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

by F. Paul Wilson

  And dread really said it. The nightmare of divorcing Brian still had been too fresh in her mind, the wounds had barely stopped bleeding and were a long way from healing. She hadn’t wanted another man in her life, no way, no how, especially not someone so much older. And she knew—just knew—that Will was going to want to expand their relationship beyond the purely intellectual to the physical. Lisl didn’t want that. It would back her into the position of rebuffing him. And what would that do to their relationship? Wound it, surely. Perhaps even kill it. She couldn’t bear that. She’d wanted things to stay just as they were.

  So Lisl had faced each of those weekend drives to nowhere with growing anxiety, waiting for the inevitable invitation back to Will’s place for “a couple of drinks” or where they could “be more comfortable.” She waited. And waited.

  But the other shoe never dropped. Will never made that “inevitable” pass.

  Lisl smiled now at the memory of her own reaction when it had finally dawned that Will wasn’t going to put the moves on her. She’d been hurt. Hurt! After spending months afraid he’d make a pass, she was wounded when he didn’t. There was no winning this game.

  Of course, she’d immediately blamed herself. She was too dumb, too frumpy, too dull, too nerdy to attract him. But then logic reared up and asked: If he truly saw her that way, why would he spend so much time with her?

  Then she blamed Will. Was he gay? That didn’t seem to be the case. As far as she could figure, he had no male friends. No friends at all other than Lisl.

  Asexual? Maybe.

  A lot of maybes. One thing had been certain, though. Will Ryerson was the kindest, gentlest, deepest, weirdest man she had ever met. And despite all his quirks—and he had quite a few of them—she’d wanted to know him better.

  Over these two years Will gradually had assumed the role of tutor and Dutch uncle, conducting mini seminars on the knoll as he casually guided her through the terra incognita of philosophy and literature. A good uncle. He demanded nothing of her. He was always there for her, to give advice when asked for it or merely to serve as a sounding board for her problems and ideas. And always encouraging. His opinion of her capabilities was always far more sanguine that hers. Where Lisl saw limits, Will saw endless possibilities.

  Lisl liked to think that their relationship wasn’t just a one-way street, that she gave something back. She wasn’t sure why or how, but she sensed that Will had benefited almost as much as she from their interaction. He seemed far more at ease with the world and with himself since they’d first met. He’d been a bleak, melancholy, almost tortured man then. Now he could make jokes and even laugh. She hoped that had been at least partly her doing.

  “Go for it,” Will said.

  “I don’t know, Will. What will Everett think?”

  “He’ll think you’re making a bid to get tenure in the department, just like he’s doing. Nothing wrong with that. And why on earth should you defer to him? You both joined the department the same year. Even if you are younger, you’re his equal in seniority, and you’re his match—if not his better—in ability. And besides, you’re a hell of a lot better looking.”

  Lisl felt herself flushing. “Stop that. That’s irrelevant.”

  “Of course it is. But no more so than any of those cop-outs you allow to hold you back. Go for it, Leese.”

  That was Uncle Will: supremely confident that she could attain any goal she set her sights on. Lisl wished she could buy into his unabashed enthusiasm for her abilities. But he didn’t know the truth.

  She was a fake.

  Sure, she’d earned her Ph.D. and managed to be the first woman accepted into Darnell’s traditionally all-male Department of Mathematics, but Lisl was sure that some sort of fluke had let her slip past the review board, some sort of affirmative action thing that had opened the doors for her. She wasn’t all that good. Really.

  And now Will was pushing her to try to move up in the department. The International Congress of Mathematicians was meeting in Palo Alto next spring. Ev Sanders was submitting a paper for presentation there. If it was accepted, he’d be the fair-haired boy in the department, a shoe-in for tenure. With all the budget cuts coming down, Darnell had been tightening up on the number of tenured positions the past few years. And now that it was being called “the new Harvard of the South,” the situation was sure to become even tighter. But John Manning had left his tenured professorship in the department last month to take that position at Duke, which meant Math had an open spot. If Lisl’s paper was also accepted, Everett would no longer have the post position. And if Lisl’s paper was accepted instead of Ev’s …

  “You really think I should?”

