Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers (4 page)

Cal had to smile despite the situation. He'd never heard it put that way, but the guy was dead on the mark.

"So Ah'm asking y'all one more time: What was yer plans for the girl?"

Hell, might as well tell him.

"Get her back to her family."

"Really now. Well, that's right white o' you. And how was you plannin' to do this fine thing?"

"Leave her on a park bench, call nine-one-one, and keep watch till the cops showed."

"Fine idea! Let's do 'er!"

The response caught Cal off guard. If this guy wanted the same thing they wanted, why was he doing this?

Obviously he hadn't known their plan. Cal found that faintly reassuring: At least he didn't know everything.

But he seemed cool with the plan. Which meant he was looking out for the girl. And that put them on the same side.

So weird. His training had prepared him for dealing with an enemy who had the drop on him. But a non-enemy…?

"Where we a-goin'?" the guy said.

"We ride around and check the parks until we find a bench where we can do a discreet drop off."

"All right then, y'all stay straight ahead here on Worth. We'll check out Columbus Park when we come to 'er."

This guy—definitely a New Yorker.

They cruised Worth, passing the Javits Federal Building on the right, and came to a park on the left. Looked deserted. A wrought-iron fence ringed the perimeter. Benches had been placed outside the fence in alcoves along the sidewalk.

"Turn onto Mulberry," the guy said. "And go slow."

Cal complied.

As they approached one of the bench alcoves the guy said, "Okay, stop. Them benches look like good 'uns. We'll put 'er there. Driver man, you'll do the honors."

Cal pulled into the curb and hurried to the passenger side. One quick look around to make sure no one was nearby, then he bundled the girl in his arms and hurried her over to the bench. He stretched her out and pulled the sheet down to expose her face. If she stayed out here like this too long she'd freeze to death. But if Emergency Services did their job, she'd be in the back of an ambulance long before.

It occurred to Cal then that he could simply take off and leave the ersatz Southerner with Miller and Zeklos.
Then
what would he do?

He shook off the idea.
Yeniçeri
didn't run out on each other. No one, alive or dead, was ever left behind.

He hopped back into the front seat and got the car moving.

"Make the call," the guy said. "Then let's find us a place where we can sit and watch."

Cal found a spot near the corner of White and Baxter that gave them a clear view of the bench. A minute after they'd settled in he saw a figure strolling by. The man stopped at the bench, bent for a closer look. Cal watched him fumble his cell out of a pocket and start hitting buttons. That done, he took off his overcoat and draped it over the girl.

This city had a bad rap for being rude and uncaring. Yeah, it had its share of creeps, but it also housed millions of good Samaritans.

5

An ambulance finally arrived and they all watched until it loaded the girl and roared away.

Now what? Cal thought.

The guy must have read his mind.

"Okay. We got 'er done. Now let's move this party up to Canal Street."

"What for?"

"That's where you're a-droppin' me off."

Dropping him off… Cal liked the sound of that.

They reached Canal, bustling despite the cold.

"This here looks good. Pull over and pop the tailgate."

"And what if I don't?"

"Then I step over some twitchin' bodies and go out a side door. Yer call."

Cal pulled over and popped the tailgate.

"I'll drop this bag o' guns off in a trash can about a block upstream. You can pick 'em up there."

As the guy turned to go, Miller swung an arm back and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket—just a few fingers' worth. In a blur of motion the guy had the muzzle of the Glock between Miller's eyes.

"Miller, no!"

"That's right, Miller. Y'all've played real nice up till now. Let's not go ruin it."

Cal tried to see his face but could make out only a few features in the darkness back there. His hand snaked toward the courtesy-light button, but he pulled it back. Not a good idea to startle the guy while he had a gun to Miller's head.

"Not ruining anything," Miller said softly. "Just want to know where I can get in touch with you, so we can, you know, grab a beer, get acquainted."

"You can't."

"Who are you?" Cal said. Not that he expected an answer.

"No one."

"Who're you working for?"

"Me."

And then the guy was out of the car and walking away with his shopping bag.

"After that son of a bitch!" Miller said.

Cal's sentiments exactly. But backing up on Canal was out of the question. So was a U-turn. Had to be on foot.

He jumped out of the car and hurried along the sidewalk, angling this way and that through the pedestrians. Miller started out behind but soon took the lead. Cal could tell by the bunch of his huge shoulders that he was in a barely contained rage, ready to grab and toss aside anyone who got in his way. People must have sensed that because they veered out of his path.

They collected stares, and why not. Three guys in black suits and hats and dark glasses barreling along the sidewalk.

"Hey!" said Zeklos from the rear. "I have found them!"

Cal turned and saw him by a trash can holding a Gristedes shopping bag. He reached Zeklos first and had the bag tucked under his arm by the time Miller arrived.

"Gimme mine," Miller said.

Cal shook his head. "Not here."

Miller's face reddened. "I want—"

Cal nodded toward the subway entrance on the corner.

"He's gone. We'll never catch him now."

Miller surprised him by smiling—a real smile lasting more than a nanosecond. "That's what you think. And that's what
he
thinks. But you're both wrong."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"You know those RF transponders we were gonna use to trace the creeps?"

"Yeah. So—?" And then he understood. "You stuck one on him?"

"Damn straight. When I grabbed his coat."

