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

by F. Paul Wilson

  Weird. And touching, in a way.

  He wondered how Hanley had reacted to the injuries his son inflicted on the field. Did he cringe at the pain he saw, or did he hunger for more?

  After football came photos cut from the Stony Brook yearbooks, and later on, even Monroe Express articles with the James Stevens byline.

  "He was really some sort of completist, wasn't he?"

  "Yeah. From reading his journals I feel I know him. He definitely wasn't the kind of guy to do anything halfway."

  The doorbell rang.

  Who the hell—?

  Jim went to the window and looked down toward the front driveway. He recognized the rusty Beetle.

  "Oh, no! It's Becker!"

  "He's kind of late, isn't he?"

  Then Jim remembered what Becker had been looking into and decided he'd better talk to him.

  "Maybe he's learned something about Jazzy Cordeau."

  He hurried downstairs with Carol close behind and pulled open the door as the bell rang a third time. Becker stood there on the front porch, grinning.

  "What's up, Gerry?" Jim said.

  Becker kept grinning as he stepped into the front hall.

  "Still think Jazzy Cordeau might be your mother?"

  "What did you find out?"

  "This and that."

  Jim felt his fists clench and his muscles tighten. He had wanted to be the one to uncover her identity before anybody else—especially before Gerry Becker! And now Becker was playing cute.

  "What?"

  "She was a hooker."

  Jim heard Carol gasp beside him. His anger grew, fueled by Becker's taunting tone.

  "Very funny."

  "No. It's true. I have it on reliable authority—first from a Sergeant Kelly, N.Y.P.D., and later from an old pal of his who used to work vice—that she was midtown's finest piece of ass in the late thirties and on through the war. Except for a period of time right before the war when she dropped out of sight for almost a year. Some people say that in her final years, when she was shooting smack like I drink Pepsi, she talked about having a baby someplace, but no one ever saw the kid. The timing's right. Think that kid might be you, Stevens?"

  Anger had ballooned into barely suppressed rage. Jim could see how much Becker was enjoying this. He forced himself to speak calmly.

  "That's all you've got?"

  "Nope. Got a picture of her when she was a stripper." He pulled a photo out of a manila envelope and handed it to Jim. "What do you say? Think this could be Mama?"

  Jim stared at the photo of a shapely young woman in a rhinestone G-string. She was beautiful, but there was no way in the world she could be his mother. Because she was black—very black.

  Becker guffawed. "Had you going there, didn't I? I really thought I'd tracked her down, and turns out she's as black as the ace of spades! Is that a riot or what?"

  Something exploded in Jim. He shifted the photo to his left hand, cocked his right arm, and belted Becker in the face. His arms windmilling for balance, Becker stumbled backward out the door and landed flat on his back on the front porch. Blood began to drip from his nose as he looked up at Jim in shock.

  "What—?"

  "That's for being a malicious bastard!" Jim said through his clenched teeth.

  "Can't you take a joke?"

  "Not funny, jerk! Now get the hell out of here and don't come back!"

  He slammed the door closed and turned to see Carol's shocked expression.

  "Sorry," he said.

  "It's okay," she said, slipping her arms around him. "That was a really rotten thing to do to you. But did you have to—"

  "Hit him?" Jim shook his head. "No, I suppose not." He hadn't even enjoyed it. Maybe that was a good sign. "You know what they say."

  "I know. 'Violence is the first resort of the mentally inferior party.' "

  "I'd have to beg an exception to that rule."

  "Granted," Carol said.

  "I'd also like to beg a drink."

  "Also granted."

  Jim looked again at the photo of Jazzy Cordeau's slim, sensuous black body and seductive smile.

  "Sheesh! Make it a double!"

  5

  "I'm back!"

  Carol carried the bag of Cokes, fries, and burgers into the library and found Jim just where she had left him, slumped in the wing chair, engrossed in one of the newfound Hanley journals.

  "Yoo hoo," she said. "I'm home. And don't get too comfortable there. That's my chair."

