Bloodline (8 page)

Broadway seemed like a good place to find a map, so Jack ambled west.

Broadway ran north-south up here. A few blocks downtown, at 79th Street, it broke from the grid and started angling east, crossing the city on a diagonal all the way down to the East Village where it headed due south again.

He spotted a Barnes
&
Noble and saw a display of
Kick
in its front window. The cover was hard to miss with its bold black type and stick-figure drawing against a neon-yellow background.

He stared at the Kicker Man, feeling that same odd sensation.

Enough of this wondering. He needed to find out why that figure looked so… what? Familiar?

A placard with a similar color scheme posted behind the display read:

Join the kicker evolution!

Evolution?

He went inside, picked up a trade paperback, and flipped through it. Large type and a little Kicker Man in each of the breaks.

"Save your money, man."

Jack looked up and saw a long-haired guy in jeans and a tie-dyed shirt giving him a sidelong look.

"Say what?"

"That book." He spoke in a conspiratorial whisper from the corner of his mouth. "It's a load of crap, man."

Nodding knowingly, he moved off.

Well, well. A reader review. But not a helpful one. Jack expected a load of crap. He simply wanted to know how Hank Thompson had come up with that four-armed man.

He found a New York State map and headed for the checkout counter. On the way he passed a "New Paperback Fiction" rack where a cover caught his eye: cobalt blue with a pair of glowing yellow eyes—definitely not human—staring out above a pile of pills. He stopped when saw the title:
Berzerk
!

Those eyes were startlingly close to a rakosh's. And the pills… last spring he'd run up against a drug with a lot of street names, one of which was Berzerk—misspelled just as it was on the cover.

And then his heart stuttered a beat when he read that it was "a Jake Fixx novel" and "sequel to
Rakshasa!
by P. Frank Winslow.

He snatched it from its rack and grabbed a passing employee—a twenty-something guy with thin hair and thick sideburns.

"What is this?"

The guy looked at Jack, then the novel, then Jack. "We call that a book."

A comedian. Yay.

"I know that. But who's this guy Winslow? How many of these has he written?"

The guy shrugged. "I dunno. You'll have to check with Information."

"But you work here."

"Yeah, but I just put them on the shelves. I don't read them. Sorry. Check with Information."

Jack did, but the kiosk was empty. He found the fiction section and searched through the
W
authors where he found one copy of
Rakshasa
. He checked out the cover and found the same cobalt blue, same glowing eyes, but instead of pills, a freighter floated in the foreground.

"Christ!"

He didn't know what was inside, but from the look of the covers it seemed like someone was peeking into his life.

The information kiosk was still empty so he headed for the checkout area. With no line he walked up to the only cashier, a guy with a shaved head and a black soul patch.

Jack slapped the novels on the counter and pushed them forward.

"What do you know about these?"

He shook his head. "Nothing." He pointed to the copy of
Kick
. "But I know a lot about that."

Jack noticed a tiny Kicker Man tattoo in the web between his thumb and forefinger.

"Fine, but—"

"You'll love it, I can tell. It'll be like a wire into your brain. I've read my copy so many times it's damn near worn out."

Jack pointed to the tattoo. "Who'da thunk."

The guy held up his hand. "That lets the world know I've dissimilated and evolved. I'm a Kicker and proud of it."

He scanned and bagged, then said, "That comes to twenty-four-seventy-one."

Jack reached for his wallet. "Comes to more than that, I think."

The guy smiled and lowered his voice. "The
Kick
is on the house."

"Yeah? Where does it say that?"

"I'm giving you a special discount. You know, Kicker to a soon-to-be Kicker."

"No thanks. I'll pay."

The guy spoke through his teeth as he pushed the bag toward Jack. "Take it."

"I'll pay my own way, if you don't mind." He pushed the bag back. "Scan the book. Now."

The guy glared at him as he snatched the book from the bag, scanned it, then shoved it back in.

"Forty-two-oh-seven."

Jack handed him a MasterCard. The John Tyleski identity was still good. Barring a glitch he'd probably keep it until fall.

After he signed and pocketed his receipt, he picked up the bag and started to turn away.

"I see you at the rally, I'll kick your ass."

"That a pun?"

The guy looked confused. "Huh?"

"Never mind. What rally?"

"The Kicker rally at the Garden next month. Don't you know nothin'?"

"I know I won't be there."

The guy nodded and sneered. "Oh, you'll be there. Once you read that book you won't be able to stay away."

"No, really. I won't. I might've gone, but now you've scared me off. I don't want to get my ass kicked. Get it?
Kicked
?"

The guy's expression said he didn't. Jack waved and left.

Quality folk, these kickers.

As he stepped onto the sidewalk he thought of the
Compendium of Srem
: No word yet on whether security had followed up on the Kicker janitor. Petty theft was probably low on their list of priorities. Looked like Jack was going to have to resolve this on his own.

As Jack waited in line at the Thruway's Yonkers toll plaza, he watched with envy as the E-ZPass cars zipped past without stopping. He didn't leave the city often enough to make an E-ZPass account useful, but even if he did he probably wouldn't open one. Maybe he was paranoid, but who knew? what was really in the transponders clipped to all those windshields? GPS technology being what it was, or soon would be, he couldn't risk the possibility of someone being able to pinpoint his car at any time.

Call me crazy, but a few extra minutes in line ain't such a bad price for a little peace of mind.

