PLEASE CALL IMMEDIATELY!
Then again, he thought, maybe SESOUPers are even crazier than they seem.
Even though Jack had been sure at times during his childhood that his older brother was part alien, he resisted copying down the phone number.
He filed inside and found a seat near the rear of the room. He fought an urge to shout out: "All those who believe in telekinesis, raise my hand!" Instead, he listened to Evelyn introduce Professor Hideki Mazuko of the University of Tokyo—what department, she didn't say—and was startled to learn that the man didn't speak any English. He did, however, speak French. So did Evelyn, and she would provide a running translation of Dr. Mazuko's address.
As a lantern-jawed middle-aged Asian in a gray suit, white shirt, red- and blue-striped tie advanced to the dais amid polite applause, Jack groaned and looked around for a way out. He realized he couldn't make it without stumbling over a lot of SESOUPers, so he grudgingly settled in and promised himself a trip to the bar immediately afterward.
Dr. Mazuko began speaking in French, saying a few words, then stopping for Evelyn to repeat it in English. Jack had always assumed water torture required water; here was proof that he was wrong.
After his interminable stop-and-go preamble, Professor Mazuko asked that the lights be turned down so he could show slides of recent photos of UFOs over Tokyo.
A progression of images of blurry blobs of light flashed on the screen, with the audience oohing and aahing at each one. Jack wondered why, if UFOs were supposed to be such a secret, they were always lit up like the Fuji blimp?
When one particularly strange-looking glowing object appeared, the woman on Jack's right began to clap and others joined her.
"Incredible!" she said in a voice hushed with awe.
Jack wholeheartedly agreed: Incredible was just the word for it. Even eight-year-old Vicky would see that it was a kite. Or pie in the sky—literally.
Like Abe had said the other day…believing is seeing. Yes, sir.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Suddenly someone was shouting. "That does it! Turn on the lights! Turn on the goddamn lights!"
Jack thought the voice sounded familiar, and when the lights came up, he spotted James Zaleski striding toward the front of the room.
"What's the matter with you people!" he shouted. "These are the goddamn phoniest looking photos I've ever seen!"
Jack heard groans around him and muttered variations on the theme of "Oh, no, Jimmy's on a tear again."
Obviously this wasn't the first time he'd made a stink at a UFO panel.
"Dammit," Zaleski yelled, "you've got to be more discriminating! You've got to be critical! We know they're here, but are we so desperate for proof we'll accept anything, even these poorly doctored fakes, as real? We demand the truth from the government, but how are we ever going to be taken seriously if we don't demand honesty within our own ranks? We come off like a bunch of gullible cranks!"
Members of the audience had started rising to their feet during his impassioned plea and now they were shouting at him to be quiet and return to his seat and let Professor Mazuko finish.
Jack remembered Gia taking him and Vicky to the revival of 1776 when it had played at the Roundabout. This reminded him of the booming opening number when the entire cast rose and sang "Sit Down, John!" to John Adams.
Jack used the uproar to cover his exit. On the way out he saw Miles Kenway standing ramrod straight against the rear wall, staring at him. Jack felt like a school kid caught playing hooky. He matched Kenway stare for stare.
How do I get to talk to Kenway? he wondered as he reached the common area. At least he and Zaleski were still around. If someone was knocking off the top people in SESOUP, they hadn't reached the men yet. But was it just a matter of time before they did?
Just then two dowdy, silver-haired members of Professor Mazuko's audience emerged from the room, in heated discussion.
"You don't believe that, do you?" said the one wearing the MK-Ultra Stole My Brain! T-shirt.
Her friend nodded vigorously. "Of course I do."
"No," said the first, as they wandered away. "You can't really believe that."
I believe I'll have a beer, Jack thought.
He headed for the bar.
17
"He is our enemy, I tell you." Mauricio's voice grew louder with each word. "Just look at what he has done to the Farina woman! That man is out to destroy us!"
"Hush, please. You do not know that."
They stood in the bathroom of Roma's suite where Olive's mutilated corpse lay stretched out in the tub. They had partially covered it with ice to keep it from stinking.
"I do! I saw him in the hall outside her room!"
"And you also saw one of the Twins at the same time."
"And they both fled together."
"Or he chased the Twin."
"If he did, he's crazy."
"Have you ever known the Twins to work with anyone but each other?"
Mauricio looked away. "No," he said sullenly. "Not directly."
They had run down the hall after the stranger and the Twin had disappeared into the stairwell, found Olive's corpse, and quickly moved her here.
"I think there is another explanation. I believe he discovered Olive, saw the Twin, and gave chase."
"Then why didn't he report the body?"
"Perhaps he is a thief and broke into her room to steal. Or perhaps he has a criminal record and was afraid he would be blamed. It does not matter. As far as I am concerned, the very fact that he did not report the body proves that he is not working with the Twins."
"I don't follow."
"Think, Mauricio: Why was Olive Farina mutilated in that fashion? Look at those wounds. Obviously meant to call to mind cattle mutilations and spread panic among our attendees. A discovery like that would disperse them, send them fleeing to the safety of their little homes all over the country."
Mauricio's dark monkey eyes widened. "Do you think the Twins know what we're doing?"
"No. Undoubtedly they know somebody is up to something, but they do not know who, what, or why. Under those circumstances, their best course is to break up the party. They tried, but failed."
"Only by the merest chance. If I hadn't stepped out into the hallway at that moment…" Mauricio let the rest of the sentence hang.
"True," Roma said, nodding. "But were we lucky…or guided?"
"We can speculate all day. The question is, what do we do about the stranger?"
"We watch him," Roma said.
"In other words, nothing!" Mauricio said, scorn ripe in his voice as he expanded to true form. He rose on his thicker, stronger legs, showing his fangs and fixing Roma with the ripe strawberries of his eyes. "The stranger calls the tune?"
"Watching is not 'nothing.'"
"And what of tonight's delivery? Do we to let that fall into his hands as well?"
"Do we have a choice?" Roma said. "The Otherness is in charge, do not forget. If the stranger received the shipment, it was not in error. I sense another purpose at work here, one that is compatible with our own."
"I do not," Mauricio said, his voice rising as he banged a large knotty fist on the black-furred barrel of his chest. "Something went wrong last night. I do not intend to allow that to happen a second time."
"Mauricio!" Roma said as the creature slouched toward the door.
"I know of only one way to settle this."
"Wait!"
But Mauricio ignored him. He reached up and turned the doorknob, then shrank again to capuchin form before stepping out into the hall.
"Do not do anything—!"
The door slammed, cutting him off. He hurried to the door and pulled it open, but Mauricio was nowhere in sight.
What was that creature thinking? He hoped he was not planning anything rash.
18
Jack felt better halfway through his second pint of Sam Adams. He was ready to polish it off and head for his room when he sensed someone behind him. He turned and found Roma.
"Learn anything in Monroe?" Roma said.
Jeez, Jack thought, annoyed and chagrined, did someone follow me out there? Am I being watched?
"What makes you think I was in Monroe?"
Roma grinned. "I have contacts there. It's a small town, as you know. And when an outsider starts asking about 1968, it doesn't take long for word to get around."
Canfield had probably heard about his visit, and told Roma. That made Jack feel a little better…he preferred being on the Monroe grapevine to being shadowed.
"Then I guess you know what I found: nada."
"But how did you feel being there?" Roma asked, giving him an intense look.
"Feel? Like I'd wasted my time."
"No, no," he said. "In the air. Did you not feel a residual trace of something strange, something…Other?"
"'Other?' No. Why should I? First Canfield, now you. What's the story with this 'Other' and 'Otherness' business anyway?"
"It is something that has no rational explanation."
"Oh, well, thanks for clearing that up."
"Surely you've seen things that have no rational explanation."
"Maybe," Jack said, thinking of the creaking hold of a rustbucket freighter filled with cobalt-skinned, shark-headed creatures.
"Not maybe. Definitely. You are much more a part of this than you realize."
Something in Roma's voice stopped Jack, something unsaid. What was he getting at?
"You mean because of my experience?" And at that instant he realized that Roma was the only one who hadn't quizzed him on his cover story. Hadn't even mentioned it.
"Yes, but not the one you've been telling people about. Your other experience—the one that left you marked by the Otherness."
"Hey, let's not go tying me into any of that stuff."
"You already are."
"Like hell."
"Really? Then what left those scars on your chest?"
An arctic wind seemed to whistle through the bar; Jack could almost feel it rustle his clothes as it chilled his skin.
"How do you know anything about my chest?"
"The Otherness has left its mark on you, my friend. I sensed your contact with it the instant I saw you on the registration line. And when I am this close to you, I can almost see those scars glowing through your shirt."