  Jim looked up but didn't smile. His expression was troubled, and his eyes had a faraway look.

  "Something wrong?" Carol said.

  "Hmm?" he said, straightening up. "Oh, no. No, everything's fine. I'm just having a little trouble with some of this scientific stuff, is all."

  He wasn't much company during dinner—if indeed the cooling, soggy cheeseburgers from Wetson's deserved to be called dinner—and she noticed that he poured his glass of Scotch into his Coke before he drank it. He initiated no conversation, which was highly unusual for him. Jim always had something to talk about—a wild idea or a diatribe about some aspect of the current political and social scene. But he was definitely preoccupied tonight, answering her attempts at conversation in monosyllables.

  As soon as he gobbled down his third and last burger, he stood up and drained his Coke.

  "Look, I hope you don't mind, but I'd like to get back to those new journals."

  "Sure. Go ahead. Come across any good stuff yet?"

  His expression was bleak as he turned away toward the library.

  "No. No good stuff."

  Carol finished her second cheeseburger and swept all the wrappers and fries bags back into the sack. Then she wandered into the library. Jim didn't look up from his hunched posture over the journal. Carol wandered along the shelves, looking for something to read. There were lots of classics, from Aeschylus to Wyss, but she wasn't in the mood for anything long or heavy. She stopped by the wing chair where Jim sat and noticed a small black journal on the table next to him. She remembered seeing it in the safe when they'd opened it earlier.

  She picked it up and opened the cover. A title was block-printed in capitals on the first page:

  PROJECT GENESIS

  "What's this about?" she asked.

  Jim's head snapped up.

  "What?"

  His eyes widened when he saw the journal in her hand, and he snatched it away.

  "Give me that!"

  "Jim!" Carol cried, shocked.

  "I'm sorry," he said, obviously flustered. "I… I'm just trying to put all the pieces together and I… I can't if… the pieces start wandering away. You know? Sorry I snapped. Really."

  She noticed that as he was speaking he closed the journal he had been reading and slipped the black one under it. She had never seen him so distracted, so tentative, and it made her uneasy.

  "Jim, what's wrong?"

  "Nothing, Carol," he said, rising from the chair.

  "I don't buy that. Something in those journals is upsetting you. Tell me. Share it."

  "No, no, I'm not upset. It's just heavy going, that's all. When I get it straight in my head, I'll lay it out for you. Right now… I've got to concentrate. I'll take these upstairs and you take the chair and read or watch TV."

  "Jim, please!"

  He turned and headed for the stairs.

  "It's okay, Carol. Just give me a little time alone with this stuff."

  She noticed that he grabbed the Scotch decanter on his way out of the room.

  Time crawled.

  Carol tried to occupy herself but it wasn't easy. The disquiet over Jim's obsession with these journals and his past gnawed at her, making it impossible to read, or even to involve herself in the new color TV in the corner of the library. She spent most of the night spinning the dial. The Avengers seemed vapid, The Beverly Hillbillies and Green Acres were more annoying than usual, and even The Jonathan Winters Show couldn't wring a smile from her.

  By eleven o'clock s
he couldn't take any more. She went upstairs to the science library to pull Jim away from those damn journals.

  The door was locked.

  Alarmed now, she pounded on it.

  "Jim! Are you all right?"

  She heard papers shuffling within, then Jim opened the door —but only part way. He stood in the opening, blocking her from entering. His eyes had a haunted look.

  "What is it?" he mumbled.

  She could smell the Scotch on his breath.

  "It's late," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. "Let's call it a night."

  He shook his head. "Can't. Gotta keep after this."

  "Come back in the morning when you're fresh. You might get a whole new—"

  "No! I can't leave this now! Not yet! You go home. Take the car and leave me here. I'll come home later."

  "You're going to walk home? You can't be serious! You'll freeze!"

  "It's only a mile or so. The exercise will do me good."

