Repairman Jack [05]-Hosts (22 page)

He noticed a woman standing across the street, staring. Not at them. Above them. She seemed to be in a trance. Something familiar about her face.

"What's wrong?" Gia said.

"Check out that blond woman over there. Do we know her?"

"Never seen her before."

Jack followed the line of the woman's stare and felt a stab of uneasiness when he realized she'd drawn a bead on the west corner of the third floor.

Gia whispered, "She's staring at Jeanette's apartment."

He looked at the woman again and now he recognized her. From the séance or whatever it was in the Bronx last night.

"I don't like this," Jack said. Not with Kate in that apartment.

"Look over there," Gia said, cocking her head to the left. "Down on the corner."

Jack spotted the man immediately. Although Jack didn't recognize him—a number of people at the séance had had their backs to him when he'd peeked in—he felt sure he was with the cult. Because he too was staring up at Jeanette's apartment.

How many more weirdos out tonight? he wondered as he scanned the block. He spotted none beyond these two.

Jack stepped to the curb for his own look at Jeanette's windows and spotted a human silhouette standing in one of them. A Bates Motel chill rippled across his shoulders. The open-mouthed terra cotta head glaring down at him from atop the window arch frieze only added to his unease.

Then the shadow disappeared from the window. Jack did a quick review of the apartment layout and decided it had to be Jeanette's study. Was she coming out to join the others?

"Let's move over here," Jack said, guiding Gia away from the vestibule's light wash and into the shadows.

Sure enough, minutes later Jeanette emerged. She crossed the street and joined the other two. The trio glided off toward Seventh Avenue.

"This is creepy," Gia said. Jack could feel her shiver as she clutched his arm and leaned against him. "Like some of those movies you make me watch. Where do you think they're going?"

"Looking for a cab to take them to the Bronx, I'll bet." But he didn't care about them. It was his sister who concerned him. "I've got to check on Kate."

He stepped back to the apartment house door and pressed the button labeled J. VEGA. Three times. Finally Kate answered.

"Yes?"

"Kate, it's Jack. I just saw Jeanette leave. Are you all right?"

"Of course." Even through the tinny little speaker Jack thought her voice sounded thick with emotion. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Can I come up, Kate?" He glanced at Gia for approval and she gave him a combination shrug-nod. "I'd like to talk to you."

"Not tonight, Jack. Maybe tomorrow. It's been a long day and I'm not feeling that great."

"You're sure you're all right, Kate?"

"I'm fine, Jack. Fine."

That last word, couched in a sob, tore his heart.

"Kate…"

But she'd broken the connection.

Jack turned to Gia and slipped his arms around her. "I can't stand this," he said, pulling her close and resting his cheek against hers.

She caressed his back and whispered, "I know. You're the fix-it man and you can't fix this."

"I don't even know where to start."

"Let's go home. Things may look different in the morning."

"Yeah."

But he doubted it.

FRIDAY

1

Sandy found Beth in the kitchen making fresh coffee when he burst into the apartment with the morning edition.

"Ta-daaaa!" he cried as he held up the front page.

Beth shrieked and ran to him. She'd moved some of her clothes into his apartment yesterday; she was barefoot in tight little shorts and a T-shirt and she looked so good Sandy wanted to grab her and hug her, but she snatched the paper from him and held the tabloid at arms length, staring at the three-word headline large enough to read from a block away.

THE

SAVIOR

SPEAKS!

"'An exclusive interview for
The Light
by Sandy Palmer'!" she said, reading the italic refer running along the bottom. "Sandy! Your name's on the front page!"

"I know, I know! Isn't it awesome!"

"Totally! I've so got to read this!" She opened to page three. "'"Call me anything you want," the man known as The Savior said. "The one thing I'm not telling you is my name."'" She looked up at him and smiled. "What a great opening line!"

While Beth stood there reading, Sandy wandered about the front room, unable to sit or even stand still. Every giddy nerve in his body was singing a joyful tune and his stomach tingled, almost to the point of nausea. Today was without a doubt the best day of his life, and the best moment of this day was when he'd stopped in front of the newsstand and gaped at that front page. For a full minute at least he'd stood frozen, couldn't even reach into his pocket for the change to buy a copy. And during that minute he'd seen one person after another pass up the
Times
and the
News
and the
Post
and go for
The Light
.

Mine. My
Light
.

He'd sure as hell earned it. Yesterday he'd thought he was home free after weathering an intense grilling by George Meschke and the other editors; then McCann showed up and put Sandy in the hot seat, firing questions from all angles, obviously hoping he'd contradict himself. He pushed Sandy almost to the breaking point.

"Am I on trial here?" he'd finally shouted. "All I did was answer the goddamn phone! Since when is that a crime?"

And that had brought Meschke to his rescue. He'd told McCann they were satisfied with the story's authenticity and were running it in the morning. McCann reluctantly backed off.

"Well, at least we know he was a SEAL," the big detective had said. "Or at least he says he was. That's a boost. Only so many guys make it all the way through SEAL training. We'll get the Navy on this."

He'd extracted a promise that the make and model of the Savior's pistol would not be mentioned, then stormed off.

But beyond the front page, beyond the interview, was the fact that
The Light
, for the first time in its fifty-year history, was putting out a second issue in the same week. They'd contacted their advertisers, pulled out all the backlogged restaurant and book and theater reviews and packed them into the back pages to fill out the count. Then they'd contacted their distributor for delivery of a Special Edition that would be four times their usual run.