Just as he'd done the night of the first reception, Roma raised this three middle fingers and hooked them into claws, then made a diagonal slashing motion in the air.
"Like that, yes?" Roma said.
Jack said nothing. His tongue felt like Velcro. He looked down at his shirt front, then back at Roma, remembering how his chest itched both times he'd been in Monroe.
Jack found his voice. "I think we need to have a nice long chat about this sometime."
To Jack's surprise, Roma nodded and said, "How about now?" He pointed to a tiny table in a darkened corner. "Shall we?"
Jack grabbed his beer from the bar and followed him.
As soon as they were seated, Roma said, "You were scarred by a rather formidable creature, yes?"
Jack didn't move, didn't speak. He'd never told a soul about the rakoshi episode. The people closest to him had been a part of it, and they were trying to put it behind them. Anyone who hadn't been part of it would think he was crazy…would think he belonged in SESOUP. So how the hell could Roma know?
He sipped his beer to wet his tongue. "You've seen one?"
"Seen one?" Roma grinned. "I was present when the Otherness conceived them."
Jack gave a mental whistle. This guy was as loony as the rest of them. Loonier, maybe. But he did know things he had no right knowing.
"Were you now?" Jack said. "You and this Otherness thing."
"The Otherness is not a thing."
"Then what is it? Besides a word, I mean?"
Roma stared at him. "You really don't know, do you."
"Know what?"
"Never mind. As for defining the Otherness, I doubt very much you can grasp the answer."
"Humor me."
"Very well. Let me see…one might describe the Otherness as a being, or a state of being, or even a whole other reality."
"That narrows it down."
"Try this then: Let us just say there is this dark intelligence, this entity somewhere that is—"
"Where?"
"Somewhere—somewhere else. Everywhere and nowhere. But put aside the where for the moment and concentrate on this force's relationship with humanity."
"Wait, wait, wait. You started out a step ahead of me and now you want to take another."
"How? How am I ahead of you?"
"What is this 'dark intelligence'? Is it just there? I mean, is it Satan, Kali, the Bogey Man, what?"
"Perhaps it is all of them, perhaps none of them. Why do you presume it must have a name? It is not some silly god. If anything, the Otherness is more of an anti-god."
"Like Olive's Antichrist?"
Roma sighed, his expression frustrated. "No. That is part of Christian mythology. Forget Olive's eschatological ravings, and every religion you have ever heard of. When I say anti-god, I mean something at the opposite pole from everything you think of when someone says 'god.' This entity does not want worshippers, does not want a religion set up around it. It has no name and does not want anyone assigning it a name."
"What is it then?"
"An incomprehensible entity, a huge, unimaginable chaotic force—it does not need a name. In fact, you might even say it wishes to avoid a name. It does not want us knowing about it."
"If it's, so powerful, why should it care? And who's ever heard of a god that doesn't want believers?"
"Please stop using the word 'god.' You are only confusing yourself."
"Okay. Then why doesn't it want believers?"
"Because of its chaotic nature. Once you believe in it, once you acknowledge it, you give it form. Assigning it a form, a shape, an identity weakens its influence. Identifying it and giving it a name or, worst of all, converting a host of believers to worship it, would shrink its interface with this world and push it further away. So it masks itself as other religions and belief systems and lets them front for it."
"Sort of like a multinational conglomerate hiding behind lots of dummy corporations."
Roma nodded slowly. "A mundane analogy, but you seem to be getting the picture. This force is in this world in many guises, but all working toward the same end: chaos."
"A little chaos isn't so bad."
"You mean, a little randomness? A little unpredictability for excitement?" He laughed softly as he shook his head. "You have no idea, no concept of what we are discussing here."
"All right, what does it want?"
"Everything—including this corner of existence."
"Because why? We taste good?"
"Really, if you refuse to be serious—"
"Don't tell me to be serious when you've filled this hotel with a very serious group of otherwise sane adults who firmly believe that a horde of alien lizards is heading this way from space and is going to chow down on us big time when they get here. I didn't make that up—they did."
"Well, they are right and they are wrong. Something is trying to get here but the 'chowing down,' so to speak, will be of a more spiritual sort. If you would listen without interrupting you might understand."
Jack leaned back and folded his arms. "All right. I'll listen. But whenever I hear stuff like this I can't help thinking about how we all thought earth and humanity were the center of the universe. Then Galileo came along."
"Point taken. It does sound anthropocentric, but if you will hear me out, you will see it is not."
"Go."
"Thank you. I will try to come at this from a different angle: Imagine two vast, unimaginably complex forces at war. Where? All around us. Why? I do not pretend to know. And it has been going on so long, perhaps they themselves have forgotten why. But none of that matters. What does matter is that all existence is the prize. Notice I did not say 'the world,' 'the solar system,' 'the universe,' 'reality'—I said existence. That means that all other dimensions, other universes, other realities—which, trust me on this, do exist—are included as well.
This corner of reality is a minuscule backwater of that whole, but it is a part. And if you mean to call yourself the victor, you must have it all."
Jack resisted quoting Rodney King.
"Now," Roma continued, "one of these forces is decidedly inimical to humanity; the other is not."
Jack couldn't help it—he yawned.
"Am I boring you?" Roma said, his expression shocked.
"Sorry. Just sounds like the old Good versus Evil, God versus dat ol' debil Satan sort of thing."
"That is how some people interpret it, and Cosmic Dualism is rather trite. But that is not the case here. Please note that I did not say that the opposing side—the anti-Otherness, if you wish—is 'good.' I said it is not inimical. Frankly, I doubt very much that it gives a specific damn about humanity other than the fact that this territory lies on its side of the cosmic DMZ, and it wants to keep it there."
Wow, Jack thought. He'd heard some wild theories this week, and he'd become convinced that something—not aliens, not the Antichrist, not the New World Order, but something—was going on, but this…this Otherness stuff took the blue ribbon for being the farthest out.
"So…" Jack said. "We're all caught up in a giant game of Risk."
Roma shook his head slowly. "You have an uncanny knack for reducing the empyrean to the mundane."
"So I've been told."
"But then," Roma said, "taking everything I've said into account, we must not overlook the big 'or.'"
"Or?"
"Or…everything I have just told you is completely wrong because there is no way a human can understand the logic and motives of this totally 'other' reality."
"Swell," Jack said, wanting to scour the smug look off Roma's face. "Then all this talk's got nothing to do with"—Jack mimicked Roma's three-fingered gesture again—"this."
"On the contrary. Your scars were made by a creature of the Otherness."
"The ones you say you watched being conceived."
"Watched? A piece of my flesh was used in their genesis." Roma's expression clouded. "Not that I had much say in the matter. But they turned out to be rather magnificent creatures, didn't they."
"Magnificent isn't quite the word I'd choose."
But perhaps magnificent wasn't so far off. Magnificently evil, and so alien, so…other, that Jack remembered how his most primitive instincts had screamed for him either to run or to annihilate them.
Jack also remembered what he'd been told about the origin of the rakoshi. He could almost hear Kolabati's voice…
"Tradition has it that before the Vedic gods, and even before the pre-Vedic gods, there were other gods, the Old Ones, who hated mankind and wanted to usurp our place on earth. To do this they created blasphemous parodies of humans…stripped of love and decency and everything good we are capable of. They are hate, greed, lust, and violence incarnate. …"
Could Kolabati's Old Ones be Roma's Otherness?
Roma rose from the table. "Well, I'm satisfied," he said.
"About what?"
"That all you know of the Otherness is what I've just told you. I thought you might be a threat, but I am now convinced you are not."
For some reason he couldn't quite grasp, Jack felt offended by that. "Threat of what?"
Roma went on as if he hadn't heard. "But there might be others who are not so sure. You would do well to take care, Mr. Shelby. You might even consider returning to your home and locking your doors for the rest of the weekend."
The warning startled Jack, and before he could reply, Roma turned and strode away. Jack wanted to run after him, grab him, shake him, and shout Tell me what you mean! But he fought the urge. That would only cause a scene, and was unlikely to make Roma more talkative.
Feeling as if he'd been sucker punched, Jack headed for his room.
19
On the way back upstairs, Jack cursed himself for not telling Roma he'd been spotted in Monroe with Melanie last week. He would have loved to have seen his reaction. Damn. Why hadn't he thought of that?
What did Gia call it? Esprit de Vescalier, or something like that.
As soon as he stepped into the room he saw the red message light blinking on his phone. He followed the directions for message retrieval and heard a low, raspy voice: "Wondering where Olive Farina is? Check the hotel basement."
That was it. A mechanical sounding female voice announced the time the message had been recorded: 6:02. Seven minutes ago. Just about the time he'd left the bar.
