Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers (30 page)

Without turning, he pointed to the bandages on the left side of her face and moved his lips. The words came out sounding like a nail scraping on concrete.

"Why the bandage?"

"Abrasion from the street. She has a fracture of her left zygomatic arch—one of her cheekbones—but it's undisplaced so we're leaving it alone. The bandages are for facial abrasions from when she hit the pavement."

Jack's brain automatically tried to picture it but he shut it down. Instead he leaned over and spoke in her ear.

"Vicky? It's Jack. I'm here. You're gonna be all right. Jack promises."

Stupid thing to say. Irresponsible, even. But the words had come out on their own. Maybe because he'd come to see himself as her protector, and she probably felt the same. After he'd pulled her off that freighter a couple of years ago, she probably assumed nothing bad could happen to her as long as he was around.

But he hadn't been around this time.

He moved over to Gia. Facing her was even harder. Her swollen face was almost unrecognizable. He pointed to her bandaged head.

"The surgery?"

"Yes."

As he squeezed her cold hand he feared he might explode. He touched her purpled cheek, then leaned closer.

"Gia, this is Jack. I'm here and I'll be here as long and as often as they let me. I'm sorry. God, I'm so—"

His voice broke and so instead of trying to say more he kissed her hand. Then he turned to Dr. Stokely.

The doctor looked at him and backed away, her face a mask of fear.

"What?" she said, a tremor in her voice. "I'm not to blame."

"I didn't say—"

Then Jack knew what she was talking about. He closed his eyes and relaxed his facial muscles. He must have had that look. Gia had seen it once and called it "murder incarnate." But he had no grudge against the doc. Just the rest of the world.

Dr. Stokely said, "For a second there I thought you were going to… never mind."

"I'm pretty strung out right now, doc. But I need you to tell me flat-out true, no sugar coating: What are their chances?"

"I told you: too soon to say."

"I'm not asking for a percentage, just… good or not good?

"Not good."

Jack stared at her—for how long, he didn't know—until he could find his voice. Even then it took a massive force of will to push the next words past his frozen lips.

"You mean they might not make it?"

Her round face revealed no emotion, gave no hint of what she was thinking. He knew that look. He'd seen it on old cops and on the demimonde's bottom feeders. The look that comes from seeing too much human damage, the accidental and the intentional. So much damage that, in the interest of self-preservation, certain circuits shut down. Someone like Dr. Stokely couldn't allow herself to think about the private lives of the people she cared for, couldn't allow their hopes and dreams, the people they loved and the people who loved them to matter. If she did, she'd burn out like a meteor. She had to reduce them to problems to be solved. Which wasn't so hard since the vast majority of her patients were comatose; and the ones who weren't hadn't come to her willingly and wanted to escape as soon as possible.

Here was a woman who was used to giving bad news.

"I've learned not to make predictions, but it's a dire situation."

"Come on, doc. You've been around the block a few times—a
lot
of times. You must have an instinct for these things. What do your instincts say about their chances of coming back?"

She locked her gaze on him and said, "Fifty-fifty."

Fifty-fifty? That was no help. Even odds they'd live or die.

Or die…

Slowly, forcing his locked knees to turn him back toward the bed, he looked at the loves of his life and wanted to scream. But he couldn't give in to that. If he caused too much of a ruckus they might not allow him back.

What he really wanted to do—
wished
he could do—was rip out their tubes and grab their shoulders and shake them and shout that the game was over and they could stop fooling around now. They'd won, he gave in, they'd scared the hell out of him and ha-ha what a sick, sick joke, but now let's all stop fooling around and go out and laugh about it over a pizza.

Instead he stood there and felt his heart break. He'd always assumed it a figure of speech, a hoary cliché in hackneyed prose and Brill Building tunes, but here it was. Something in his chest turned to glass and shattered.

He bent and kissed Vicky's hand, then bent over Gia and kissed her swollen lips.

As he slowly straightened he noticed that the sheet over her abdomen was flatter than it should be.

He spun to face Dr. Stokely.

"The baby! What about—?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. She lost the baby."

27

Davis left Diana in her bedroom in the private quarters. He knew he should be thinking of her as the Oculus now, but he'd known her since she was seven. Hard to think of her by any name other than Diana.

Hard to imagine that this girl, barely into her teens, was going to be their new conduit from the Ally.

He put all that aside as he called the off-duty yeniçeri to give them the awful news and tell them to pack and report to Home: They were moving.

While he was on the phone, Miller, Jolliff, and Hursey began the grisly task of prying the former O's body from the wall and hiding the pieces under a bedspread.

After finishing the last call, Cal leaned his elbows on the monitoring console and rubbed his temples as he tried to get a grip on the situation, on himself.

What's wrong with me?

He should have felt grief, terror, rage,
something
. Instead he felt empty, damn near dead inside.

He thought he knew what it was: The cold-blooded killings recently ordered by the Ally had put him on the down slope, and now this. It wasn't so much that the O was dead, or the appalling manner of his death, it was the
ease
with which it had been done. It seemed as if the Adversary had simply strolled in, slaughtered everyone, and then strolled out.

He heard a noise to his left and looked up to see Miller dropping into a nearby chair. He was drying his hands on a paper towel. He looked as empty as Cal felt.

"Where are we in the cleanup?"

Miller jerked his head toward the stairs. "Last one coming down now."

Cal looked and saw Jolliff and Hursey maneuvering a sheet-covered body down the steps. Blood had seeped through in a couple of spots.