  “No. I just like the sound of my own voice. Do it, dammit!”

  “All right! I will!”

  “Good. See? Wasn’t that easy?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Easy for you. You don’t have to deliver a paper.”

  “You’ll do it.”

  “Uh-huh. Can I call you when I get stuck?”

  “You can try.”

  “Oh, right. The man without a telephone. How could I forget.”

  Even after all this time, Lisl still could not get used to the idea that Will managed to live in the modern world without the benefit of a telephone—neither regular nor cell. She realized no one would ever get rich as a groundskeeper, but the men had a union that had bargained them up to decent wages and good benefits. So Will’s lack of a phone could not be due to a lack of money.

  “You’ve got to get a phone, Will.”

  He finished off the last of his sub. “Not this again.”

  “I’m serious. A telephone is an essential tool of modern living.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And I know they’ve got phone lines out there on Postal Road.” After realizing she had nothing to fear from him, Lisl had visited his home a number of times. He lived in an isolated cottage but it wasn’t in the boonies. “What if I call Sprint and get you a cell? I’ll even pay—”

  “Forget it, Lisl.”

  She sensed from his tone that he wanted her to drop it but she couldn’t. No phone … it was crazy. Unless …

  “You’re not one of those Luddite types, are you? Or a Unabomber? You know, anti-technology?”

  “Now, Leese, you know better than that. You’ve seen the place. I’ve got a TV, a radio, a microwave, even a computer.” He looked at her. “I just don’t want a phone.”

  “But why on earth not? Can’t you give me a hint?”

  “I simply do not want one. Can we leave it at that?”

  His voice carried only mild annoyance, but his eyes surprised her. Just before he looked away, she could have sworn she caught a trace of the fear she had seen before.

  “Sure,” she said quickly, hiding her concern and the curiosity that burned inside her. “Consider it dropped. When I hear that my paper’s been accepted, I’ll let you know immediately—by carrier pigeon. Or maybe smoke signal.”

  Will laughed. “You’d better drive right out and knock on my door! Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “What’s up in the faculty world?” he said in an obvious attempt to steer the conversation away from the subject of telephones.

  “Not much. Dr. Rogers is having his annual Welcome Back party Friday night and he invited me.”

  “He’s in the Psychology Department, isn’t he?”

  “The chairman. The party’s just for his department, but since I helped him out with some tricky statistical glitches he was having over the summer, he says I’m an honorary member. So I’m invited.”

  “And knowing you, you turned him down, right?”

  “Wrong.” She lifted her chin, glad to be able to surprise him. “I’ve decided to show up with bells on.”

  “Good for you. You need to get out more with the rest of the faculty instead of spending your free time with a broken-down groundskeeper.”

  “Right. You’re positively decrepit, and intellectually backward as well.”


  Will glanced up at the faculty office building. “Will Professor Sanders be going?”

  “No. Why would—?” she began, then broke off as she caught his meaning. “Oh. Is he watching us again?”

  “Yep. Having his after-lunch cigarettes.”

  Lisl glanced up at the second floor window of Ev’s office. No face was visible in the dark square, but at regular intervals a puff of white smoke would drift out through the screen.

  4

  Everett Sanders stared down at Lisl Whitman and the groundskeeper as they sat together beneath the tree. They seemed to be staring back at him. But that could be no more than coincidence. He knew he was invisible to them when he stood this far back in his office.

  He drew deeply on his cigarette, his sixth for the day, his first after a lunch of eight ounces of tuna salad, a cold potato sliced and smeared with mustard, and a medium-sized peach. The same lunch he brought every day and ate right here at his desk. He kept rigorous track of his nutrition, and balanced it carefully. His fourth cup of coffee cooled on the desk. He allowed himself a dozen cups a day. Excessive, he knew, but he’d found he couldn’t function well on less. He smoked too much too. Twenty cigarettes a day—opened a fresh pack of Kool Lights every morning and finished the last just before bed. Coffee and cigarettes—he wanted to give them up, but not yet. He couldn’t give up everything. But maybe in a few years, when he was more confident about his level of control, he’d try to get off tobacco.

