The high point of his life since his dissimilation had been the praise and backclaps he'd received from Hank for finding his precious Dawn Pickering. He'd thought it couldn't get any better than that, but maybe the best was yet to come. He couldn't wait to see the look on the boss man's face when Darryl handed him this sword.
Oh, yeah. Hank was gonna be tickled as all hell.
Jack washed down a couple of Vicodins with a Yuengling to ease the throb in his shoulder. It had taken Doc Hargus nearly an hour to sew the wound closed, inside and out. But he'd stopped the flow of blood and now Jack had to deal only with the seepage.
Doc had given him some antibiotic tabs and a tetanus shot, leaving Jack covered against pretty much any complication. He'd told him to keep it in a sling. Jack had bought one on the way home but didn't know how much he'd wear it. Gave him a trussed-up feeling.
All through the repair, Hargus kept saying, "You sure this wasn't done by a scalpel? I've only seen this clean a laceration from a scalpel."
He'd scoffed when Jack told him it had been made by a centuries-old, rotted-out sword. Doc thought every one of his patients embellished the stories behind their wounds. Even Jack. Hell, Jack might have scoffed too if he hadn't been there.
He shook his head. Two days of legwork, a lot of miles, a trio of corpses, and a customer on the way to the hospital.
And what did he have to show for it? Half a fee and a neatly sliced shoulder.
And no sword. The katana had disappeared. Like magic.
Well, not like magic. Jack hadn't been able to hunt for it, bleeding as he was. He'd sent Julio and a couple of the regulars out, but they'd all come up empty. The only possibility he could think of was some passerby picking it up and running.
But why? It looked like junk.
He shook his head again. The rule of the city: What's not nailed down or protected is fair game—as good as mine.
Well, good riddance. He'd been attacked twice with it today. He wasn't angling for a three-peat.
Thing was, why had Naka Slater attacked him? Jack understood O'Day's motive, but what gave with Slater? To save the rest of the fee? That didn't make sense, considering how he owned a plantation on Maui and how fast he'd come up with the first half.
Or maybe it was a bridge-burning deal—sever his only connection to the katana. Jack couldn't fathom why he'd think that necessary, but he'd never been comfortable with the way some people's heads worked.
He glanced over at his computer and realized he was overdue to check the Web site. Hadn't logged on in a couple of days. His in box was probably clogged with spam.
He entered his user name and password on the Web mail page and—yup—welcome to Spamopolis. After deleting the come-ons for Cialis and stock tips and home loans, then the appliance repair questions, he came to a subject line that read: Need to find lost object.
"Just been there, just done that," he muttered, moving the pointer toward the DELETE button. Then he thought, what the hell. See what's lost before deleting.
Dear Repairman Jack—
I hope I have the right person. Someone gave me your name and said you might help. I have it on good authority that a very valuable object stolen from my home has been brought to New York. For various reasons, I'd rather not involve the police. If I have the right person, please call ASAP. I have only a few days before I must return to Hawaii.
N.S.
Jack stared dumbfounded at the screen.
Stolen object brought to New York… no police… Hawaii.
And the initials: N.S. Naka Slater?
What the hell?
He grabbed one of his TracFones and punched in the number. A male voice said, "Hello," after the first ring.
Jack asked his usual opening question about whether this someone had recently left a message at a certain Web site.
"Yes, I did," the voice said in perfect English. "Is this the man called Repairman Jack?"
"Yeah. Is this Naka Slater?"
Dead silence on the other end, then a nervous laugh. "Oh, I see. Your friend must have called to give you a heads-up."
"What friend would that be?"
"I… I don't know her name. She's a friend of a friend."
"An artist friend?"
"Yes. Then you know who I mean."
Jack hadn't a clue, but he let it ride.
"You need something found?"
"Yes. Very much. A family heirloom that was stolen from my home. Can we meet soon?"
Oh, yeah, Jack thought. We'll meet soon. He rolled his shoulder and felt a jab of pain. Not tonight, but definitely tomorrow. No way was he going to miss this. Not for the world.
He set up a meet for an early lunch at eleven and gave him directions to the Ear Inn.
Yeah. The Ear. If déjà vu was going to be the order of the day, might as well push it to the limit.
He hung up, leaned back, and said, "What the hell?"
It was becoming a litany.
Jack started to turn the knob on the door to Gia's third-floor studio and stopped. This felt wrong. Whatever waited on the other side belonged to Gia. If she didn't want him to see them, then he should respect that. And he wanted to respect that. And it would have been easy to respect that, if only…
… they're not her…
If only he hadn't run into Junie. And if only she hadn't told him about the paintings. And if only Gia hadn't left him here alone while she went off to one of her final occupational therapy sessions.
He twisted the knob a little farther. Should he?
Oh, hell, why kid himself? Showing the paintings to Junie had ruptured their protective seal, so he was going to peek through that break.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Indirect light from the skylights illuminated the room but he flipped the light switch anyway. Leaving the door open behind him, he looked around at the large canvases leaning against the walls. One canvas, its back to him, rested on an easel in the center of the room.
He moved to his right and stopped at the nearest. So dark… black surrounding a circle of dark, dark blue with specks of white and a glowing moon. It took him a while to orient himself. The perspective seemed to be from the bottom of a well or some kind of hole in the Earth, looking up at a circle of night sky lit with cold, distant stars and a full moon.