Repairman Jack [05]-Hosts (14 page)

He'd boarded one on Fifth Avenue—didn't know which line, didn't care. One was as good as another. He bided his time during the stop-and-go progress downtown, edging toward the rear, waiting to make his move. The packed bodies in the aisle, the smorgasbord of odors would have bothered the old Terrence, but the One Who Was Terrence didn't mind at all.

Finally he saw his chance: the skinny black woman who had been occupying his favorite seat—right side, by the window, next-to-last row—rose and debarked. Quickly he slipped past her seatmate, nestled his stocky frame into her vacated seat, and settled down for a nice long ride.

Yes, this was by far the best seat. From here he could watch nearly all the packed humanity within, and observe the streaming crowds of hosts on the sidewalk beyond the glass. He would spend much of today here, just as he had spent much of yesterday, and the day before.

The old Terrence, before he'd finally faded away, had been baffled by this behavior. And he'd been upset, incensed even, when the new Terrence had quit his job at the agency without so much as a good-bye to his accounts. But he'd never been terribly fond of that job anyway. And besides, what would being an ad exec matter after the Great Inevitability? There would be no such wasted activity as advertising in the future, but the old Terrence was too stubborn and, in the end, too frightened to realize that.

The One Who Was Terrence looked forward to the glorious new world. Of course he should: he was going to be instrumental in bringing it about. And then—

A sudden ripping sensation—not in his clothing, not in his viscera, but in his mind—jolted him. Something was wrong. Who—?

Alarmed, he searched and realized that Jeanette was missing; gone without a trace. Was she dead? This was terrible. He knew her address. He had to go there!

The bus was gasping to a stop at just that moment. The One Who Was Terrence lurched from his seat and fought his way down the aisle to the exit doors. He caught them as they were starting to close and slammed them back. He jumped to the pavement and immediately stepped into the street, looking for a cab.

He was frightened. Nothing like this had ever happened. It wasn't in the plan. It might ruin everything!

7

Just as suddenly as it began, it was over.

Jeanette released Kate's arms and staggered back to lean against the counter, as if dizzy. She blinked and looked at Kate.

"What just happened?"

"I don't know," Kate said, as baffled by this new shift in mood as she was by the first. Like turning a switch. "Don't you?"

"No. I think I must have blacked out. First you were standing over there and now you're right in front of me and I don't remember you moving."

"'But you were talking to me, shouting, in fact. Something about 'it's taking over.'"

Shock mixed with uneasiness on Jeanette's face. "I said that? No, I… couldn't have said that. I'd remember."

"Why would I make that up, Jeanette?"

"I don't know. Taking over what?"

"You didn't get to it, but you seemed terrified." Kate stepped closer and placed a hand on Jeanette's arm. "Jeanette, I think you had a seizure."

She pulled away. "What? Epilepsy? Don't be ridiculous! I've seen seizures. I know what they're like. I wasn't shaking, was I? I didn't fall down and start foaming at the mouth."

"That's a grand mal seizure. But there are all kinds of seizures. Temporal lobe seizures can cause personality changes, bizarre behavior. I—"

"I did
not
have a seizure!"

"It could be the tumor, Jeanette. Maybe it's not responding as well as we thought. Or maybe this is an aftereffect of the treatment. We've got to call Dr. Fielding."

"No. Absolutely not."

"But just a moment ago you were begging me to."

"You must have misunderstood. Why would I want to see Dr. Fielding? I'm fine. Never felt better."

"Jeanette, please." The more Kate thought about what she'd just witnessed, the more concerned she became. She'd never seen such a dramatic personality shift—a real-life Jekyll and Hyde without the smoking potion. She felt the nape of her neck tighten. "This could be serious."

"It's nothing, Kate. Don't trouble yourself about it. Just leave me alone. I—" She turned her head sharply, as if listening. "Wait. Someone's coming."

Jeanette slipped past her and headed for the door. Before she was halfway across the front room the door swung open. A man stood on the threshold. Kate recognized him as the one who'd welcomed Jeanette into the house in the Bronx last night.

"How did you get in here?" Kate blurted.

His eyes briefly fixed on her—Kate hadn't been close enough until now to notice how small and cold they were—then flicked away. Neither he nor Jeanette bothered to answer her, but she noticed something metallic in his hand.

The realization that Jeanette had given him a key to her place made Kate queasy.

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He held out his hands to Jeanette. "What happened to you?"

She shook her head and placed her hands in his. They stood staring at each other.

"Concerned," the man said.

Jeanette only nodded. They stared a few seconds longer, then Jeanette said, "Seizure."

With that they both glanced at Kate.

"What is going on here?" Kate said. "And who
are
you?"

"This is Terrence Holdstock," Jeanette said. "A friend."

"All right?" Holdstock asked Jeanette.

"Not sure."

"See myself."

More staring, then Jeanette turned to her. "We're going for a walk."

A panicky voice inside was telling Kate not to let Jeanette go off with this man. She had this terrifying and wildly unscientific impression that there were two Jeanettes, and the one she'd known and loved was trapped inside this stranger and trying to claw her way out.

"I'll come along."

"No," Jeanette said. "We need to be alone."

Without another word, not even good-bye, they turned and left.

At any other time, Kate knew, she would have been crushed. But she was too shaken for that. Something was terribly wrong. The problem was neurological. It had to be. And the man who had worked on her brain was her oncologist, Dr. Fielding.