  He watched Lisl and wondered again at the type of man with whom she chose to spend her precious time. Here was one of the most brilliant women he had ever met wasting her lunch hours dallying with a common laborer—one with a ponytail, no less. A mismatch if he ever saw one. What could they possibly have in common? What could a man like that possibly have to say to interest a mind like hers?

  It plagued him. What could they talk about, day after day, week after week? What?

  The most frustrating aspect of the question was knowing that he would never have the answer. To obtain that he would either have to eavesdrop on them or join them, or ask Lisl directly what they talked about. None of which he could do. It simply wasn’t in him.

  Another question: Why on earth was he wasting his own time pondering such an inconsequential imponderable? What did it matter what Lisl and her big gardener friend discussed at lunch? He had better things to do.

  And yet … they looked so relaxed together. Ev wished he could be so relaxed with people. Not even people—he’d settle for just one other person in the world with whom he could sit down and feel perfectly at ease discussing the secrets of the universe and the inconsequentials of quotidian existence.

  Someone like Lisl. So soft, so beautiful. Maybe she wasn’t beautiful in the accepted modern sense, but her golden blond hair was thick and silky smooth—he wished she’d wear it down and loose instead of twisted into that French braid she favored—and her smile so bright and warm. She was small breasted and carrying too many pounds for her frame, but Ev wasn’t impressed by exteriors. Appearances meant nothing. The inner woman was all that counted. And Ev knew that beneath Lisl’s dowdy, pudgy shell hid a wonderful, brilliant woman, sweet, sincere, compassionate.

  What did that handyman see when he looked at her? Everett sincerely doubted the other man was attracted to Lisl for her mind. He didn’t know him, of course, but it seemed that the groundskeeper possessed neither the values nor the depth of character that would set him in pursuit of a woman’s mind.

  So what was his angle?

  Were they sexually intimate? Was that what it was all about? Pleasures of the flesh? Well, nothing wrong with that as long as it didn’t interfere with Lisl’s future. Tragic if she were drawn away from her career. A brilliant mind such as hers did not belong at home all day changing diapers.

  And of what concern was any of this to Everett Sanders?

  Because I want to be where they are.

  Wouldn’t that be wonderful. To have her as a friend, a confidante, a sharer. To have almost anyone to share even a few hours with. Because, Everett knew and freely admitted to himself, he was lonely. And although loneliness was far better than other problems he had known in the past, it could be a terrible burden at times, a constant gnawing ache in his soul.

  Lunches with Lisl, silly chit-chat with Lisl. More than he could hope for.

  More than he would hope for.

  The whole idea was ridiculous. Even if it were feasible, even if it were possible, he couldn’t allow it. He couldn’t permit himself to become involved in an emotional relationship. Emotions were too unpredictable, too difficult to control. And he couldn’t let any area in his life slip from his control. Because if one area broke free, others might split loose and follow. And then his whole life might slip from the iron fist in which he clutched it.

  So let Lisl Whitman dawdle with her groundskeeper friend and/or lover. None of his business. Her life was her own and he had no right to think he should control it. It took all his resolve to control his own.

  Besides, he should have been reading instead of wasting time at the window like this. Especially on a Wednesday. He had the weekly meeting tonight so he had to complete his daily page quota on this week’s novel earlier—Daddy by Loup Durand. An old, old book, but someone had recommended it to him as a thriller with a twist. And indeed it did have a twist. More than one. He was enjoying it immensely.

  Everett had come to find fiction a welcome relief from the constraints of working with numbers all day, so years ago he had resolved to read one novel a week. And he did. He started a new novel every Sunday. Faithfully. Daddy was 377 pages long. So, to finish the novel in a week he had to read 53.85 pages a day. This was Wednesday, which meant that he had to reach page 216 before he slept tonight. Actually, he was a little ahead of the game today because he had gone past his daily page increment last night and continued to the end of a chapter. Hardly a terrible thing, but he didn’t like breaking his own rules.