He didn't recognize the voice, but he'd bet his last dollar it was one of the goons in black. Jack knew about Olive's death—he was probably the only one who did. That made him a loose end, one that needed tying up.
And they think I'm just going to go trotting down to the basement and into their tender loving arms?
He was insulted.
Of course, he was going—whoever spirited Olive away probably had something to do with Melanie's disappearance—but he wasn't going alone. Mr. Glock would come along.
He pulled the pistol from his gym bag and hefted it, considering a silencer, then discarding the idea. The increased length would make the pistol harder to handle in close quarters. If he needed to fire, he would, noise be damned. He slipped it under his belt, inside his shirt, then headed for the elevators.
He smiled and nodded at the SESOUPers who rode down with him. All but one got off at the second floor for the reception. The straggler departed at the lobby level, leaving Jack alone as he descended to the final stop.
He pulled the Glock and chambered a round as the car slowed, then held the pistol tight against his right thigh as the doors slid open. He stepped out into a narrow corridor. Its ceiling was tentacled with pipes and ducts, a closed door on either side, opening into a wider, darker space at its end where machinery clanked and whirred. Warm and dusty. The Clinton Regent was old enough to have boilers.
"Hello?" he called once, then again. No reply.
He raised his pistol as he edged up to the first door and tried the handle. Locked. With the dock's muzzle ceilingward, he slid his back along the wall until he was opposite the second door. He reached over and tried that knob—also locked. But locked didn't mean unoccupied. Someone could pop out of either at any time.
Keeping his back to a wall, and an eye on those doors, Jack slid to the end of the corridor. Hotter here, darker and noisier too—a wide dim space, its floor lower than the corridor's. Light spilling from behind him glinted off hulking elephantine shapes snared in a maze of pipes and ducts.
Jack darted his head out and back, twice, checking left and right. Visibility was the pits, but at least no one was hovering just around the corner. And he'd spotted a light switch on the right. He reached his left hand around and flipped the single toggle.
The two naked bulbs that came to life far to the left and right in the ceiling did little to chase the gloom. Jack stepped onto a small platform that sat a couple of feet above the floor of the bigger space. Leaning against the low pipe railing, he scanned the walls for more switches. The place had to have better light than this. As he looked for more bulbs so he could follow the wiring back to a switch, he spotted a large dark lump attached to one of the pipes against the ceiling almost directly above him. He immediately moved to the side and peered up at it.
The way it was stuck to the pipe reminded him of some huge barnacle. But as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, he could see that it was covered with either fur or some sort of black fuzzy mold. No details, just a big lump of black fur. In fact, from this angle it looked like someone had attached a sable coat to the pipe.
Jack blinked and suddenly it was coming his way—not simply dropping from the ceiling, catapulting at him. With a hoarse bellow, a hurtling mass of bared fangs, extended claws, and bright crimson eyes was on him before he could raise his pistol for a shot. The Glock was knocked from his grasp, clattering away along the floor as he went down under the brain-jarring impact.
The thing was all sinew and muscle and utterly savage in its attack, raking him with its claws and snapping at Jack's face. He got his hands around its throat and held it off, but the first three seconds told him how this was going to go—he was going to lose. He needed a weapon or a way out. The Glock was gone and the Semmerling was out of reach in his ankle holster.
Jack tried to match the creature's ferocity, roaring at it as he pushed it to arms length. He bent his knees, got his feet against its torso, and kicked out with everything he had. The creature went flying, slammed against the platform railing, and slipped through, falling to the floor below. Jack looked around, spotted the Glock on the corridor floor, and dove for it. But the creature had already recovered and, screaming with rage, was on him again before he reached it.
The force of the impact against his back drove Jack to the floor. In that instant he felt strong fingers grab a handful of his hair and yank his head back, glimpsed extended fang-filled jaws gape wide and slash toward his exposed throat, and he knew he was done. No time for any thought other than sick dread and a silent No!
And suddenly the weight was off him. Jack hesitated through a heartbeat of confusion, then rolled over in time to see the creature hurtling through the air, slamming back first against the corridor wall.
What the—? How'd I do that?
The thing sprawled against the wall an instant, dazed, shaking its head, and now Jack had his first good look at it—a hellish cross between a rottweiler and a baboon, but bigger and heavier.
Then it was rushing at him again—
Only to hurl itself back against the wall before it reached him.
Jack had no idea what was going on and wasn't going to waste time pondering it. Get the Glock! He rolled toward the pistol as the thing came for him once more, only to veer away and slam itself against the wall a third time.
That seemed to be enough for the thing. As Jack reached the pistol, the creature turned and fled the corridor. Before he could take aim, it was gone, lost amid the pipes and tanks.
Jack sat alone in the middle of the floor, panting, almost retching. He'd been as good as dead less than a minute ago. What had happened? And what was that hell thing? Obviously it had been sent to kill him, but why hadn't it finished him off when it had the chance?
Shaken, weak, he struggled to his feet and staggered back toward the elevator.
20
Jack crouched among the rhodos in the Castlemans' backyard, trying to find a comfortable position.
I shouldn't even be here tonight, he thought.
Still rattled and hurting from his earlier encounter with that monkey-dog creature, the last thing he felt like doing tonight was babysitting the Castlemans. But he didn't exactly have anybody to sit in for him. So after soaking his wrenched muscles and ligaments in the tub in his hotel room, he'd dragged himself out to Elmhurst. He ran into traffic along the way, and Ceil was already home by the time he reached his post among the rhodos.
Even here, far away from the Clinton Regent basement, Jack couldn't shake the memory of the utter ferocity of that creature. He'd never seen anything like it. Not a rakosh, but just as bloodthirsty.
And why me, damn it? I'm not supposed to be a target. This isn't about me, it's about Melanie Ehlers.
Jack was spooked, he admitted it. Every shadow held menace now.
He forced himself to concentrate on Ceil. She was sipping what looked like a vodka but she wasn't slicing and dicing. The casement windows over the kitchen sink had been cranked out an inch or so, and music from the stereo seeped into the backyard. When Donna Summer and Barbara Streisand finished caterwauling "Enough is Enough," Laura Branigan started singing about "Gloria."
Jack grimaced. Disco…Ceil still listens to disco.
She took her drink upstairs. Jack couldn't see into the bedroom, so he waited. And then for a moment or two he had the feeling that he was being watched. That thing again? Coming back to finish the job? Carefully he studied the shadows but didn't see anything. Eventually the feeling went away, but it left him on edge.
Got to shake this, he thought. Got to focus here.
When Ceil reappeared, she had changed into a dress. Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" was thumping now and Ceil did a little dance around the kitchen, her dress swirling around her skinny legs as she made quick graceful turns this way and that.
Remembering the good old days? Jack wondered.
Finally she finished her drink, put on a coat, and headed for the door to the garage.
Don't forget to turn off the stereo, Jack wanted to shout. Please don't leave that music on!
Her hand was on the doorknob when she stopped, turned, and hurried back to the stereo.
"Thank you, Ceil," he whispered as the music died.
She drove off, and Gus didn't show up, so Jack assumed Ceil was meeting her husband for dinner or a party. He debated whether or not to pack it in and call it an early night, or hang on and wait.
Jack chose waiting. He'd leave after seeing them safely to bed.
Waiting. This was always the lousy part. It could be put to good use. A perfect time for deep cogitation—or ratiocination, as Sherlock Holmes would say—but he was tired of thinking about Melanie and Olive and the SESOUPers. His brain needed a rest.
Jack had trained himself to fall into a light sleep under almost any circumstances. Now was an excellent time for a catnap. Normally he'd adjust his gym bag under him, lean back, and close his eyes. But not tonight. No snoozing in the dark tonight.
21
Miles Kenway sat behind his steering wheel and wondered where the hell he was. Somewhere in Queens, according to his map, but exactly where, he couldn't say.
He'd started out following this Jack Shelby character and had wound up out here.
Jack Shelby…not likely. Miles didn't know who the man was, but he wasn't Jack Shelby.
One thing he did know for sure about the mystery man was that he was some sort of pervert.
And that irked Miles no end. He'd followed this character all the way out here thinking he was going to meet with whoever had sent him. And when Miles saw him creep into the shrubbery of a home down the street, that was exactly what it looked like he was doing. But then Miles sneaked around the other side for a look and found him watching some woman dance around inside her house.
The man was a goddamn Peeping Tom.
Miles would have been long gone by now if the background check he'd run had come up clean. But it hadn't.
Miles had pocketed the man's beer bottle from last night's reception and called his man in the FBI. Working quickly, he'd reported that three good sets had been retrieved from the bottle: one belonged to Lewis Ehler, one to the bartender, and the third set was not on record.