"Who?"

"Kenlo."

"Shit."

He'd liked Kenlo. Cal remembered his easy laugh—the guy had never heard a punch line he didn't like. He'd been their computer geek. Probably the brightest guy in the whole crew.

"What are we going to do with the hearts?"

Cal thought about that. "Stick them back in their chests."

"But we don't know which belongs where."

"I know, but we'll do it anyway. Better than leaving them in a baggie somewhere, and sure as hell better than leaving them arranged in a circle up there on that desk. Each of our guys deserves to be buried with a heart, even if it's not his own."

Miller nodded. "Yeah. I suppose you're right."

The door chime sounded. He checked the monitor and saw Lewis, luggage bags flanking his feet, giving the all-clear sign at the front door. Cal buzzed him in.

He heard Miller sigh and glanced at him. "You okay?"

"Not even close." Miller shook his head. "I mean, is it worth it to move her to the safe house? Will it make any difference? I mean, this guy seems to pick us off as he pleases."

His words mirrored Cal's thoughts.

"The safe house is a little different. You've been there. It's on an island, it's got water on two sides, and only one access road. Nobody's going to be sneaking up on that place."

Cal didn't mention that the location's biggest asset—its isolation—had its downside. At this time of year it offered no distractions for the men during their down time. Cabin fever—or island fever—would set in pretty quickly.

Well, no one had said the job would be easy.

"I wonder," Miller said. "Don't you get the feeling this guy's playing with us? Like he could take us all out any time he pleases but he'd rather play cat and mouse?"

"You mean like leaving Diana alive."

"Exactly. And if he can take us out when he wants, then everything we're doing is useless. We're not even delaying the inevitable because he's got us plugged into his calendar, and when the time comes"—he drew a finger across his throat—"we're cooked."

"Maybe that's why he didn't kill her. To get us thinking it's all an exercise in futility but keep us on the string. He feeds on hopelessness. Maybe we're snack food. But maybe not. Maybe—"

The chime again. This time it was Geraci. Cal buzzed him in, then turned back to Miller.

"You ready to give up?"

Miller gave him a hard stare. "Me? You should damn fuck know better than that."

"1 do. Just checking."

Another chime. Cal looked and saw Zeklos. He'd called the little guy back in because they were so shorthanded. He'd meant to tell Miller in advance so he'd be prepared, but hadn't had the time.

He buzzed him in and then tapped the heel of his fist on Miller's knee.

"I called Zek in."

Miller stiffened in his chair. "You what?"

"We need every warm body we can get, so just put aside your—"

He shot to his feet. "No fucking way!"

Zeklos came through the door then, rolling a wheeled suitcase behind him.

"This is terrible, terrible!" he said. "How did such a thing—?"

"You!" Miller shouted, pointing at him. For a crazy instant he reminded Cal of Ralph Kramden. "Out!"

Zeklos stopped and stared, shock in his eyes and his expression.

"But Davis—"

"I don't give a shit what Davis said, I'm not working with you ever again!"

"Easy, Miller," Cal said. "We need him."

"Fuck we do! He's a Jonah! He loses his Oculus, then shows up here and we lose ours."

Zeklos stood his ground.

"The other day you say to me, 'the fact remains that your Oculus is dead and you are not.'" He held up his index finger. " 'Strike one.' Remember? Well now I say to you that your Oculus is dead and you are not." Now the index finger pointed at Miller. "Strike one on you."

Cal couldn't believe his ears. Neither could Miller, apparently, because he stood staring at Zeklos with a slack, drop-jawed expression.

Cal recovered first. Knowing what would happen next, he grabbed Miller's upper arm with both hands and held on as Miller started toward Zek.

"Why you little piece of—!"

"Cool it!" Cal shouted. "We just lost seven brothers and our Oculus! This is not the time to start fighting among ourselves! This is exactly what the Adversary wants. You're playing right into his game."

Miller dragged him a few steps, then stopped, red-faced, panting.

"He's not coming along!"

"We need—"

He whirled on Cal. "If he comes, I stay. And I'm pretty sure I won't be the only one."

"You'd sabotage our whole operation over some personal vendetta?"

"It's not personal. He's a menace. And I mean what I say. Him or me and others. Choose."

Miller knew damn well he'd left Cal with only one choice.

The door chimed again. Cal glanced at the monitor, saw Portman, and hit the button.

"Well, what's it gonna be, Davis?" Miller said.

Cal was looking for a way out when Portman walked up and dropped a newspaper on the monitoring console. The headline of the
Post's
late edition leaped out at him.

HIT & RUN HORROR!

The subheading read: MOTHER AND DAUGHTER MOWED DOWN BY RED-LIGHT RUNNER.

Cal's stomach clenched as he looked up at Portman. "Yeah, we know. We were there, remember?"

Portman had a funny expression. "Check out page three."

Cal did just that. He recoiled at the grainy black-and-white photo of EMTs loading a small figure on a stretcher into an ambulance.

"So?"

Portman tapped a fingertip on one of the paragraphs.

"Says here she's still alive. Looks like we missed again."

Cal felt a burst of elation.

He heard Miller mutter, "Shit."

Behind Portman, he saw Zeklos raise two fingers.

"Strike two, Miller."

28

Jack found himself at the corner of a park he hadn't known existed. Looked to be about two blocks long and one deep. He stared up at the street sign: 78th AND CHEROKEE PLACE.