After paying he continued north to the Tarrytown exit where he followed 9 north. The directions led him through greening hills and valleys toward Rathburg, New York, but he was only dimly aware of the scenery.

Other images—book cover images—kept him distracted. One was the Kicker Man and the question of how a figure from the
Compendium
had wound up on the cover of Hank Thompson's book. The other was the eyes on the cover of the Jake Fixx novels.

Back to back he'd encountered two authors who knew things they shouldn't. Coincidence? He'd been told no more coincidences in his life and he'd come to believe it. But where was the connection?

He'd wanted to hole up in his apartment and read the novels, but hadn't had time—not with this Rathburg jaunt looming. He'd got a look at the back covers, however, where he learned that the hero, Jake Fixx, was an ex-Navy SEAL and former CIA black-ops expert. Usually these characters are one or the other, but this guy was both. He'd been betrayed by his superiors—weren't they all?—and had gone underground. He now lived in secret, helping those who couldn't help themselves. A rogue Robin Hood, sticking it to the Man at every chance.

Hoo-boy. Cliché piled on cliché.

Many times Jack wished he'd had SEAL training or its equivalent. To learn about weapons and ammo and demolition in an organized setting instead of piecemeal on and off the street—wouldn't that have been a treat. And having an FBI or CIA connection would be beyond cool. Want to know about this Jerry Bethlehem? All he'd have to do was get a fingerprint and have his contact run it through the databases. Probably wind up with a whole file on him.

But not for Jack. He had to do it the old-fashioned, low-tech—damn near no-tech—way.

So, the Jake Fixx character was far off the mark, but the
Rakshasa!
and
Berzerk!
story lines weren't. Especially the first, involving a ship full of flesh-eating demons—the rakshasa of Indian mythology—controlled by a Hindu madman who was going to set them loose on Manhattan if a magic jewel was not returned to him. Much more lurid and melodramatic than the reality Jack had survived a couple of years ago, but uncomfortably close to the mark. In
Berzerk!
the blood of one of the surviving rakshasa was the source of a drug that drove people into murderous rages—
way
too close to the truth.

Jack shivered. It was like this writer, this P. Frank Winslow, had been peeking over his shoulder the past two years.

He shook it off as he cruised into Rathburg. Had to concentrate on getting a little face time with Dr. Aaron Levy.

Rathburg proved to be an old, rustic, Sleepy Hollowesque town, like so many others along this stretch of the Hudson's east bank. Washington Irving could have slept here. Probably had. Tudor-style buildings with cracked stucco and peeling beams leaned over the narrow streets as Jack followed his directions to Riverview Road. Once there he didn't have to check the street numbers to find 2681: Had to be the huge mansionlike structure that dominated the rise overlooking the river.

Sunlight glinted off the concertina wire that crowned the stone wall along its perimeter. The arched front checkpoint—maybe the only entrance—had a heavy, wrought-iron gate and a uniformed guard visible through the window of a stone gatehouse. The plaque on one of the columns read CREIGHTON and no more. No mention of it being an institute or place for the criminally insane. Just the name.

Jack was set to turn into the drive and try to bluff his way in when he saw the security camera atop the gatehouse. He didn't want his face recorded if he could avoid it.

As he drove past he checked out the sprawling building standing a good five hundred yards from die street. It looked just tight for the criminally insane because it appeared to have been designed by a schizophrenic. The central section looked like a French stone chateau. If Jack had to guess, that was probably the original structure because it looked all of a piece. But whoever had added the wings—a graduate of the Berlin Wall school of architecture, from the look—hadn't bothered to continue the same design. And yet a third wing that didn't match any of the others had been added on the left.

Not exactly maximum security. Concertina wire was mean, but hardly impassable.

He drove back to town and parked. He'd looked up the Creighton Institute's number earlier. First he'd try to get to Levy through channels. His office was the best bet—if phone calls were making him paranoid, he'd feel less vulnerable there than at home.

Since he did not know Levy's extension, he was shunted into a phone tree. He hated goddamn phone trees so he kept pressing 0 until he reached a human. He told her who he was looking for and she switched him to a line where a female receptionist or secretary or whatever picked up and announced that he'd reached Dr. Levy's office.

"Is the doctor in?"

"Who's calling, please?"

"Name's John Robertson. I'm a private investigator."

He'd met the real Robertson a few years before his death. A sharp old dude who'd liked to wear a Stetson. Jack had kept his card and made duplicates, adopting his identity now and again but not his sartorial taste. He'd changed Robertson's address to one of his mail drops and kept renewing his investigators license. Anyone checking with the New York Department of State would learn that John Robertson was the real deal.

The identity had proven handy over the years.

"And what do you wish to speak to the doctor about?"

"That would be between him and me."

Jack sensed a sudden drop in temperature on the other end of the line.

"I'll see if he's in."

After a full minute's wait—she probably had her answer in ten seconds—she came back on the line.

"I'm sorry, but Doctor Levy will be in meetings for the rest of the day."

"Okay. How about tomorrow?"

"He's booked all day then too."

"And the next day?"

"I'm sorry, but Doctor Levy is a very busy man. Perhaps you could send him a letter?"

"Perhaps I could."

Jack broke the connection.

Okay. After his brief conversation with Levy last night, he'd pretty much expected that. He'd have to follow him after work and look for an opening for an ambush conversation.

He checked his watch. Still hours to go before quitting time.

Time to go exploring.