements about having had a “peek behind the curtain.”

His stated purpose now was to spend the holidays with his sons and grandchildren, and that was true to an extent. But Tom was determined to use the time to learn more about the man his son had become. Which wouldn’t be easy. He knew Jack saw him as a bedrock traditionalist, and to some extent he was. He made no excuses about hewing to traditional values. He sensed Jack had no quarrel with those, but held to a looser, more flexible view as to how to uphold them.

Still, no way to deny that Jack was on guard here. Not that he had to worry about the two blue-uniformed security people in sight—a skinny guy and a big-butted woman standing together near the exit. They seemed more interested in each other than in what was going on around them.

Still, Tom looked for a way to ease Jack’s discomfort.

“Where’s the car?”

Jack jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “In the big garage across the way.”

“Much of a trip?”

“Not bad. We go upstairs, take the skywalk across. That’ll put us on level four. I’m parked on level two, so we take an elevator down and go from there.”

That seemed like too much time. If being here bothered Jack, this could be a way to get him out more quickly.

“Why don’t you go get the car? By the time you come back, I’ll be waiting at the curb with my luggage.”

“How many bags?”

“One big one. And don’t give me that can-the-old-guy-handle-it? look. I handled it in Miami and I can handle it here. It’s got wheels.”

Jack hesitated, then said, “Not a bad idea. The sooner we get on and off the BQE, the better. Rush hour starts early around here. Meet you outside.”

His relief at getting out of the terminal was obvious.

3

As Tom watched Jack thread the crowd toward the stairs, trailing his carry-on, someone opened an exit door. A gust of cold December air sneaked through and wrapped around him. He shivered. Now he knew why he’d moved to Florida.

He returned his attention to the still and empty baggage carousel. A moment or two later a Klaxon sounded as an orange light began blinking; the carousel shuddered into motion.

As luggage started to slide down a chute to the revolving surface Tom edged forward with everyone else, looking for his bag. It was black, like ninety percent of the rest, but he’d wrapped the handle in Day-Glo orange tape to make it easier to spot.

One of the Hasidic women stood in front of him, carrying a one-year-old. A little girl, bundled head to toe against winter. Her large brown eyes fixed on Tom and he gave her a little wave. She smiled and covered her face. A shy one.

From the corner of his eye he saw a door swing open on the far side of the carousel. Two figures emerged but he paid them no mind until he heard the unmistakable ratchet of a breech bolt. He froze, then spun toward the doorway in time to see two figures in gray coveralls, ski-masked under black-and-white
kufiyas
, raising assault pistols.

Instinct and training took over as Tom dove for the floor, carrying the mother and her little girl with him. The woman cried out, and as the three of them fell, her fat, bearded husband in his long black coat and sealskin hat whirled toward them, his face a mask of shock and outrage.

Then the shooting began and the man dove floorward along with everybody else.

Tom heard shattering glass and a scream of pain behind him. He turned in time to see the two security guards go down, caught in a spray of bullets that shattered the glass doors behind them. The woman’s legs folded under her and she hit the floor not six feet from him. A pulsating crimson fountain arced from her throat. He saw more shock than pain in her eyes. She’d never had a chance to draw her pistol.

The shooters seemed to have made a point of taking down the guards first. More would be coming, but for the moment the killers were unopposed. They mowed down anyone trying to run, and then began a systematic slaughter of the rest.

Tom watched in horror as the two faceless gunmen split, each taking a side of the carousel, tearing up the helpless, cowering passengers with a succession of short bursts from their stubby, odd-looking assault pistols. They worked quickly and methodically, pausing only to change magazines or cut down those who tried to flee.

Tom’s gut writhed and his bladder clenched with the realization that he was going to die here. He’d been shot in Korea, he’d survived the firefight of his life and Hurricane Elvis just a few months ago, only to be exterminated here like a roach trapped on the floor. If only he had a gun—even a .22 pistol—he could stop these arrogant murderous shits. They knew no one could fight back.

Tom turned. The dead guard’s pistol beckoned to him from its holster.

Just then a man leaped up and tried to dive into the baggage chute, but an extended burst cut him nearly in half, leaving his body wedged in the opening.

That long burst emptied the killer’s magazine. As he switched to a fresh one, a brawny Hasid leaped to his feet and charged, roaring like the bear he resembled. The killer, caught off guard, backpedaled and slipped on the bloody floor. The Hasid was almost upon him when the other killer turned and ripped him up with a burst to the chest and abdomen that sent him spinning to the floor.

Now
! Tom thought, not giving himself time to think as he pushed himself up to a crouch and started a high-assed scramble.
Now
!

He heard shooting behind him, saw pieces chip out of the floor as bullets hit it, felt something tear into his thigh. It knocked him flat, but pushed him forward as it did, putting the gun within reach. He heard the hollow
clink
! of an empty chamber and knew with a sudden burst of hope that the shooter’s magazine had run dry. Bolts of agony shot through his leg when he tried to move it, but he’d been hurt worse than this. All that mattered was the pistol. He had a tiny window of opportunity here and had to make the most of it.

His fingers were closing around the grip when he began to shake. Not just his hand and arms, his whole body. He tried again for the pistol but his arm seized up. He couldn’t breathe. He felt his body begin to flop around like a beached fish. His pulse pounded in his ears, slowing.

What was happening? He’d only been hit in the leg. Had he taken another slug somewhere else? What…?

Tom’s light, his air, his questions, his time… faded to nothingness.

4

Jack had to take a circular route to reach the pickup area, a reluctant mini-tour of the airport. La Guardia was small as major airports went, and appeared to be the victim of some weird temporal dislocation. The dingy, Quonset hut-style hangars looked to be of 1930s vintage, while the green-glassed terminal itself was strictly fifties in design. The massive, six-story, bare concrete parking garage could have been built yesterday.

As he nosed his Crown Vic along the pickup lane outside the Central Terminal, he saw people running—not toward the doors, like late travelers, but from them. Screaming people, faces masks of terror, fleeing for their lives.

Jack’s heart double-clutched. They were pouring from the baggage area… fleeing the far section… the section where he’d left Dad.

No… it can’t…

He gunned the engine and sped toward the far section, narrowly missing a panicked man and a screaming woman. He jerked to a halt when he saw the shattered doors and broken glass glittering on the sidewalk, the bullet holes in the still-intact panes.

Oh, Christ… oh no-no-no!

He jumped out and dashed across the sidewalk, almost slipping on the shards of glass, and skidded to a halt inside the baggage area.