That could be a good thing, meaning Jack Shelby had never been arrested, never applied for a gun permit, never worked in any security-sensitive jobs. It could also mean that he was a member of either a government agency or a secret organization powerful enough to have his print set removed from the FBI's computers.
Miles became convinced it was the latter when a check revealed that no one named Jack Shelby lived at the address he'd given when he registered.
So who are you, Shelby, and who are you working for? Whoever you are, you've made a big mistake getting on the wrong side of me. I can and will make your life miserable.
Miles reflected on how far he had come since his birth. Who'd have dreamed that a callow South Dakota farm boy would end up on the country's first line of defense against the New World Order. Now it seemed almost providential that he had joined the Army out of high school, worked his way up in the ranks, and had been in the right places at the right times to hear whispers about the UN, about NATO, about his own government, and to have the internal fiber and wherewithal to put it all together and realize that not everything was quite what it seemed.
When he'd learned the truth, he immediately resigned. He had almost forty years in, so he took his pension, withdrew all his savings, and bought a fifty-acre parcel in Montana where he gathered others who knew the truth. There they lived and trained for the day when the One Worlders would try to take over America.
He dreaded that day, but he'd be ready for it—ready to fight to the death to protect his freedom.
Miles yawned. He hadn't slept well last night. He'd had a dream about that day of invasion, when the New World Order's black helicopters peppered the sky as they came for him and his militia. He shuddered at the memory. He often had nightmares, but this one had been his worst ever. He'd awakened at four-thirty shaking and sweating.
He shook himself to wakefulness. Had to stay alert and wait to see where this so-called Jack Shelby character went from here.
22
The sound of a car turning into the driveway alerted Jack. He straightened, stretched, and crossed the backyard in a hurried crouch, slipping into the foundation shrubbery around the garage. The automatic door rolled up and the car eased into the garage. Jack recognized Gus's voice as the car doors opened.
"…just wish you hadn't said that, Ceil. It made me look real bad in front of Dave and Nancy."
"But no one took it the way you did," Ceil said.
Jack thought he detected a slight quaver in her voice. Too many vodkas? Or fear?
"Don't be so sure about that. I think they're just too good-mannered to show it, but I saw the shock in Nancy's eyes. Didn't you see the way she looked at me when you said that?"
"No. I didn't see anything of the sort. You're imagining things again."
"Oh, am I?"
Jack heard the jangle of keys in the lock in the door to the house.
"Y-yes. And besides, I've already apologized a dozen times since we left. What more do you want from me?"
"What I want, Ceil, is that it not keep happening like it does. Is that too much to ask?"
Ceil's reply was cut off as the garage door began to roll down. Jack returned to the rear of the house where he could get a view of most of the first floor. Their voices leaked out through an open casement window as Gus strode into the kitchen.
"…don't know why you keep doing this to me, Ceil. I try to be good, try to keep calm, but you keep testing me, pushing me to the limit again and again."
Ceil's voice came from the hall, overtly anxious now.
"But I told you, Gus. You're the only one who took it that way."
Jack watched Gus pull an insulated pot-holder mitten over his left hand, then wrap a dish towel around his right.
"Fine, Ceil. If that's what you want to believe, I guess you'll go on believing it. But unfortunately, that won't change what happened tonight."
Ceil came into the kitchen.
"But Gus—"
Her voice choked off as he turned toward her and she saw his hands.
"Why'd you do it, Ceil?"
"Oh, Gus, no! Please! I didn't mean it!"
She turned to run but he caught her upper arm and yanked her toward him.
"You should have kept your damn mouth shut, Ceil. I try so hard and then you go and get me mad."
He saw Gus take Ceil's wrist in his mittened hand and twist her arm behind her back, twist it up hard and high. She cried out in pain.
"Gus, please don't!"
Jack didn't want to see this, but he had to watch. Had to be sure.
Gus pressed Ceil against the side of the refrigerator. Her face was turned toward Jack, her cheek flattened against the enameled surface. He saw fear there, and terror and dread, but overriding it all was a sort of dull acceptance of the inevitable that reached into Jack's center and twisted.
Gus began ramming his padded fist into Ceil's back, right below the bottom ribs, left side and right, pummeling her kidneys. Eyes squeezed shut, teeth bared with pain she grunted with each impact.
"I hate you for making me do this," Gus said.
Sure you do, you son of a bitch.
Jack gripped the window sill and closed his eyes, but he could hear Ceil's repeated grunts and moans, and he felt her pain. He'd been kidney punched. He knew the agony.
But this had to end soon. Gus would vent his rage and it would all be over. For the next few days Ceil would have stabbing back pains every time she took a deep breath or coughed, and would urinate bright red blood, but she'd have hardly a mark on her, thanks to the mitten and the towel-wrapped fist.
It had to end soon.
It didn't. Jack looked again and saw that Ceil's knees had gone rubbery, but that didn't stop Gus. He was supporting her sagging body with the arm lock, and still methodically pummeling her.
Jack growled under his breath. All he'd wanted was to witness enough to confirm Schaffer's story. That done, he'd deal with dear sweet Gus outside the home. Maybe in a dark parking lot while Schaffer made sure he had an airtight alibi. He hadn't counted on a scene like this, though he'd been aware all along it was a possibility.
He knew the smart thing to do in this situation was to walk away. But he also knew himself well enough to be pretty sure he wouldn't be able to do that. So he'd come prepared.
Jack hurried across the backyard and snatched his gym bag from the perimeter shrubs. As he moved around to the far side of the house, he pulled out a nylon stocking and a pair of rubber surgical gloves; he slipped the first over his head and the second over his fingers. Then he removed the special .45 automatic, a pair of wire cutters, and a heavy-duty screwdriver. He stuck the pistol in his belt. He used the cutters on the telephone lead, then popped the latch on one of the living room windows with the screwdriver.
As soon as he was in the darkened room, he looked around for something to break. The first thing to catch his eye was the set of brass fire irons by the brick hearth. He kicked the stand over. The clang and clatter echoed through the house.
Gus's voice floated in from the kitchen.
"What the hell was that?"
When Gus arrived and flipped on the lights, Jack was waiting by the window. He almost smiled at the shock on Gus's face.
"Take it easy, man," Jack said, holding up an open, empty hand. He knew his face couldn't show much anxiety through the stocking mask so he put it all in his voice. "This is all a mistake."
"Who the hell are you?" Gus shouted. He bent and snatched the poker from the spilled fire irons. "And what are you doing in my house?"
"Listen, man. I didn't think anybody was home. Let's just forget this ever happened."
Gus pointed the poker at the gym bag in Jack's hand.
"What's in there? What'd you take?"
"Nothing, man. I just got here. And I'm outta here."
"Omigod!"
Ceil's voice, muffled. She stood at the edge of the living room, leaning against the wall, half bent over from the agony in her kidneys, both hands over her mouth.
"Call the police, Ceil. But tell them not to hurry. I want to teach this punk a lesson before they get here."
As Ceil limped back toward the kitchen, Gus shook off the mitten and the towel and raised the poker in a two-handed grip. His eyes glittered with anticipation. His tight, hard grin told it all: Pounding on his wife had got him up, but he could go only so far with her. Now he had a prowler at his mercy. He could beat the living shit out of this guy with impunity. In fact, he'd be a hero for doing it. His gaze settled on Jack's head like Babe Ruth eyeing a high-outside pitch. And Schaffer thought a few sessions with a psychiatrist was going to turn this guy into a loving husband? Right. When the Dodgers came back to Brooklyn.
Gus took two quick steps toward Jack and swung. No subtlety, not even a feint.
Jack ducked and let it whistle over his head. He could have put a wicked chop in Gus's exposed flank then, but he wasn't ready yet.
"Hey, man! Be cool! We can talk about this!"
"No, we can't," Gus said as he swung the poker back the other way, lower this time.
Jack jumped back and resisted planting a foot in the big man's reddening face.
"Whatta you tryin' t' do? Kill me?"
"Yes!"
Gus's third swing was vertical, from ceiling to floor. Jack was long gone when it arrived.
Gus's teeth were bared now; his breath hissed through them. His eyes were mad with rage and frustration. Time to goose that rage a little.
Jack grinned beneath the nylon. "You swing like a pussy, man."
With a guttural scream, Gus charged, wielding the poker like a scythe.
Jack ducked the first swing, then grabbed the poker and rammed his forearm into Gus's face with a satisfying crunch. Gus cried out and released his hold on the poker. He staggered back, eyes squeezed shut in agony, holding his nose. Blood began to leak between his fingers.