Cal had to smile. "Miller, sometimes you really surprise me."

"Not as surprised as this asshole when we show up at his front door."

Zeklos was rubbing his mouth.

"My teeth are not so bad as he say, yes?"

6

What a weird night.

Jack sat alone at his table in Julio's. After training up from Chinatown he'd stopped in to do some thinking over a brew or two. Halfway through his first and still hadn't found any answers.

For a while there he hadn't been sure he'd ever make it back, not with how Rico had almost blown it. He'd seen Jack climb into the rear of the Suburban and decided it was time to collect his money.

But the suits had been too intent on getting the girl into the car to pay any attention. Just another sidewalk crazy.

The suits… those three guys… armed to the teeth with quality heat and about as ruthless as they come. What were they—vigilantes?

And what was it with the black suits and fedoras? Some sort of uniform?

What Jack really wanted to know was where they'd gotten their information. They'd burst in as if they knew exactly what they'd find. But the question was, had they been there to interrupt some sort of ceremony and save the victim, or was it Cailin in particular they were protecting? Was there something special about her?

And who the hell sent them? Timmy?

Just then the man in question turned from the bar and, cell phone in hand, all but fell over himself rushing to his table.

"Jack! My God, Jack, you did it!"

"Did what?"

Timmy sat and lowered his voice. "My sister just called. They found Cailin out cold on a park bench downtown."

"Great! She okay?"

"Yes! That's the beauty part. She was drugged but she's out of it now. No sign of being, you know, molested or anything. The only thing out of line was her clothes were missing and someone had drawn these designs all over her body. Really weird-looking stuff, according to Sally."

"Well, that's great news."

"Trouble is the cops want to take pictures of the squiggles and Sally's fighting them. They say it's a clue and it's evidence, she says she's not going to have pictures of her little girl in the buff floating around every precinct locker room in the city." He puddled up and sniffed. "Thanks, Jack."

"What makes you so sure I had anything to do with it?"

"Come on, Jack. You bullshitting a bullshitter?"

This was always a problem when he did something for someone he knew—something they might want to brag about.
Yeah, I told this friend of mine and he took care of it for me. Just like that
. And then people want to know who the friend is. Most of Jack's fix-its involved means and methods that his paying customers preferred not to be connected with, so they kept mum.

Just as Jack would keep mum and let that good Samaritan get all the credit for finding her. The downside of that was he'd have to pay Louie and the two or three connections downstream from him—including crazy Rico—out of his own pocket, probably to the tune of a couple of grand.

But it was worth it. Jack hadn't felt this alive in weeks.

"You put anyone else on her trail, Timmy?"

"You're the only guy like you I know."

Jack didn't know whether to believe him or not.

"Well, Tim, maybe she was kidnapped by some mad doodler who wanted her to be a living work of art."

"Doodler? Guy's a sicko."

Okay. He talked like the snatch was a solo act and he'd just used the present tense. Obviously he didn't know what had gone down in that basement.

Timmy was staring at him. "You
sure
you didn't have anything to do with this?"

Jack lifted a hand, palm out. "I made some calls, but Timmy I swear I did not put your niece on that bench."

"Okay, then." He rose and extended his hand. "But thanks anyway for trying. I've got to get down to the hospital. I—" Timmy stopped, frowned, and pointed to the bench next to Jack. "Hey, you got something stuck on your coat."

And then he was heading for the door.

Jack looked down at his bomber jacket and saw a black, dime-size disk stuck to the leather. He pulled it off and held it up to the light.

Damn thing looked like an electronic bug or—

He went cold.

Or a tracking device.

And if so, he'd led them here.

But maybe not yet. Maybe he still had a chance.

Timmy, he thought as he hopped from his seat and hurried toward Julio's front door, you just paid me back more than you'll ever know.

7

Cal rode shotgun with the mobile tracking receiver on his lap while Zeklos drove and Miller hung over the backrest, watching the blip on the tracker.

"Looks like Upper West Side," Miller said.

Cal nodded as he studied the screen. Things looked good. They were stuck on Amsterdam and 70th in the perpetual traffic jam where Broadway pushed through on a diagonal. The transponder was signaling from almost dead ahead. The guy hadn't moved for maybe ten minutes.

"Mid eighties is my guess."

Zeklos said, "It will not be long now."

They'd already had the tracking receiver in the car because the original plan—before Miller killed them—had been to follow the three mouth breathers to others of their breed. But the black suits were a problem, so they'd stopped long enough for a change. The suits had their uses, but not when sneaking up on somebody who might have an eye out for them. They'd chosen nondescript civvies from the collection in the back of the truck, but layered. Who knew—they might have to spend some time out in the cold.

"My guess is he's home."

Miller leaned back.

"Isn't that nice. Probably warming his feet by a fire. Hope he's comfy. He's about to have company."

"Yes, he is, but no shooting unless you have to. I want to know who this guy is and where he fits into the big picture."

"Fine," Miller said, "but he's got some dues to pay for sticking that gun in the back of my neck."

Miller… a goddamn loose cannon. And Zeklos… Zeklos had competency issues.

"Look, he could have pulled the trigger, but he didn't. He didn't mess with the girl and he gave us back our hardware. We're no worse for the wear. Not even a scratch. So ease up."