The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  Oddly enough she found both extremes appealing.

  She said, "I'm just glad to hear the two of you stop arguing for ten consecutive seconds."

  "Didn't you know, Carol?" Bill said, poising the mouth of his Budweiser an inch from his lips. "Jim and I agreed long ago to disagree on everything."

  "The hell we did!" Jim cried, and the two of them cracked up like schoolboys.

  Jim suddenly stopped laughing. His face grew stern. "Wart's so funny about that?"

  "Wart?" Carol said, immediately alert. "Did he say 'wart'?"

  "Of course," Bill said. "Haven't you been listening? We've been talking about the wart in Vietnam all night."

  "I'm thinking of going to business school," Jim said. "I wonder if Warton will accept me?"

  "A good place to make love, not wart," Bill replied, nodding vigorously.

  "That does it!" Carol said. Two of them! "No more for either of you. The bar is closed as far as you two are concerned. It's late and we're going home as soon as you finish those! And I'm driving!"

  8

  Carol clutched Jim's arm as they walked into the icy wind on their way to the car, which he had parked somewhere east of Washington Square. Suddenly he broke away and left her with Bill as he darted into an all-night deli. In a moment he was out again, carrying three oranges.

  He began juggling them as he returned to the sidewalk. From there he led them along like a circus act, pausing under each streetlamp to show off in its cone of light, then moving on. He dropped them at least once between each lamp.

  "Where'd you learn to do that?" she asked, amazed that he could juggle.

  "In the living room," Jim said as he somehow managed to keep the oranges aloft in the dark.

  "When?"

  "I practice while I'm writing."

  "How can you do that?"

  "Not all writing is done at the typewriter. A lot of it's done in the head before you start hitting the keys."

  Carol was suddenly uneasy. She didn't remember it being so dark and deserted-looking along this stretch earlier in the evening. It had seemed safer then.

  "You know something, Jim?" Bill said. "I've always wanted to juggle. In fact, I'd give my right arm to juggle like that."

  Jim burst out laughing and the oranges went rolling into the street. Carol began to laugh too.

  A strange, whiny voice cut her off.

  "Hey, you laughin' a' me, man?"

  She looked around and saw a half dozen or more figures huddled at the edge of a vacant lot to their left.

  "No," Jim said, good-naturedly. He pointed at Bill. "I'm laughing at him. He's crazy."

  "Yeah, man? Well, I don' tink so. I tink you wuz laughin a' me!"

  Carol felt Bill grip her upper arm.

  "Let's head for the car, Jim," he said.

  "Right."

  Jim fell in on her other side and the three of them started up the street. But they didn't get far before they were surrounded by the gang. If that's what they were. All were a little underdressed for the weather, Carol noted, all on the thin side, all smaller than Jim or Bill, the ex-football players. But there were six of them.

  "Look," Jim said, "we don't want any trouble."

  She heard a tremor in his voice. She knew someone else might mistake it for fear, but Carol recognized it as anger. Jim had good control over his temper, but when he lost it, he lost it.

  "Yeah?" said that same whiny voice. "Well, maybe we do!"

  Carol watched the speaker. His hair was long and matted; a wispy attempt at a beard dirtied his cheeks. He couldn't seem to stand still. His arms were jerking, his body twitching this way and that, his feet scuffing back and forth. She glanced around. They were all alike.

  They're on speed!

  Carol's mind suddenly flashed to an article she had read in Time about mainlining methamphetamine as the latest thing in the Village. She hadn't given it much thought then. Now she was facing the result.

  "All right," Jim said, stepping away from her. "If you've got a problem with me, we'll talk about it. Just let them go on their way."

  Carol opened her mouth to say something but was cut off by a sudden tightening of Bill's grip on her arm.

  "No way," the lead speed freak said, smiling as he stepped forward and pointed at Carol. "She's what we want."

  Carol felt her stomach constrict around the flat Pepsi. And then, as if watching in slow motion, she saw Jim smile back at the leader and kick him full-force in the groin. As the speed freak screamed in agony, all hell broke loose.

  9

  The effects of the night's beers had been evaporating steadily in the tension of his encounter with these punks. As he punted their grinning spokesman in the balls, Jim's head cleared completely. He had expected to get some of the old pleasure out of that kick, but it wasn't there. Concern for Carol overrode everything.

  In the darkness he dimly saw the guy to his left pull something from his pocket. When it snapped out to a slim, silvery length of about three feet, he knew it was a car antenna, one hell of a wicked weapon with the knob pulled off the end. Had to get in close now—no hesitation or he'd whip that thing across his eyes.

  Jim ducked and charged forward, driving his shoulder into the creep's solar plexus, ramming him up against the front of a building. It was almost like football. But these guys were playing for keeps.

  Behind him, Carol screamed.

  Jim called out to Bill, "Get her to the car!"

  That was the all-important thing: get Carol to safety.