Never failed. No matter how big they were, a smashed nose tended to be a great equalizer.
Ceil hobbled back to the threshold. Her voice skirted the edge of hysteria.
"The phone's dead!"
"Don't worry, lady," Jack said. "I didn't come here to hurt nobody, and I won't hurt you. But this guy—he's a different story. He just tried to kill me."
As Jack dropped the poker and stepped toward him, Gus's eyes bulged with terror. He put out a bloody hand to fend him off. Jack grabbed the wrist and twisted. Gus wailed as he was turned and forced into an arm lock. Jack shoved him against the wall and began a bare-knuckled workout against his kidneys, wondering if the big man's brain would make a connection between what he'd been dishing out in the kitchen and what he was receiving in the living room.
Jack didn't hold back. He put plenty of body behind the punches, and Gus shouted in pain with each one.
How's it feel, tough guy? Like it?
Jack pounded him until he felt some of his own anger dissipate. He was about to let him go and move into the next stage of his plan when he sensed motion behind him.
As he turned his head he caught a glimpse of Ceil. She had the poker, and she was swinging it toward his head. He started to duck but too late. The room exploded into bright lights, then went dark gray.
An instant of blackness and then Jack found himself on the floor, pain exploding in his gut. He focused above him and saw Gus readying another kick at his midsection. He rolled away toward the corner. Something heavy thunked on the carpet as he moved.
"Christ, he's got a gun!" Gus shouted.
Jack had risen to a crouch by then. He made a move for the fallen .45 but Gus was ahead of him, snatching it from the floor before Jack could reach it.
Gus stepped back and worked the slide to chamber a round. He pointed the pistol at Jack's face.
"Stay right where you are, you bastard! Don't you move a muscle!"
Jack sat back on the floor in the corner and stared up at the big man.
"All right!" Gus said with a bloody grin. "All right!"
"I got him for you, didn't I, Gus?" Ceil said, still holding the poker. She was bent forward in pain. That swing had cost her. "I got him off you. I saved you, didn't I?
"Shut up, Ceil."
"But he was hurting you. I made him stop. I—"
"I said shut up!"
Her lower lip trembled. "I…I thought you'd be glad."
"Why should I be glad? If you hadn't got me so mad tonight I might've noticed he was here when we came in. Then he wouldn't have took me by surprise." He pointed to his swelling nose. "This is your fault, Ceil."
Ceil's shoulders slumped; she stared dully at the floor.
Jack didn't know what to make of Ceil. He'd interrupted her brutal beating at the hands of her husband, yet she'd come to the creep's aid. And valiantly, at that. But the gutsy little scrapper who'd wielded that poker seemed miles away from the cowed, beaten creature now standing in the middle of the room.
I don't get it.
Which was why he'd made a policy of refusing home repairs in the first place. From now on, no more exceptions.
"I'll go over to the Ferrises'," Ceil said.
"What for?"
"To call the police."
"Hold on a minute."
"Why?"
Jack glanced at Gus and saw how his eyes were flicking back and forth between Ceil and him.
"Because I'm thinking, that's why."
"Yeah," Jack said. "I can smell the wood burning."
"Hey!" Gus stepped toward Jack and raised the pistol as if to club him. "Another word out of you and—"
"You don't really want to get that close to me, do you?" Jack said softly.
Gus stepped back.
"Gus, I've got to call the police!" Ceil said as she replaced the poker by the fireplace, far out of Jack's reach.
"You're not going anywhere," Gus said. "Get over here."
Ceil meekly moved to his side.
"Not here!" he said, grabbing her shoulder and shoving her toward Jack. "Over there!"
She cried out with the pain in her back as she stumbled forward.
"Gus! What are you doing?"
Jack decided to stay in character. He grabbed Ceil's shoulders and—as gently as he could—turned her around. She struggled weakly as he held her between Gus and himself.
Gus laughed. "You'd better think of something else, fella. That skinny little broad's not gonna protect you from a forty-five."
"Gus!"
"Shut up! God, I'm sick of your voice! I'm sick of your face, I'm sick of—shit, I'm so sick of everything about you!"
Under his hands, Jack could feel Ceil's thin shoulders jerk with the impact of the words as if they were blows from a fist. A fist probably would have hurt less.
"B-but Gus, I thought you loved me."
He sneered. "Are you kidding? I hate you, Ceil! It drives me up a wall just to be in the same room with you! Why the hell do you think I beat the shit out of you every chance I get? It's all I can do to keep myself from killing you!"
"But all those times you said—"
"How I loved you?" he said, his face shifting to a contrite, hangdog expression. "How I didn't know what came over me, but I really, truly loooove you with all my heart?" The snarl returned. "And you believed it! God, you're such a pathetic wimp you fell for it every time."
"But why?" She was sobbing now. "Why?"
"You mean, why play games? Why not dump you and find a real woman—one who's got tits and can have kids? The answer should be pretty clear: your brother. He got me into Gorland 'cause he's one of their biggest customers. And if you and me go kaput, he'll see to it I'm out of there before the ink's dry on our divorce papers. I've put too many years into that job to blow it because of a sack of shit like you."
Ceil almost seemed to shrivel under Jack's hands.
He glared at Gus. "Big man."
"Yeah. I'm the big man. I've got the gun. And I want to thank you for it, fella, whoever you are. Because it's going to solve all my problems."
"What? My gun?"
He wanted to tell Gus to hurry up and use it, but Gus wanted to talk. The words spewed out like maggots from a ripe corpse.
"Yep. I've got a shitload of insurance on my dear wife here. I bought loads of term on her years ago and kept praying she'd have an accident. I was never so stupid as to try and set her up for something fatal—I know what happened to that Marshall guy in Jersey—but I figured, what the hell, with all the road fatalities around here, the odds of collecting on old Ceil were better than Lotto."
"Oh, Gus," she sobbed. An utterly miserable sound.
Her head sank until her chin touched her chest. She would have fan-folded to the floor if Jack hadn't been holding her up. He knew this was killing her, but he wanted her to hear it. Maybe it was the alarm she needed to wake her up.
Gus mimicked her. "'Oh, Gus!' Do you have any idea how many rainy nights you got my hopes up when you were late coming home from your card group? How I prayed—actually prayed—that you'd skidded off the road and wrapped your car around a utility pole, or that a big semi had run a light and plowed you under? Do you have any idea? But no. You'd come bouncing in as carefree as you please, and I'd be so disappointed I'd almost cry. That was when I really wanted to wring your scrawny neck!"
"That's just about enough, don't you think?" Jack said.
Gus sighed. "Yeah. I guess it is. But at least all those premiums weren't wasted. Tonight I collect."
Ceil's head lifted.
"What?"
"That's right. An armed robber broke in. During the struggle, I managed to get the gun away from him but he pulled you between us as I fired. You took the first bullet—right in the heart. In a berserk rage, I emptied the rest of the clip into his head. Such a tragedy." He raised the pistol and sighted it on Ceil's chest. "Goodbye, my dear sweet wife."
The metallic click of the hammer was barely audible over Ceil's wail of terror.
Her voice cut off as both she and Gus stared at the pistol.
"That could have been a dud," Jack said. "Man, I hate when that happens." He pointed to the top of the pistol. "Pull that slide back to chamber a fresh round."
Gus stared at him a second, then worked the slide. An unspent round popped out.
"There you go," Jack said. "Now, give it another shot, if you'll pardon the expression."
Looking confused, he aimed at Ceil again, and Jack detected a definite tremor in the barrel now. Gus pulled the trigger but this time Ceil didn't scream. She merely flinched at the sound of the hammer falling on another dud.
"Aw, maaaan? Jack said, drawing out the word into a whine. "You think you're buying good ammo and someone rips you off! Can't trust nobody these days!"
Gus quickly worked the slide and pulled the trigger again. Jack allowed two more misfires, then he stepped around Ceil and approached Gus.
Frantically Gus worked the slide and pulled the trigger again, aiming for Jack's face. Another impotent click. He began backing away when he saw Jack's smile.
"That's my dummy pistol, Gus. Actually, a genuine government-issue Mark IV, but the bullets are dummies—just like the guys I let get hold of it."
Jack brought it along when he wanted to see what somebody was really made of. In the right situation, it tended to draw the worst to the surface.
He bent and picked up the ejected rounds. He held one up for Gus to see.
"The slug is real," Jack said, "but there's no powder in the shell. It's an old rule: Never let an asshole near a loaded gun."
Gus charged, swinging the .45 at Jack's head. Jack caught his wrist and twisted the weapon from his fingers. Then he slammed it hard against the side of Gus's face, opening a gash. Gus tried to turn and run but Jack still had his arm. He hit him again, on the back of the head this time. Gus sagged to his knees and Jack put a lot of upper body behind the pistol as he brought it down once more on the top of his head. Gus stiffened, then toppled face first onto the floor.
