8
Whap!
Hank pictured again the face of that phony fuck John Tyleski on the leather of the heavy bag, and bashed it with a left and a right. The impacts rattled his arms all the way up to his shoulders. Then he pounded it again. And again. Good thing he was wearing gloves, otherwise his fists would be raw meat by now.
Earlier he'd attracted a lot of attention chasing after Tyleski or whoever he was—unwanted attention. Some plainclothes cop—a detective named Au-gustino or something like that—had pulled him off the street and iD'd him, asking him all sorts of pointed questions about his state of mind. Probably thought he was mentally disturbed.
Whap!
Yeah, well, he'd been pretty goddamned disturbed at the time. Still was. And worst of all, he hadn't been able to tell the cop the real reason why. Couldn't report the theft of a book he didn't own, so he'd had to make up some bullshit story about a package being stolen and then describe the wrong kind of car. Promised he'd come over to Midtown North and fill out a report. Fat fucking chance of that.
Whap!
Took everything he had to keep from tearing into the cop and the gawkers who'd gathered around. Couldn't risk letting go. Any bad publicity from him would attach to the book and the whole Kicker movement. So he'd walked away as cool as could be.
Whap!
But that had been on the outside. Inside he'd been boiling, building a pressure that had nowhere to go.
Whap!
He'd needed a drink but knew if he went to a bar he'd only pick a fight with someone. So he'd joined this health club and got on the heavy bag. Didn't know shit about boxing but it just felt good to hit something.
Whap!
Hit the bag, don't hit people. Right. Except for John Tyleski. If Hank ever saw him again he didn't care where or when it was, he was gonna open a big can of whup-ass on the bastard. Wouldn't know what hit him.
Whap!
The book—the damn book had been put in his hands for a reason. It had come to him because of the Kicker Man. So weird to see that same figure inside. He thought he'd dreamed it up on his own, but there it was. He hadn't understood what the book had said about it. But that wasn't why the book was important.
It had answers—answers to questions he hadn't even thought of yet. He'd had only a short, short time with it but he sensed—no, somehow he knew—it contained knowledge important to the future, to his and Jeremy's, but most of all to the Plan.
If only he'd taken the time to go through it. But he'd been so busy, and he'd thought he'd have all the time in the world for it after this damn book tour was done.
And he needed that knowledge now more than ever. Because Jeremy had called this morning, so excited he could hardly speak because he thought Dawn was pregnant. All part of the Plan as their daddy had described it.
Whap!
But he hadn't described it enough. Not nearly enough. He'd got only so far and then he stopped coming around. Hank had looked for him and never found him. Dead and gone. Had to be. But had he left anything behind that would tell the rest of the story? Hank had found no trace.
Then the book had fallen into his hands and he'd known someone—Daddy, maybe?—was watching over him.
Now the book was gone.
Whap!
But he was gonna get it back. Oh, yes. One way or another he was gonna get it back.