  "Jim, this is crazy! What's wrong? Why can't you tell me what's—"

  "Please!" he said. "Just go home and leave me here. I don't want to discuss it any more right now."

  With that he closed the door in her face. She heard the lock click.

  "Fine," Carol said.

  She went downstairs, grabbed her coat, and drove home in J. Carroll. Somewhere along the way her anger gave way to hurt. And fear.

  Jim had looked frightened.

  Ten

  Tuesday, March 5

  1

  You hear the cries from behind the walls of the sick houses as you trod Strasbourg's misty, filth-encrusted streets. Two months ago when you arrived from Genoa, the streets at this hour were clogged with people. Now you can number your fellow travelers on one hand. Unlike you, they hurry along with nosegays pressed to their faces to protect themselves from the disease and to fend off the odor of corruption that hangs over the town like a shroud.

  Fear. Fear keeps the small surviving remnant of the populace indoors, hiding behind their shuttered windows and barred doors, peeping through the cracks; fear of catching the pestilence, for they know not whence or why it has come; fear that the world is coming to an end.

  And perhaps it is. Twenty million dead in the last four years, bishop and beggar, prince and peasant alike, for the pestilence cuts across all classes. There are not enough peasants to till the fields, not enough knights to force the remainder to work. The whole fabric of Europe's social order is unraveling around you.

  Fear. The very air is saturated with fear, laced with grief and tinged with the death throes of a ravaging disease. They blame God, they blame the alignment of the planets, they blame the Jews.

  Fear. You breathe deeply, sucking it in like a bracing tonic.

  You find the house you are seeking and push your way inside. There are seven people within, two adults and five children, but no one resists your entry. Instead the survivors plead for your aid. Two more have died since you stopped by last night. Now only the father and one of the daughters remain alive, each with draining, egg-size swellings in their groins and armpits. Their eyes are feverish, their cheeks hollow, their lips and tongues swollen and cracked as they hoarsely beseech you for a sip of water.

  You hover over them a moment, drinking their misery, then tear yourself away and proceed to the back room. You lift the wicker trap you baited with cheese last night and feel the squealing weight within.

  Rats. A pair of them. Good! Your supply of sickly rodents is sufficient now. You can move on.

  And you must move on. The pestilence is beginning to taper off, its spread is slowing. You can't allow that. This is too good. You must make this ecstasy last.

  You start back toward the street. Your horse and loaded cart await you at the stable. You really must be on your way to Nürnburg where they say there is no plague.

  You'll remedy that.

  But you tarry in the front room over the father and daughter. Their agonies are so exquisite. You draw up a chair to sit and watch them…

  Carol awoke, cold and trembling. Another sickening nightmare. It was getting so she was afraid to go to sleep. She reached for Jim and experienced a moment of panic when she realized he wasn't beside her.

  Last night she had waited up in bed alone until late, trying to distract her thoughts with Fletcher Knebel's new best-seller, but even Vanished couldn't keep her awake. She had fallen asleep before Jim came home.

  Had he come home?

  She went looking for him. It didn't take long to search the two-bedroom ranch—he wasn't here. Anxious now, she phoned the mansion, and with each unanswered ring the tension grew inside her. Finally Jim answered. He sounded groggy, his voice hoarse, his words garbled.

  "How're you feeling?" she said, trying to sound bright and cheery.

  "Terrible."

  "Probably hung over. You were hitting the Scotch pretty heavily last night."

  "Or not heavily enough."

  "Did you finally get everything straightened out with those new journals?"

  "I think so. If I can believe them. It ain't pretty."

  "What's wrong? Did they tell you who your mother was?"

  "Yeah. Nobody."

  "Come on, Jim! It's me: Carol. Don't keep me in the dark. This isn't like you."

  "Like me? Hon, are you sure you know what's like me? I'm not even sure I know what's like me."

  "I know that I love you."

  "I love you too. And I'm sorry about the way I acted last night."

  "Then why didn't you come home?"

  "Too bushed to make the walk. I stayed up with the journals all night."