Only seconds had passed. Jack spun to check on Ceil's whereabouts. She wasn't going to catch him twice. But no worry. She was right where he'd left her, standing in the corner, eyes closed, tears leaking out between the lids. Poor woman.
Nothing Jack wanted more than to be out of this crazy house. He'd been here too long already, but he had to finish this job now, get it done and over with.
He took Ceil's arm and gently led her from the living room.
"Nothing personal, lady, but I've got to put you in a safe place, okay? Someplace where you can't get near a fire poker. Understand?"
"He didn't love me," she said to no one in particular. "He stayed with me because of his job. He was lying all those times he said he loved me."
"I guess he was."
"Lying…"
He guided her to a closet in the hall and stood her inside among the winter coats.
"I'm just going to leave you here for a few minutes, okay?"
She was staring straight ahead. "All those years…lying…"
Jack closed her in the closet and wedged a ladder-back chair between the door and the wall on the other side of the hall. No way she could get out until he removed the chair.
Back in the living room, Gus was still out cold. Jack turned him over and tied his wrists to the stout wooden legs of the coffee table. He took two four-by-four wooden blocks from his gym bag and placed them under Gus's left lower leg, one just below the knee and the other just above the ankle. Then he removed a short-handled five-pound iron maul from the duffel.
He hesitated as he lifted the hammer.
"Consider this a life saving injury, Gus, old scout," he said in a low voice. "If you're not laid up, your brother-in-law will kill you."
Still Jack hesitated, then recalled Ceil's eyes as Gus methodically battered her kidneys—the pain, the resignation, the despair.
Jack broke Gus's left shin with one sharp blow. Gus groaned and writhed on the floor, but didn't regain consciousness. Jack repeated the process on the right leg. Then he packed up all his gear and returned to the hall.
He pulled the chair from where it was wedged against the closet door, and opened the door a crack.
"I'm leaving now, lady. When I'm gone you can go next door or wherever and call the police. Better call an ambulance too."
A single sob answered him.
Jack left by the back door. It felt good to get the stocking off his head. He'd feel even better to be far away from this house.
23
Jack took the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge back into Manhattan. Since that would drop him right in Gia's neighborhood, he figured he'd pop in on his way back to the hotel. Vicky would be asleep, but he hoped Gia would be up. After the grimness of the Castlemans, he needed a little sweetness and light.
He was about halfway across when he spotted the black sedan. He'd scanned the street when he'd left the Castlemans, but had seen no sign of it then. They must have been waiting somewhere along his return route.
Or…it simply could be a couple of guys who just happened to be heading into the city behind him, and just happened to be driving a black sedan.
Could be. But Jack wanted to know for sure.
When he reached the Manhattan side he took the downtown ramp, then made a full three-sixty loop around a single block. The black sedan stayed with him all the way, right behind him, not even bothering to hide its presence.
That did it. He'd been sucker punched on a stairwell, damn near killed by some sort of dog monkey, and clocked on the back of his head with a fireplace poker. It had been a bad day and he'd had it.
At the next red light, Jack slammed on the brakes, rammed the gearshift into park and jumped out of the car. Bursting with anger, he strode back to the Lincoln and yanked on the handle of the driver's door—locked. He pounded against the window.
"Open up, dammit!"
The window slid down and Jack found himself staring into the black lenses of a pair of sunglasses. He couldn't tell if this was the guy he'd chased or the one who'd punched him earlier today. They both looked alike and he could pick out no distinguishing marks on what little of their faces was visible.
Traffic was light on the street, but just then a red pickup truck pulled to a stop behind the black sedan. Jack waved him around—he didn't want any witnesses to the altercation he was sure was about to ensue, but the truck stayed put.
That bothered Jack a little. He thought he remembered seeing a red pickup in his rearview a couple of times since leaving the Castleman house, but couldn't be sure—he'd been concentrating on the black sedan. Who was it…backup for the jokers in the sedan, or just another late night traveler?
If it were a black pickup he'd definitely be worried but since it wasn't, he turned his attention back to the sedan.
"What's the story, guys?" he said, crouching slightly to look into the open window. "Who the hell are you and why're you following me? Is my life that much more interesting than yours?"
The driver merely stared up at him through his shades, saying nothing, his lips a straight line, his pale face expressionless, as if he were deciding whether this man was worthy of reply.
That expression plus the memory of Olive's mutilated body stoked Jack's already topped-off anger.
"Didn't your mothers ever teach you to take off your hats in a car? And what's with the shades at night? Don't you know that's dangerous?"
Jack shot his left hand into the car, aiming to knock off the jerk's hat and grab his sunglasses, but before his fingers were through the opening, the driver's black-gloved hand grabbed Jack's wrist and stopped him.
Jack tried to push farther in, but could not. And when he tried to pull free, he found his wrist imprisoned in a steely grip. Alarmed, he struggled but couldn't break free.
The light had changed to green. A horn sounded, not from the pickup truck, but from some car behind it. The black-gloved grip on his left wrist remained tight as a manacle. The fourth car, a battered old Toyota hatchback, chirped its tires and squeezed through the narrow, barely passable space on the far side of the pickup, the sedan, and Jack's rental, honking angrily all the way. The pickup didn't honk, didn't budge. Maybe the driver didn't think it could fit.
As soon as the Toyota was gone, Jack heard the door open on the other side of the sedan. He looked up and saw the passenger emerge. A carbon copy of the driver. He stared at Jack across the black roof of the car.
"Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?" the second one said in a hoarse, whispery voice.
"You're asking me?" Jack said. "Don't you know?"
The passenger held up a small cylinder in his black-gloved hand. His thumb pressed some sort of button, Jack heard a snikt! and an ice-pick-like needle suddenly jutted from the upper end. The green glow from the traffic light gleamed evilly along its narrow polished surface.
"Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?" he repeated, and slammed the door.
As the passenger started to move toward the front of the car, Jack grabbed the little finger on the driver's hand; with no little difficulty he worked it free and pried it up until he got a firm grip on it. Then he bent it sharply back.
He heard the bone snap. But that was all he heard—no cry from the driver, and not the slightest lessening of the lock grip on his wrist. The driver was still looking up at him—no change of expression. Hadn't even flinched.
A quick cold thrust of shock stabbed Jack's gut. He knew he'd broken that bone—he'd felt it give way. Didn't this guy have any nerves?
Jack punched the driver's face as the passenger passed the right headlight. The sunglasses flew off as his hat slid down over his face; Jack punched the fedora, but the iron grip never slackened. A quick glance showed the passenger rounding the left headlight and coming Jack's way, his big needle held high.
Time to bring out the artillery, Jack thought as he flexed his right knee to bring his ankle holster with the Semmerling within reach. But before he touched it, someone began firing.
Jack looked around. The shots had come from the pickup. The driver door was open and a man was standing behind it, aiming a pistol in a two-handed grip through the window opening. Jack couldn't see his face, but that wasn't important right now. What mattered was he wasn't firing at Jack—he was aiming for the passenger.
With an almost snakelike hiss, the passenger ducked into a crouch and jumped back into the car. The next bullet from the pickup went through the sedan's rear window.
"Whoa!" Jack shouted. "Easy back there!"
The driver still hadn't released Jack's arm, but that didn't stop him from throwing the car into gear and spinning the steering wheel.
"Hey!" Jack shouted, pounding on the roof as the car started to roll. "Hey, what the hell are you doing?"
"Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?" said that same voice from inside the car.
"I don't know!" Jack said as he began to be pulled along by the car.
The sedan picked up speed, moving past the rear bumper of Jack's car, clearing it by a couple of inches—maybe. If Jack didn't free himself right now, his legs would be pinned between the cars. He tried to take another poke at the driver but, because of his position, couldn't reach him with his right fist.
To save his legs, Jack stepped on his own car's bumper, jumped up onto the trunk, and then the driver gunned the sedan, pulling Jack along.
Frantic now, Jack saw he had a choice between being dragged along the street or riding on the sedan's roof. Hell of a choice. He did a belly flop onto the roof as the car picked up speed.
Jack knew he wasn't going to last long up here. He stretched, reached down, pulled the Semmerling. The chamber was empty so he clamped his teeth on the slide, drew it back, then let it spring forward. Turning his head away, he fired a .45 caliber slug through the roof into the general area of the front seat below him. The angle of his wrist made for a wild recoil. The Semmerling was not an autoloader so he had to work the slide with his teeth for every shot. Only rarely did he load full-jacket slugs, and unfortunately this was not one of those times. But the frangibles must have done some damage down below because the sedan suddenly swerved and the grip on his wrist loosened a bit—just enough for Jack to twist free.
