Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers (28 page)

And then those eyes with the unblinking stare hovered before him again.

"Well, now that the Alarm has been answered and the mission complete, I don't see that I have any further use for you. The important question is, how to dispose of you?"

The Oculus's bladder clenched. The yeniçeri—what were they doing? If only one of them would call, or stop in, or—

"But another question is, what to do with your daughter?"

Not Diana! No, please!

If only he could speak, shout…

Rasalom's tone became mocking. "Ah, the concern of a loving parent for the safety and well-being of his beloved offspring. I sense your terror, your dread, your plummeting self-worth because of your helplessness. Tasty."

The Oculus's mind screamed for help. Where was the Ally in all this? Where was the Sentinel? Or even the Heir? Why was this being allowed to happen?

"On the other hand, I may let her live. Give those lackeys you call yeniçeri someone to rally around after they work through their loss, their sense of impotence and worthlessness. After a suitable period of self-flagellation, they'll recover and move on to a renewed purpose, a sense of hope, a search for redemption after having failed you so. Let them feel they've succeeded in protecting their new Oculus, then crush them again."

Bastard.

"I know what you're thinking: Why do this piecemeal? Why not go from Oculus to Oculus—say, one a day—and kill each in a serial massacre? Perhaps because all the pieces of the elaborate clockwork I've been assembling are not yet in place. And although the deaths of the Oculi are necessary to the plan, they are but one facet. So it amuses me to spend the intervening time—and you may trust me that it will not be long—removing you poor excuses for prophets at random intervals. The human mind is comforted by patterns, but I shall offer none.

"Now, a question you're probably asking—besides why must I face this alone?—is why is he telling me all this? Well, call it a weakness, but the truth is, my existence does not allow me much opportunity to talk about these things—at least with someone who knows the truth."

The Oculus wished he could shout his own take on the truth:
You want to gloat
!

"I used to have a companion. I called him Mauricio, but that was not his name. I could discuss anything with him—even argue with him. I miss that. He died along with your beloved Twins. A mutual tragedy."

The Twins? Dead?

The Oculus had been all but sure that their absence meant they were dead, but now to hear it from the Adversary himself…

If he'd had a voice he would have sobbed.

Rasalom heaved a sigh as heavy as it was artificial.

"But enough talk. Time to get down to business. Your demise must occur in a way that causes the most consternation, evokes the most revulsion in the survivors. I'm good at that. An artist, you might say. I've already done my masterpiece—hard to believe it's been four years already. I tailored it for a certain man—to drive him to his knees, to crush him into the dirt. I thought I'd succeeded, but I've learned he's still standing. I intend to remedy that. As for you, however… you shall be an acceptable lesser work."

And then the cold, silent, wrenching, tearing agony began…

22

Jack rushed down Second Avenue but slowed as he reached 58th Street and saw a flashing cop car blocking the entrance. He spotted other units farther east, clustered around a double-parked truck. But no ambulances, no EMS rigs.

He'd already stowed his Glock under the front seat, so he double-parked and ran to the nearest uniform.

"Was—?" He cleared his throat. It was almost too tight for speech. "Was there an accident here?"

The cop was waving away cars that wanted to turn onto 58th. He turned and gave Jack the patented NYPD who-the-fuck-are-you? stare.

"Move on, sir."

A vision of his hand shooting out and grabbing this lard-assed bastard's throat and slamming his head back against the roof of his unit flashed through Jack's brain, but he let it remain a fantasy.

"I got a call that my—my wife and little girl had been hit right here. Is that true?"

The cop's features softened. "Oh. Sorry. Yeah, we had a hit and run here. Woman and child hit at high speed. The driver took off."

Jack felt himself swaying—or was it the world? He looked around.

"But where…?"

"On their way to the hospital."

Hope jumped in his chest. His heart starting up again? For the first time since his call to Kosher Nosh, he sensed a trace of life inside.

"You mean they're alive?"

The cop's expression turned bleak as he became more interested in moving the traffic along.

"Can't say. Been up here since the git-go."

"Did you see anything?"

"I saw a couple of pretty banged-up people."

Aw no.

"Where'd they take them?"

"New York Hospital, up on—"

"I know where it is." Jack ran back to his car. Ten blocks uptown on York Avenue—he could be there in minutes.

23

The first indication Miller had that something was wrong was when no one answered the doorbell. He rang it three times and still no one buzzed them in.

Angry and puzzled, he said, "What the fuck?" and jabbed the button for a fourth try.

They'd dumped the stolen cars one at a time along the way. First the Camry. Miller and Cal then piled into Hursey's car, which followed Jolliff until he dumped his. Then all four drove to where they'd left the Suburban. No one had said much along the way.

Miller kept seeing that woman's face as he'd hit her. He kept telling himself it had been for the cause, for the greater good.

But the memory of that face made him want to puke again.

He looked up at the two overhead cameras. Both had their red indicator lights lit, which meant they were operating.

Creeping concern blanked out the soul-deep malaise that had gnawed at him all the way back.

"I don't like this," Cal said.

"Neither do I. I'm going to let us in."

He fished his keys from his pocket while Cal, Hursey, and Jolliff pulled their pistols and hid them under their coats. He heard hammers being cocked. Miller's own H-K would be out in a moment, but first he had to unlock the entrance.