  "Okay. I'll pick you up and we'll have breakfast somewhere, and you can tell me all about this."

  "Later. We'll talk later. Go to work. Let me go through these things one more time, and I'll explain everything—if that's possible—when you get back this afternoon. Okay?"

  "I can't wait until then!"

  "Please don't come out here now. I've still got a few more things to work out in my head."

  "What is it, Jim?"

  "It's weird, Carol. Really weird. I'll see you later."

  Carol hung up and sat there by the phone, baffled and worried by Jim's mood. When there were problems, he tended to withdraw, think them out, then return with a solution. But he was so down. She couldn't remember him ever getting this low before.

  She shook herself and stood up. Whatever it was, they could handle it together. She'd work through the day and they'd settle everything tonight. She headed for the shower. Mr. Dodd was due to go home with his daughters today.

  At least something will go right this morning, Carol thought.

  She called Jim again at around ten-fifteen, on her coffee break, using the booth in the hospital lobby so she could have a little more privacy than afforded by the Social Services office. But Jim was still uncommunicative, and if anything he sounded even more strung out. She wondered if Bill could help. Maybe he'd talk to Bill.

  As she pulled another dime from her wallet she saw Catherine and Maureen, Mr. Dodd's daughters, come in through the main entrance. She dialed hurriedly.

  2

  Professor Albert Calder and his wife, Jane, struck Bill as a stuffy couple, the kind of people who consider themselves the intellectual superiors of most of the human race. But that was fine. Especially if they were going to adopt Nicky. They would need to be superior to keep pace with that boy.

  So far Bill had overseen two meetings of the prospective parents and child here in St. F.'s, and both had gone well. The Calders were impressed with Nicky's quick mind, and Nicky had felt free to pull his child-genius routines without fear of alienating the adults. The Calders' references showed they were a stable, childless couple with a decent income and, although not terribly active in their parish, at least regular attendees at Mass.

  It appeared to be a match made in heaven.

  The next step was a weekend stay. The Calders were in his office now to make those arrangements.

 
"Okay, Father. Then it's all set," Professor Calder said. "We'll pick him up Friday afternoon after school."

  He was in his mid-thirties, with thick, horn-rimmed glasses, a neat Vandyke goatee, and dark hair prematurely salted with gray, which he was letting grow over his ears. There were suede elbow patches on his tweed jacket. Here was a man who reveled in being a college professor.

  Jane Calder was a short, plump redhead with a generous smile.

  "We can't wait to have him over," she said.

  "I know Nicky's looking forward to it too."

  The intercom buzzed, and Sister Miriam's voice said, "Personal call on two, Father."

  "Tell them to hold."

  Professor Calder stood up and gave him a crisp handshake.

  "Father Ryan, it's been a pleasure."

  "That's mutual, I can assure you, Professor." He shook hands with Mrs. Calder and ushered them into the hall. They knew their way out.

  Bill's spirits were high. He had a feeling in his gut that this was it for Nicky—out of St. F.'s and into a home that could nurture his mind, body, and spirit. He felt good about the imminent adoption. This was what it was all about.

  On top of that, he had had a call from the Maryland Provincial yesterday to clarify a few items on his curriculum vitae. That could mean that either Loyola or Georgetown were interested in him. Either way he'd be in or near the nation's capital, right in the thick of things.

  Nicky, old pal, we're both getting out of here!

  He picked up the phone. "Father Ryan."

  "Bill, it's Carol. Carol Stevens. I need your help."

  Involuntarily he flushed with pleasure at the sound of her voice, even though it sounded tight, tense.

  "Something wrong?"

  "It's Jim. He's been looking through Dr. Hanley's old journals, hunting for the identity of his mother. I think he's found something that's really upset him."

  "What?"

  "He won't tell me a thing about it. I'm worried, Bill. He sounds like he's about to explode. We're supposed to talk the whole thing out tonight, but that seems a long time away. I was wondering if maybe you could—"