  He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another immediately. He allowed himself two in a row after lunch. He opened the book to the top of page 181. Thirty-five to go. He settled himself at his desk and began reading.

  5

  Will glanced at his watch. Almost quitting time, but he wanted to get this tractor-mower running before he knocked off for the weekend. That way it would be ready to roll first thing Monday morning.

  He looked across the gently rolling field of the lower campus where the soccer and football teams were practicing on the freshly mown grass. Keeping the campus pruned and trimmed was an endless task, but Will loved it. Never thought he’d end up a groundskeeper—not with his background and education—but he had to admit it had its rewards. He found a very real satisfaction in doing simple manual labor. Weeding, edging, pruning, doing motor maintenance, it didn’t matter. While his hands were busy, his mind was left free to roam. And roam it did. It occurred to him that he had done more heavy-duty thinking in the last few years than he had done in his entire life.

  But still hadn’t found any answers. Only more questions.

  Back to the tractor. The old John Deere was one of the crew’s workhorses and it had been kicking up all week, coughing, sputtering, stalling. He thought he’d heard something that sounded like a bad wire. He’d replaced it. Now came the test.

  The engine started on the first turn of the key. Will listened carefully. He could tell a lot about an engine just from the way it sounded, a knack he’d discovered he had back when he began fooling around with cars as a teenager.

  “Hey, Willie! Sounds great!”

  Will looked up and saw Joe Bob Hawkins, the foreman of the grounds crew, standing over him. He was younger than Will—about forty or so—but his receding red hair and big, burly, barrel-chested physique made him seem older.

  “Bad wire.”

  “You got that magic touch, I tell ya. Ain’t never seen a body could fix an engine the way you do. Y’all got a degree in motor medicine or something?”

 
“You got it, Joe Bob. I’m an M.D.—a motor doctor.”

  He laughed. “That you are, guy, that you are. Tell you what. You stow that thing in the garage and then join me in my office. I’ll buy you a TGIF snort of sour mash.”

  Will thought about that. A drink would be good about now, although he’d have preferred a cold beer to a shooter. And some simple conversation with an affable good ol’ boy like Joe Bob would be good too. But he couldn’t risk it.

  “Aw, I’d love to J.B., but I’ve got to hit the road as soon as I’m off. My ma’s been kinda sick and so I’m heading north for the weekend.”

  “That’s too bad. She’s not bad sick is she?”

  “Yes and no. It’s her heart. Sometimes it acts up and sometimes it don’t. Lately it is.”

  Will hated the easy way the lies tripped off his tongue, but this story was so well practiced he almost believed it himself.

  “Well, okay. I reckon y’all better get hustlin’. Hope she’s all right. There’s anything I can do, you know, if you need some extra time off to stay with her or anything like that, you just let me know.”

  “I hope it won’t come to that, but thanks for offering.”

  Joe Bob’s genuine concern touched Will, and made him feel worse than usual for lying. But no way he could go kill a half hour or more sitting and sipping in the foreman’s office.

  Joe Bob had a telephone there.

  Will drove the tractor over to the garage and stowed it away for the weekend, then headed for the parking lot.

  On the ride home, Will cruised Conway Street and thought about the day. Too bad he’d had to lie to her again about rereading The Stranger. Couldn’t let her know what he really was reading. She’d ask too many questions. Questions he couldn’t answer.

  Pretty foolish stunt, bringing it to work with him. Almost as if he wanted her to see it, wanted her to ask those questions. Was that it? Was his subconscious deliberately nudging him into exposing his past, pushing him to get off the dime and into motion instead of marking time here year after year?

  Maybe. But no matter what his subconscious wanted, Will knew he wasn’t ready to surface again. He still had a ways to go before he could even consider going back.