  Then somebody or something slammed hard against the side of his head and he saw lights flash for an instant, but he held on to consciousness, drove a fist at the source, and heard somebody grunt. Somebody else jumped on his back and he went down on one knee. Screaming in the back of his mind was a white-hot mortal fear that he was going to get kicked to death here on this dark, nameless street, but he could barely hear it. He was pissed and he was pumped and he knew that despite how badly he'd let his body go since his football days in high school, he was in better shape than any of these shitheads and he was going to make some of them very sorry they'd messed with him.

  He shook the guy off his back and rolled over just in time to see somebody start to swing a short length of heavy chain at his head.

  10

  Bill stood paralyzed for an instant at the sudden chaos around him. He and Carol seemed to have been forgotten for an instant as the gang converged on Jim. Carol screamed and started forward to help him but Bill grabbed her and steered her toward the street instead, toward the car.

  He was torn between seeing her to safety and helping Jim. He didn't want to leave her side, but he knew Jim wouldn't last long in the center of that melee.

  "Get to the car and get it running!" he told her, pushing her down the street. "I'll get Jim."

  This is not what I'm about, he thought as he turned toward the fight. He was a man of God, a man of peace. He didn't fight in the streets. March in them, yes. But he didn't fight in them.

  Then he saw the gleaming links of a doubled length of nickel-plated chain rise up over the squirming tangle of bodies. He charged. He grabbed the chain as it started to swing down, jerked its wielder around, and rammed a fist into his face.

  God forgive me, but that felt good!

  Then Jim was on his feet and they were back to back. There was an instant's respite in which he heard Jim's whisper.

  "Carol's safe?"

  "On her way."

  I hope!

  Then the gang charged again.

  11

  What am I going to do? Carol thought as she fumbled in her purse for her keys.

  What was better, go for help or back the car up to the fight and shine J. Carroll's headlamps on the scene? Maybe the bright lights and her leaning on the horn would scatter the rats.

  The purse was suddenly snatched from her hands.

  "I'll take that, babe."

  Carol cried out in fright and turned to see a scraggly-haired youth standing beside
her. There was enough light at this end of the block to make out the leer on his face beneath his dirty wool cap. She reached for the purse.

  "Give that back to me!"

  He dropped the purse on the hood of the car and grabbed her. In one rough move he twisted her around, swung an arm across her throat, and pulled her back against him. Through the coat she felt his hands slide over her breasts.

  "This is gonna be fun!" he said. "Gonna fuck you three ways from Sunday, babe, and you're gonna love it!"

  Carol struggled frantically against him, trying to kick back at his shins and twist free, but he was strong despite his frail appearance. He started to pull her between two of the cars.

  "Babe, when I'm through with you you're gonna beg for more. You're gonna—"

  Carol heard a dull thunk!, felt her captor jerk, then stiffen, then release her. She broke away and glanced back in time to see him topple face first to the pavement. In the faint light she could see that the top of his skull was caved in, and blood was beginning to soak through the cap.

  Over the tops of the parked cars she saw a tall, dark figure gliding away toward the fight.

  12

  Jim struggled for air. He was pinned on his side. Someone had the chain wrapped around his throat and was pulling it tight while somebody, else was kicking him in the gut.

  He knew he was going to die. He didn't have it anymore. The old black ferocity from his football days that would have sent punks like these running for their mothers was gone. When he needed it most, it was gone.

  Where was Bill? Was he down too? He just hoped Carol got away. Maybe she could flag a black-and-white and get some help. Maybe…

  He twisted violently. If only he could get some air! One breath and he could hold on a little longer. Just a puff—

  Suddenly the chain around his throat went slack. He gulped air and looked up. The one who had been kicking him paused and looked past Jim. Just then something blurred in from the left and caught the punk on the side of the head with enough force to lift him clear off his feet.

  Something warm and wet and lumpy splattered Jim. He didn't have to look to know it was brain tissue.

  He twisted around and saw two more of the gang sprawled on the sidewalk behind him. One lay still; a length of chain rattled softly in the twitching grasp of the other.

  He heard a meaty thunk! and saw a tall, dark figure swing something against the head of one of the guys over Bill. The guy dropped into a boneless heap.

  The last creep took off with the dark man chasing him.

  Jim got up and staggered over to Bill.

  "You okay?"

  "My God!" Bill gasped. "What happened?"

  "Jim!" Carol ran up and threw her arms around him. "Are you all right?"

  "I think so. Bill? You there?"

  Bill was on his feet, swaying. Jim couldn't make out his expression, but his voice shook as he spoke.

  "I…I don't know. My stomach…"

  He turned and staggered a few steps away, retching in the darkness. A moment later he returned.

  "Sorry."

  "It's okay, Bill. I may join you in a moment."

  "Let's get moving before these guys come to and—"

  "I think they're dead," Jim said.

  He knelt and checked for a pulse in the throat of the nearest. He had no experience with this sort of thing, but he'd seen it done on TV. He found no pulse, but he did get a close look at the ruin of the guy's skull and his open, staring eyes.

  He leapt to his feet.

  "Let's get out of here!"

  "Shouldn't we call the police?" Carol said.

  "We will. From a pay phone somewhere. But I'm not hanging around to get blamed for this."