All because of
moi
, he thought. I'm making this paper go.

"Awesome!" Beth said, lowering the paper and fixing those big brown eyes on him. " 'We're all alive today because of a criminal act.' Totally, totally awesome!"

"You like it? You think it was well written?"

Sandy hung on her answer. Beth admired him, she made love to him, but he wanted her respect, too.

"Absolutely! But it must have been so weird talking to him on the phone. I mean, he saved our lives. I wish 1 could remember what he looked like, don't you?"

The question put Sandy on alert, blunting his high. He'd been dying to tell Beth about his meeting with the Savior, and a couple of times last night he'd caught himself just as he'd been ready to blurt it out. He was afraid he'd explode if he didn't tell someone soon.

But he couldn't risk it. Not even with Beth. If she let it slip, he would come under relentless pressure. Maybe he could tell her later, after things cooled down a bit. Or maybe he'd save it for his book on the Savior; what a great hook to be able to reveal that he'd actually sat and talked face to face with the mystery man.

"What would you do if you could remember?" Sandy asked.

"You mean, like if someone hypnotized me and suddenly I could see his face?" Her eyes lit. "Hey! That might be something I could use in my film!"

She jumped to the cluttered table he used as a home desk and jotted a few lines on a pad.

"But if you could remember," he repeated, "what would you do?"

She looked at him. "Tell you the truth, I'm not sure. Yesterday I would have told the world. But just a few minutes ago, while you were out, I was channel surfing and came across
To Kill A Mockingbird
. I love black-and-white films and I've seen it at least two dozen times. It was the scene where Scout and Jem are attacked in the woods, and then someone they don't see kills their attacker. Turns out it's Boo Radley, but Atticus decides not to tell anyone because it would ruin Boo's life. And it hit me: maybe the Savior is like Boo Radley—an otherwise harmless recluse who jumped in when he was needed, but whose life would be ruined by publicity."

"This guy's not harmless," Sandy said. "And no way anybody's going to mistake him for a mockingbird."

"Maybe not, but…" Beth shrugged. "What's he sound like?"

"Like a regular guy. No real accent I could identify." No lie there. He glanced at his watch. "I'm expected at the office."

Sandy had decided to get down to
The Light
so he could bask in the buzz. He expected some of the other reporters, especially the older ones, to be jealous, but he hoped most everybody else would be happy for him. Another round of handshaking and backslapping would be in order. And this time, without an interview to write up, he could relax and enjoy it.

And leaving now also meant he wouldn't have to tell Beth more lies.

"Okay," Beth said. She gestured to his desk. "Do you mind if I use your computer to start the treatment for my film?"

"Sure." Sandy considered the chaos of notes, newspaper clippings, envelopes, folders, and CD cases that littered the surface. "If you can find the keyboard."

Beth giggled as she started to sift through the mess. "I'm sure it's in here somewhere." She lifted a manila envelope and peered inside. "This anything important?"

"Yes!" Sandy said, louder and quicker than he wished. He knew that folder: the remaining Savior printouts. He tried to laugh it off as he reached out with forced casualness and eased it from her hand. "Notes for an article I'm planning. My editor'll kill me if anything happens to them."

Beth looked mildly offended. "I wouldn't let anything happen to them."

"Only kidding." He crossed his arms, trapping the envelope against his thudding heart. "The place is yours. Really. Rearrange that stuff any way you want."

The Savior had been right. These printouts were a liability. Sandy's session with McCann yesterday had driven home how badly the detective wanted the Savior. If he got him, bye-bye exclusive.

No question—the printouts had to go. He couldn't see any further use for them anyway. If he ever needed another copy all he had to do was call up the Identi-Kit file from
The Light's
system and print it out.

Beth picked up the newspaper from the desk and stared again at the headline.

"I still can't believe how lucky we were that a man with his training was on that train and in that car with us. I used to think I'd love to meet him—you know, give him a hug and say thanks—but after reading this I'm not so sure."

"Why not?"

"Well, he doesn't exactly come across as the warm cuddly type."

"He's not." Sandy remembered the murderous look in the man's eyes. "In fact…" A vague impression had just congealed into a suspicion. He stood silent, trying to get a grip on it.

"What?" Beth said.

"I wonder how much of what he told me I should believe."

"You think he was lying?"

"Not completely. I'm pretty sure the part about being a Navy SEAL is true. I remember one of the cops on the scene saying things about the second shooter being well trained, but I don't know about doing secret work for government agencies. He hinted that he's involved in black ops and showing his face will blow his cover. But what if he's not undercover? What if he's hiding for another reason?"

"Such as?"

"Like he's a wanted man."

"If that's true, I hope they never catch him."

"Even if they did catch him I bet I could get him off."

"You? I think you're great and all, Sandy, but how on earth would you manage that?"

He grinned. "By mobilizing the people. The pen is mightier than the sword, my dear. Never underestimate the power of the press."

2

"This is our guy, Stan."

Not this again, Stan Kozlowski thought as he looked up from his bagel and shmear.

They'd returned to Moishe's this morning and were back at their usual table. His brother Joe was hidden behind
The Light's
screaming headlines, with only his hands visible. Both of them. Joe wasn't bothering to hide the scarred left this morning.