Home was protected by an Electrolynx steel door, set in a steel frame—no way of breaking in—and secured by three bolts. Each yeniçeri had a set of three keys but were supposed to use them only in dire emergency. Each key turned one bolt. Manually unlocking any of the three set off an alarm.

Miller inserted a key into the top lock and heard the warning bell begin to clang as he turned it. At least the alarm worked.

When no one responded, he quickly unlocked the next two, then pocketed the keys and replaced them with his pistol. He looked up and down the street. He felt so exposed out here on the sidewalk in daylight, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention.

"Okay," he said. "Stack."

They quickly divided into pairs on either side of the doorframe. On the left, Miller stood and Jolliff crouched; Cal and Hursey took the right.

"Ready?"

When he had three nods he grabbed the knob, twisted, and pushed the door in. Wilco's "Pot Kettle Black" was playing within, but he heard nothing else: no warning shout, no shots. Just… Wilco.

A strange, disturbing odor wafted out along with the music.

Miller chanced a look, tilting his head forward for a peek inside, then ducking back with closed eyes as his stomach did a roll.

Ybarra… mouth gaping, eyes wide and staring… draped over the monitoring console… his head twisted at an impossible angle… and blood… blood everywhere.

Miller didn't know whether to be angry or afraid. He liked anger—so much cleaner and sharp-edged than fear—so he pumped it up. Not hard to do. One of his brothers, probably more, had been slaughtered right here at Home.

Davis's voice: "What's going on?"

Miller looked at him. "We've been hit."

24

The hospital's official title was New York Presbyterian Hospital-Cornell campus, but no one called it anything but New York Hospital.

Jack pulled into the semicircular entrance drive at the eastern end of 68th Street. The complex had a classic medical-center look—twenty or so stories of vaguely art-deco design with a clean granite face and tall arched windows. He was ready to abandon his car in front of the canopied entrance. If they towed it, so be it. But if they checked the tags first and found Vinny the Donut's name, they might leave it alone.

Then he saw the valet parking sign and screeched to a halt in front of the Latino attendant.

"How long you gonna be?" he said as Jack hopped out of the car.

"Forever. Where's emergency?"

He pointed over Jack's shoulder. "Right over there where it says EMERGENCY."

Jack looked. How had he missed that?

He ran inside and came face-to-face with a uniformed security guard.

"Can I help you?"

"I need to check on two emergency patients."

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a windowed alcove.

"There you go."

Jack fairly leaped toward it and slid back the glass.

"A woman and a little girl! Just brought in by ambulance! Where are they?"

The mocha-skinned clerk behind the desk took her time looking up from her computer screen. Her name tag read MARIA.

"What are their names, sir?"

"DiLauro and Westphalen."

He spelled both for her and watched as she did some tapping on her keyboard. He couldn't keep still. His fingers kept up a chaotic tattoo on the counter, his feet shuffled back and forth.

She shook her head. "No… no one by that name. But we did have two Jane Does brought in, an adult and a child. MVA."

Jack looked around. "Where are they? How are they?" He had to force out the next question. "Are they alive?"

"I can't say."

He felt his fingers stop fidgeting and ball into fists.

"Why the hell not?"

A look of alarm flashed across her face—maybe she'd heard something in his tone.

"Because I don't have that information. They were taken directly to the trauma unit."

He pushed away from the counter.

"Where's that?"

"You can't go there, sir."

"Why the hell not? I'm their husband and father!"

He prayed they wouldn't ask him to prove that.

"You still can't go. Not until they've been worked up and stabilized. No non-staff can be present during resuscitation. You can't—"

"Resuscitation?"

She checked her screen again.

"CPR was under way when they were brought in."

The room did a quick spin. He folded his arms on the counter and pressed his head against them while he quelled a surge of nausea.

He felt a hand on his wrist and when he glanced up he found the clerk looking at him with sympathetic eyes.

"Have faith, Mr. Westphalen. They're in good hands."

Westphalen? Oh, right—he'd said he was the child's father and her name was Westphalen. Gia had dropped her ex's name.

"We have a level-one trauma center here," she was saying. "Trust that everything possible that can be done for your wife and child is being done."

"I've got to see them. Just once. Just for a second."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. Please have faith."

Faith? Faith was why they were getting CPR. Men with faith who thought they were doing the right thing because they believed some supposedly unimpeachable source had put Gia and Vicky here.

No more faith. He had to see them. He had to know that a mistake hadn't been made. Two Jane Does? Could be anyone. He had to stick his fingers in their wounds—figuratively, anyway—before he could accept this nightmare as real.

Maria frowned at him. "Don't even think about it."

What was she—a mind reader?

"What?"

"Don't try to sneak up. Security is tight there. And if you cause a ruckus you'll be arrested. And
then
where will you be?"

If she only knew. Arrest would involve a lot more than a fine and a warning. Once the cops learned he didn't exist, he'd be spending his time in a jail cell instead of the waiting room.

Shit.

"Here's what I can do," she said. "I'll call the trauma unit and let them know you're down here. Once your wife and daughter are stabilized, one of the doctors will come down and talk to you."

He nodded, silently thanking her for not saying
if
they're stabilized.

He realized he had no option but to wait.