Her hand shook as she reached for the phone. She had to call Fielding. But after that… what? What could Fielding do if Jeanette refused to see him? That man Holdstock seemed to have some mesmerizing influence over her.

Which meant she should make another call. To her brother. Much as she'd wanted to keep him out of this, she couldn't discount how the two women she'd called this morning had said they'd trust Jack with their lives. Maybe someone like him was needed here, because Kate found the coldness in Holdstock's eyes as unsettling as Jeanette's behavior.

Could she trust Jack with Jeanette's life? She didn't have much choice.

God, she hoped she wouldn't regret this.

8

With aching legs and burning feet, Sandy plodded toward his apartment door, grimly certain that he'd find the place empty, Beth gone. Which would be in perfect synch with how he'd come up after a day of trudging through the Upper West Side: empty.

Can't expect to strike it rich first time out, he kept telling himself.

But he couldn't deny that the hope of a lucky lightning strike, however unreasonable, had nestled in his brain when he'd set out this morning.

So much for hope. By five-thirty he'd had it. He knew he should keep pushing but he'd run out of gas. The streets and sidewalks were jammed and he couldn't take any more suspicious looks or negative headshakes. He was tired of hearing "Never seen him before in my life," and even more tired of lying about why he was looking for the man in the drawing. So he'd packed it in.

Tomorrow was another day.

But what about tonight?

I could sure use some company now, he thought. Female company with big brown eyes and short black hair. Beth company.

But he couldn't allow himself to hope that she'd still be there. She'd probably awakened, maybe hung around a little, got bored, and went back to her boyfriend.

And then Sandy heard the music, the spellbinding strains of "It Could Be Sweet" from Portishead's first album filtering through his door. He keyed it open and stepped inside. The music engulfed him along with an odor. Food. Someone was cooking.

"About time you got back!" Beth said, smiling from the kitchenette. "I was getting worried."

Sandy tried to take it in. Bottles and jars and boxes on the counter—wine, Ragu, Ronzoni. A candle burning, the blinds drawn, music playing…

Beth's face fell. Something in his expression maybe.

"Is this okay?" she said. "I hope you don't think I'm horning in but I woke up and there was no food so I thought I'd cook us dinner. If you're not cool with that…"

Sandy couldn't speak so he held up his hand to stop her.

"What's wrong?" Beth said. "Say something. Look, if I've overstepped my bounds…"

What to say? Sandy thought. Then it hit him: try the truth.

"Sorry. I was kind of afraid to speak. I'm so happy you're still here I thought I'd cry."

Her smile lit the room. She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. She hugged him, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then stepped back.

She said, "Jesus, you're something, you know that? So sweet! I've never met anyone like you."

"Well, I—"

"And I can't believe you like Portishead—at least I assume you like them because you've got all their albums. I
love
them. And not just because the lead singer and I have the same first name."

Lead singer? Sandy thought, still dazed. Oh, yeah. Beth Gibbon.

"You bought food?" he said. So lame, but it was the best he could do at the moment.

"Yeah. Are you anorexic or something? I mean, there was
no
food in this place."

Sandy's head was spinning and Beth was talking at light speed. Could she be a crankhead or something?

"I eat takeout a lot. Look, uh, Beth, are you all right?

"All right?" she said, laughing. "I'm miles better than all right. I don't think I've been so all right in years!" She dashed to the couch and picked up a handful of yellow sheets from his legal pad, the one he'd left the note on. "Look at this! Notes, Sandy! It's just so pouring out of me!"

"Notes about what?"

"About what? What else? Last night. I woke up and found your note and remembered what you'd said this morning and suddenly it was like
wow
! Insight! I am 50 psyched!"

"What'd I say?"

She grinned. "Oh, so you like Ray Charles too."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. You said maybe you were able to handle what happened because you had to write about it. That the writing forced you to confront your reactions, that putting it all down on paper was some sort of exorcism. Remember?"

"Yeah." He vaguely recalled saying something like that. "Sort of."

"So that's what I've been doing! For months now I've been going crazy trying to decide what to do for my thesis film, and when I woke up this afternoon I remembered what you said and there it was, staring me right in the face!"

"Your film?"

"Yes! It's going to be about what happened on the train last night. Not literally, of course, but metaphorically about having your mortality so shoved right in your face. And you know what? Ever since I started writing down these notes, I'm not afraid anymore."

She tossed the yellow sheets back toward the couch. They never made it. They fluttered instead like dying birds and fell to the carpet.

She threw her head back and shouted. "I'm saved!"

They drank the wine and talked as she cooked the spaghetti and spiced up the Ragu in some wonderful way. And they talked while they ate. Beth was twenty-four, from Atlanta, with an English degree from Baylor. Her folks were the sort who valued stability, she told him, and weren't all that crazy about her going for a film degree; it wasn't a career that guaranteed a steady income and benefits—like teaching, for instance.

And all the while Sandy ached for her but couldn't say so, couldn't make the first move.

Finally the wine and the food were gone. Sandy cleared the table with Beth. They were both standing at the sink when she turned to him.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure. Anything."

"Have you got something against sex?"

Sandy blinked in shock, tried to say no, but found himself stuck in a Porky Pig stutter. "M-m-m-m-me? No. Why would you say that?"

"Because I'm here and I'm as willing as I'll ever be and you haven't made a move. Not a single move."

That fear of rejection shit again, Sandy thought. Damn me! How do I get out of this?