The car careened into a turn, its tires screeching as they slipped sideways on the pavement. It lost speed and Jack knew this might be his only chance. He pushed back, avoiding the shattered glass of the rear window as he slid off the roof onto the trunk, then slipped off onto the street. He hit the pavement running just before the car picked up speed again.
His forward momentum was still too fast for his sneakered feet. He went down, landed on his shoulder and rolled halfway back to his feet, then slammed against the side of a car, denting its rear fender. He felt a quick wave of nausea but shook it off.
At least he'd stopped moving. He stood and rubbed his sore shoulder as the black sedan continued down the street. Other cars passed. He saw curious faces looking his way, but no one stopped.
At least not until the red pickup pulled up. Jack recognized the Jiffy-something guy with the gray crewcut behind the wheel: Miles Kenway.
"You all right?" Kenway called through the open passenger window.
What the hell was he doing here? "I've been better."
"Get in. I'll take you back to your car." Jack looked back. He'd barely traveled a block. "I can walk."
"Get in. We need to talk."
Jack hesitated, then figured, what the hell, the guy had probably saved his life—or at least his lips and eyes. Jack got in. The first things he noticed were Kenway's camouflage pants and jacket. Camo? In the city?
"Damn good thing I followed you tonight," Kenway said as he shoved the truck into gear.
"And why were you doing that?"
"Thought you might be working for them."
"Who? The men in black?"
"Don't call them that. That's what the UFO nuts call them. They're NWO operatives."
"NW—?"
"I'll explain later. Obviously you're not with them."
"Obviously."
"But then again, maybe that little scene was all a charade for my benefit, to suck me in, get me thinking of you as an ally."
"Could be," Jack said, nodding, and thinking, Hey, I can be paranoid too. "Or…your rescuing me from that little scene could have been a charade for my benefit, to suck me in, get me thinking of you as an ally."
Kenway glanced at him and gave him a slow smile. "Yeah, I guess you could look at it like that. But trust me, Shelby—you're riding with the New World Order's worst nightmare."
"Call me Jack."
"Okay, Jack," he said, pulling to a stop behind Jack's car. "Meet me back at the hotel. I need to debrief you. And don't try confronting these guys again without backup. They're tough"
Tell me about it, Jack thought, rubbing his wrist. He jumped out of the pickup.
"Thanks."
Kenway gave him a thumbs-up and roared away.
Well, Jack had been looking for a way to get to Kenway. Maybe he could turn this "debriefing" into a two-way exchange.
As he turned toward his car, something crunched under his foot. Looked like sunglasses. The ones he'd knocked off the driver? He picked them up—no, not quite sunglasses, just the frames. Thick black frames. But where were the lenses?
He searched the pavement. The light wasn't great but he should have been able to spot black pieces among the glittery shards of shattered car window glass. He found nothing.
Odd…
24
Jack ditched the idea of dropping in on Gia. If he was being tailed, he didn't want the followers knowing anything about Gia and Vicky. Instead, he headed back to the hotel.
He found Kenway waiting for him in the lobby. He wasn't exactly standing at attention, but his spine was so straight, his bearing so erect, he might have been waiting for military inspection. His camo stood out among the more civilian types coming and going around him, but no one paid him much notice.
"All right," Jack said as he reached him. "What—?"
"My room," Kenway said, and marched off toward the elevators.
Amused, Jack followed the shorter man. For the first few paces he resisted the temptation to fall into lockstep directly behind him, then gave in. He even saluted a couple of passersby.
As they entered Kenway's room on the seventh floor, the older man stopped Jack just inside the door.
"Wait here."
All the lights were on. Jack gave the place a quick once-over. No shadows, no place for a big dog-monkey to hide. Good. He watched Kenway cross the room and take a little black box from atop the TV. He pressed a few buttons, then nodded with satisfaction.
"All right. Come in."
"What's that?" Jack said, pointing to the box.
"A little something of my own invention," he said proudly. "A motion detector-recorder. It records the time of any motion in the room. Right now it shows clear readings since the time I left until half a minute ago when we entered. That means no one's been in while I've been out."
"Pretty neat," Jack said, and meant it. He wouldn't mind having a few of those himself. "Anytime you decide to put them on the market, I'll be your first customer."
This seemed to please Kenway, which was one of the reasons Jack had said it. No harm in softening up the guy.
Kenway offered Jack a scotch from the minibar. Jack refused but that didn't deter Kenway from pouring himself a Dewar's, neat.
"Good thing you were traveling armed," Kenway said. "I saw you shoot through the roof. Good move. What are you carrying?"
Jack handed over the empty Semmerling and Kenway laughed.
"I've heard of these but never held one. Cute little baby." He reached under his camo top to the small of his back and came up with a 1911A1 Colt .45. "Here's it's daddy. Best damn handgun ever made."
Jack smiled. "I'll be glad to play 'mine is bigger than yours' some other time, but right now I'd like to know why you were following me."
Kenway pointed his .45 at Jack's chest. "I'll be asking the questions here."
"Ooh, scary," Jack said, broadening his grin. "We both know you're not going to fire that. Lose it now or I'm out of here."
Jack met and held Kenway's gaze. He didn't exactly know that Kenway wasn't going to shoot him, but he was pretty damn sure. A .45 makes one hell of a racket, especially indoors. Kenway had to know that the whole floor would hear it and someone would call the desk to see what was going on.
Finally Kenway sighed and stuffed his pistol back inside his shirt.
"You're a cool one," he said, handing back the Semmerling. "Whoever you are. And don't give me that Jack Shelby shit because I ran a background on you and you're not Jack Shelby."
Background…the very word sent snakes of dread crawling through his veins. He'd known from the start that a paranoid guy out of Army Intelligence would be trouble, but he hadn't counted on a full background check.
"Strange," Jack said, trying to keep cool, "that's what my First Annual SESOUP Conference badge says."
"Don't play cute."
"Well, if I'm not Shelby, who am I?"
"Damned if I know!" He took a sip of his scotch. "Can't tell you your real name at this point, only that it isn't Jack Shelby. That's probably just something you pulled out of the air. But I'm willing to bet those NWO operatives know who you are."
New, bigger dread-snakes wriggling in Jack's veins.
"Maybe they came up empty too," Kenway said. "And maybe they were following you for the same reason as I was—to find out who the hell you are. What I found is you're some kind of creep—a lousy Peeping Tom."
"A Peeping Tom?"
"Don't play innocent with me. I saw you watching that woman out in Queens. Christ, fella, get a life!"
Jack ran a hand over his mouth to hide an incipient grin. This guy follows me around and watches me watch the Castlemans—and he thinks I need a life. He wondered if Kenway had seen the fight.
"You watched me all night?"
"Only for a few minutes," Kenway said, "Then I waited in my truck." He narrowed his eyes. "And I bet that story of your experience out in the Jersey pines is as bogus as your name."
"How do you know I didn't change my name because I don't want to be connected with that story? Maybe I have a job and a family and I just don't want everybody thinking I'm nuts. That ever occur to you?"
"Of course it did. Nobody knows better than me how people fear the truth. But some of us have the guts to stand up and be counted. If what you said is true, you probably stumbled on a New World Order outpost. They tend to set up in remote areas, especially in national parks. Did you see any black helicopters?"
"You asked me that the other night. I told you, it was dark—night, remember?"
"Oh, right. I do remember. But did you hear a helicopter?"
"Not that I recall." Jack wasn't interested in black helicopters. He wanted to turn the discussion toward Melanie Ehler. "Maybe you should ask Melanie. She seemed to know all about what happened to me."
"I wish I could. If there's an NWO outpost in the pinelands, I want to know about it."
"What about her Grand Unification Theory? You think—?"
"Frankly I don't give a damn about her theory. If it doesn't center on the New World Order, then it's flat-out-wrong."
A little heat there, Jack thought. If he could get Kenway rolling, maybe he'd make a slip.
"What's this New World Order you keep mentioning? Wasn't George Bush talking about that after the Gulf War?"
Kenway nodded vigorously. "Damn right he was." He leaned forward, and Jack got the impression he'd been waiting for Jack to ask about the NWO. "Remember how he was the hero of the country then, of the whole damn so-called free world? His reelection looked to be a sure thing, didn't it. But he slipped up, got carried away and spilled the beans about the New World Order. That was a no-no. Not bad enough to be punishable by death, but they had to take him out of the limelight. And that's why 'the guy who couldn't lose' was not reelected. When people talk about the 1992 Presidential race, they always mention Bush's lame, lackluster campaign. That's because he'd been told he was going to lose."