  "But who did it? Who was that?"

  Jim wasn't sure what it was, but there had been something disturbingly familiar about that dark figure.

  "He helped me too," Carol said.

  Jim felt spicules of ice run through his blood. "You?"

  "One of them grabbed me by the car. If the guy with the club hadn't—"

  Jim pulled her close against him. If anything ever happened to Carol, he knew he'd go mad.

  "Maybe one of us has a guardian angel, Carol."

  "That was no angel," Bill said.

  Jim was not inclined to argue.

  "Let's get to the car."

  13

  Carol had managed to hold it in while Jim drove the three of them around in aimless circles, hold it through the violent shakes that had started as soon as she slipped into the front seat, through the cold chills that tremored through her despite the heater going full blast. But when Bill got out to call 911 at a phone booth they found at Houston and the Bowery, leaving her alone in the car with Jim, it all came out. Loud, deep, racking sobs burst from the deepest part of her.

  "It's okay," Jim said, hugging her tight. "We're safe now."

  "But we could have been killed!"

  "I know. I'll never forgive myself for endangering you like that."

  "It wasn't your fault!"

  "Next time we pay for a garage or a lot space near a main drag. No more penny-pinching where safety's concerned."

  His arms around her seemed to absorb her fear. The sobs began to fade. She felt more herself by the time Bill returned to the backseat.

  "Done," he said.

  "You didn't mention names, did you?"

  "I told you I wouldn't. But I don't like it."

  "So you said. But just remember: If anyone asks why you look bruised, just say you slipped on the ice. I'll do the same."

  They had argued about making a police report—Bill for, Jim against. Both were adamant, but Jim had finally put the problem into chilling focus.

  "For all our sakes, Bill, you can't go to the police."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Bill had said from the backseat.

  "For all we know, they may be only a part of a bigger gang. If they are, what about their buddies?"

  "What about them?"

  "What if they blame us? What if they feel embarrassed and humiliated by half a dozen of their number being so easily laid to rest? What if they figure they've got to even the score to regain their honor? Our names and addresses will be on the police report. What if they retaliate against us?"

  Bill had been silent as Carol shuddered at the thought.

  Jim went on. "I don't know about you, but I don't want them breaking into my home to finish off what their friends started with Carol back there. You want them lobbing a Molotov cocktail into St. F.'s dorm some night?"

  "Maybe you're right," Bill had said softly after a long pause. "But at least let me make an anonymous report. We can do that much, can't we?"

  Jim had nodded. "Of course. As long as you don't mention any names."

  Now the call had been made and they were moving again. Jim turned the car east on Fourteenth.

  Bill said, "Somebody killed five people—"

  "Five killers, you mean," Jim said. "Five guys who would have killed us and raped Carol if that somebody hadn't stepped in!"

  "Probably six dead if he caught up with the last one."

  "Be that as it may," Jim said, "I'm not sure I want to put him behind bars. I owe him."

  "That was cold-blooded murder, Jim!" Bill said.

  "Granted. But what could I add to an investigation? That he reminded me of my father?"

  Carol gasped. That tall dark figure she had seen had resembled Jonah Stevens. But that was impossible.

  "Oh, Jim," she said lightly, actually managing a smile. "Your dad's not exactly Mr. Warmth, but he's not a killer. And he certainly doesn't hang around the East Village!"

  Bill said, "I don't remember your father too well, Jim, but you've got to be kidding. This guy was efficient—brutally efficient. I mean, he dispatched those guys one after the other. One swing apiece."

  "Do you know what my father does for a living?"

  "He's a butcher or something, isn't he?"

  Carol heard Jim's voice drop into a mon
otone.

  "He works at the slaughterhouse, but he's not a butcher. He does one thing all day long, and I guess he's pretty good at it. As each cow is led inside, it's his job to brain it with a sledgehammer before its throat is cut."

  14

  Emma heard Jonah's car pull into the driveway. She tried to suppress her excitement as she wondered what he'd be like this time. Sometimes he went out late at night and came back and just sat in the living room with the lights off, drinking beer. Other times…

  She wondered where he went on these little jaunts. What did he do, what was he looking for? Like so many other things with Jonah, you learned not to ask. It got you nowhere.

  At the moment she didn't particularly care what he had gone out for; she just hoped he'd found it. Because on certain nights he didn't sit up in the living room when he came home. Instead he came directly to the bedroom. And when that happened, he always wanted her. Wanted her badly.

  And when that mood was upon him, he drove her to ecstasy beyond imagining.

  Emma heard him enter through the kitchen from the garage.

  "Is everything all right?"

  "Fine, Emma. Just fine."

  She felt her heart begin to race as she heard Jonah's footsteps bypass the living room and come down the hall, felt herself grow moist between her legs as he stepped into the room and began stripping off his clothes. She could hear his rapid breathing, sense his arousal like a throbbing heat in the room.

  He slipped into bed and pressed himself against her back. He was stiff and hard, like oak, like iron. She turned toward him and felt his arms go around her, felt his hands slide down her flanks and lift her nightgown.