"So who's behind this New World Order?" Jack said. "Aliens?"
"Aliens?" Kenway said with the expression of someone who'd just stepped into a Portapotty at the National Chili Eating Contest. "I see Zaleski has been bending your ear. Look, Jim and his kind mean well enough, but the UFO types who aren't outright kooks are dupes. These flying saucers they're seeing aren't from outer space—they're from right here on Earth, experimental craft built by the One Worlders."
"What about Roswell and—?"
"Staged—all staged. That alien saucer crash baloney is all disinformation to distract people form the real truth. And I've got to hand it to them, they've done a masterful job—that intentionally clumsy fake cover-up at Roswell was a work of genius. But if you want the real skinny, you've got to go back to the nineteenth century." He finished his scotch. "You sure you don't want one?"
"Well, if we're going back to the eighteen hundreds…maybe a beer."
"Good," Kenway said, pulling a Heineken from the bar. "It all starts with a guy named Cecil Rhodes. You remember Rhodesia? He's the Rhodes in Rhodesia. A British financier and statesman. A true believer in the Empire. He formed a secret society called the Round Table whose members were dedicated to seeing the entire globe under one world government. And to their minds at the time, the ideal One World government was the British Empire. Rhodes's special interest was Africa. Wanted to add the whole continent to the Empire, became a small-scale tyrant in the process, but ultimately failed. His One World legacy lives on, however."
Kenway popped the top on Jack's beer and handed it to him.
"After World War One, the British Empire fell apart, so Rhodes's heirs had to try a different tactic. They formed two front organizations: the Council on Foreign Relations, then the Trilateral Commission. You've heard of those, I take it?"
"Heard of them," Jack said, sipping his beer. "But damned if I know what they do."
"Hardly anyone knows what they really do. But in a 1975 report the Trilateral Commission said that there could be, in certain situations—and I quote—'an excess of democracy.' Can you believe that?"
"Can you believe how little I'm surprised?" Jack said. "Or care?"
"You damn well should care. Between NATO and the EC, they've got Europe pretty much in their pocket. And the UN—which they run—has the Third World sewn up. The only piece missing is the old US of A and they're making great headway here. Just consider: nearly every president and secretary of state is or was a member of the CFR and/or the Trilateral Commission. Bill Clinton's an even better example: he's with the Trilateral Commission, the CFR, and he's a Rhodes Scholar! He went to Oxford on Cecil Rhodes money! That's why he was tapped to replace George Bush."
"This is a little scary," Jack said, and meant it. Kenway's scenario wasn't quite as easy to dismiss as aliens and antichrists.
"A little scary? You don't know the half of it. Europe has pretty much surrendered, but the American people aren't playing ball. That means it's dirty tricks time, and the all-time masters of dirty tricks work for the CIA—which the NWO has controlled since its inception. It's public-knowledge now that the CIA has been running mind-control experiments since the fifties. MK-ULTRA is the best-known. That one was exposed in Congress and the government has had to pay off the victims of those early LSD experiments."
"I read something about that a while ago," Jack said.
"Big embarrassment. They slipped up on that one. But there are so many other projects that've remained secret—remote viewing, HAARP, mind-control implants, brainwashing. The agents you dealt with tonight are the results of their mind-control and programming experiments."
"Yeah?" Jack said, rubbing his sore wrist. Something more going on with those two than mind control.
"Trust me: they were. The NWO has been dabbling in programmed suicide too—the Jonestown and Heaven's Gate mass suicides are their most successful tests—but they've generally failed in their quest to program the whole country. So lately they've been concentrating on the US military."
"You're ex-military, I'm told."
"With the emphasis on ex," Ken way said. "I got a look at some NATO papers that scared the shit out of me. That's why I retired. You see, the New World Order bosses have resigned themselves to the fact that force will be necessary to tame America. But first they have to soften us up. The plan is to weaken the American economy by shipping jobs out of the country with treaties like NAFTA, and hamstringing industry with whacked-out environmental restraints. Then they'll try to push us toward Kosovo-style anarchy with church bombings, and more Ruby Ridge and Waco-type incidents. When all hell finally breaks loose, United Nations 'peacekeepers' will be called in to 'quiet' things down. But the forces won't have to be shipped in because they're already here; As I mentioned before, foreign UN troops are secretly camped out in our national parks and in wildernesses like the pine barrens, and when they charge out, our own soldiers will put on blue UN helmets and join them. Why? Because they've all been brainwashed by the CIA mind-control projects I told you about."
Kenway paused for breath and unlocked the briefcase on the desk. He pulled a map of the United States and handed it to Jack. Little hand-drawn stars were scattered across the country.
"These are confirmed UN troop locations and planned concentration camp sites. Black helicopters will darken the skies and people like me will be rounded up and placed in concentration camps where we'll be 're-educated.' But not without a fight, brother. I and others like me will fight to the death to keep America from becomifig enslaved."
Jack handed back the map and said nothing. It would be so easy to get sucked into Kenway's world—the reasoning and pseudologic were so convincing on the surface—but he wasn't buying.
"Well?" Kenway said. "Want to join me? I saw the way you handled yourself tonight. We can always use someone like you."
"I'll think about it," Jack said, hoping to avoid a sales pitch. "But I can't help wondering why these New World Order types should bother with an armed takeover. I mean, considering how nowadays people are slugging away at two and three jobs to make ends meet, how Mr. and Mrs. Average American are working until mid-May every year just to pay their federal income tax, and then on top of that they pay state and city income taxes, and then after those they've got to fork over sales taxes, property taxes, excise taxes, and surcharges, not to mention all the hidden expenses passed on in day-to-day prices jacked up by license fees and endless streams of regulations from OSHA and all the other two-bit government regulatory agencies. By the time Mr. and Mrs. Citizen are through they've surrendered seventy-five percent of their earnings to the bureaucracy. Seems to me like the NWO boys have already got you right where they want you."
"No, no, no!" Kenway said, his face reddening as he vigorously shook his head. "An armed takeover! That's how it will happen! That's how they'll take away our freedoms and make us slaves, make us property!"
A little touchy, aren't we? Jack thought as he finished his beer. Let's try one extra nudge.
"As I see it, that's pretty much what you already are. If and when this takeover comes, the only difference will be you'll no longer be able to kid yourself that you're not property."
Kenway stared at him, mouth slightly parted. Then his eyes narrowed. "You keep saying 'you' as if you're not involved."
Uh-oh. This was veering into areas Jack did not want to go. His own lifestyle was off limits.
"Just a way of putting it," he said, rising. "Time to go. Thanks for the help tonight, and the beer."
"No, wait," Kenway said. "There's so much more to discuss."
"Thanks, but I need my beauty sleep." He turned toward the door, then turned back. "By the way…you said you checked me out. Ever check out Roma?"
"Damn straight—six ways from Sunday, and Professor Salvatore Roma of Northern Kentucky University passed with flying colors. I don't particularly like the fellow, but he's the real deal."
"Yeah?" He kept thinking about Roma being spotted in Monroe with Melanie before she disappeared, and then lying about having never met her.
"Ever see a picture of him?"
Kenway laughed. "Why should I want to? I know what he looks like. I've been looking at his pretty puss for two days now."
"You know what the guy calling himself Professor Salvatore Roma who started SESOUP looks like. But does he look the same as the professor you checked out at Northern Kentucky U?"
Kenway's smile vanished like a coin in a magician's hand. "What are you saying?"
"Just wondering. Does SESOUP mail go to Roma's faculty office, his home, or a post office box?"
"A P.O. box."
Jack smiled and shook his head. "I think you'd better get that faculty photo."
Miles's eyes widened. "You mean they're different people?"
Jack held up his hands. "Didn't say that. It's just you never know till you check. Usurping someone's identity is surprisingly easy."
"Oh, really?" Kenway's eyes narrowed. "How do you know so much about it?"
"Gotta go," Jack said, heading for the door.
"All right, some other time then," Kenway said. "But just to be sure, I'm going to get a picture of the university Roma."
"You can do that?"
"I'll have it within twenty-four hours, tops."
"Love to see it when you get it."
Kenway started following Jack to the door, but stopped at the desk to scribble on a hotel pad. He tore off the sheet and handed it to Jack.
"Think about what I said. Here's my pager number. Any time you want to talk about joining us, call me. I like the way you think."
He unlatched the door and used the peephole before opening it. Then he stuck his head out and peered up and down the hall.
"And be careful," he said. "They're watching you."
Jack stepped out into the hall. He could feel Kenway's eyes on his back as he walked away.
And so are you, he thought. Lately it seems like everybody's watching me.