The Last Christmas: A Repairman Jack Novel

by F. Paul Wilson

  They got. But on his way to the front door Monaco scribbled something on a card and tossed it onto the couch.

  “What’s that?” Jack said.

  “Quinnell’s address. The wife’s name is Jelena and the child’s is Cilla.”

  7

  “Do you think he bought it?” Hess said as he drove into the night.

  The Odyssey’s navigation program had guided them in and he trusted it to lead them out. Good thing he had it. These county roads out here had no streetlights and signage was non-existent.

  Just get me to the LIE and I’ll take it from there.

  Monaco snorted. “Bought it? Of course he did. Hook, line, and sinker. I was fucking brilliant, even if I do say so myself.”

  “You always say so yourself.”

  He laughed. “Somebody’s got to say it!”

  Hess had to give Monaco credit: He’d taken a wild farrago of fact and fiction and whipped it into a credible presentation.

  “Did you have any of that prepared? Like, were you thinking somewhere along the way that this guy might put us on the spot and we’d need a better explanation?”

  Monaco shook his head. “Not at all. I thought he was just a street punk with a certain useful skill set. I was convinced I had him fully reeled in during our first meeting. I mean, he didn’t ask any of the right questions so I figured he was in the bag.”

  Monaco’s hubris was astounding. “Were you ever wrong.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far—”

  “You wouldn’t? What did he do right after we left him? He followed us. We should have come up with something better.”

  “You’re a great Monday morning quarterback, Ed.”

  “I’ll admit none of that occurred to me till I had that gun pointed in my face.”

  Trapped in that isolated farmhouse with an angry, gun-toting psycho. His bladder had almost emptied.

  “Yeah, we both underestimated him,” Monaco said, “but let’s face it: He may have street smarts, but he’s still no match for us in the brain category. We can think circles around him—as I just demonstrated.”

  “You still told him too much.”

  “I had to tell him something. We’d already failed with a whole-cloth fabrication. I had to mix some truth in with the fiction.”

  “But you told him about melis.”

  “Not by name. I didn’t say the name—you said the name.”

  “I know, I know. It just slipped out.”

  Ed had wanted to grab that word out of the air and shove it back into his mouth.

  “Everything was going fine, Ed, until you spilled the beans. How we’re using it in the lab could be written off as some crazy science-fiction scenario. But not the word itself. You know as well as I it’s on the ECHELON list.”

  At least they assumed that was case, and Hess had to figure they were right. If “melis” popped up in an email or a phone conversation anywhere, NSA would report it to Defense and DIA would track down the source and make it disappear.

  “But then you mentioned Quinnell…” Hess couldn’t suppress a shudder. “I couldn’t believe it. I almost puked. I thought you’d gone crazy.”

  Monaco grinned. “Crazy like a fox, you mean.”

  “Really. Transforming Quinnell into a DIA agent and then—”

  “Killing him? I couldn’t resist. A mangled DIA agent was no doubt wishful thinking on my part.”

  No lie about a DIA man overseeing their project, but his name hadn’t been Quinnell. In February of 2001—Hess would never forget that day—Agent Benjamin Greve had appeared with the first sample of melis and instructions from DoD to find a way to alter human stem cells so they could be added to certain mammals.

  And that was it. No analysis of what this melis might be, no past research results, or why it might have any effect on human stem cells. No guidance at all. Just see what you can do. Oh, and never, ever, ever mention the existence of melis or what you were doing with it.

  From the very start they knew they’d been handed an enigma. The slimy goo was an impossibility. Melis had mass—it poured, gravity influenced it—but it had no weight. They could fill a flask with it and the flask weighed the same full as it did empty. Greve wouldn’t tell them anything about its origins. They might have high security clearances, but not that high.

  After that initial visit, he made a practice of stopping in once a month or so to check on their progress.

  Agent Greve had been demanding and imperious and seemed to gain great satisfaction from threatening to terminate their project if they didn’t produce the results he wanted.

  Well, nothing seemed to work. Monaco had told Jack the truth about the autolysis in their experimental subjects. One after another they died, and they would keep on dying unless he and Monaco determined the cause of the cell lysis. But the cause eluded them.

  With the looming threat of their funding being diverted elsewhere, Monaco came up with a desperate, last-ditch proposal. To their shock, Agent Greve had agreed. In fact, he’d been quite supportive, providing everything they needed.

  Then something odd happened: Agent Benjamin Greve stopped coming around. This past August was the last time they’d seen him. He missed his September meeting, and October and November as well. And no replacement had arrived to take his place. They’d tried to find out about Greve—alive, dead, what?—but DoD never responded. Oh, the checks were still deposited to the proper accounts, but no word, no oversight.

  As it happened, that turned out to be a very good thing. They would never have been able to keep H3’s escape a secret with a DIA agent nosing around.

  “If nothing else, mentioning Quinnell will start him watching Quinnell’s house. I don’t know if you noticed, but I left him the address. That’s where he’ll have his best chance for success, after all.”

  “Maybe,” Hess said, “but is Jack still on the job? I mean, he seemed pretty pissed—pissed enough to kick us out of his house.”

  “But ask yourself why he was pissed. Because he blames us for putting Quinnell’s wife and kid in danger. He’s not the kind to throw in the towel. He’ll go after H3 just to protect her.”

  “You seem pretty sure.”

  “I’m very sure. You’ll see. The proof will be in the pudding.”

  Hess spotted a sign pointing to the Long Island Expressway.

  Civilization again. At last.

  8

  The sons of bitches.

  Hands in his pocket to keep them from breaking things, Jack paced between the living room and the kitchen. He spotted the handcuff they’d left on the kitchen table. They might come in handy—if he stayed with this fix. A big if right now.

  Those two…so concerned about their goddamned hybrid they’d put a woman and child in jeopardy.

  Or had they?

  Jack couldn’t put his finger on exactly what, but something about Monaco’s tale didn’t ring true.

  He broke it down:

  The Department of Defense had delivered a mysterious compound called melis to those two clowns and told them to experiment on animals with it. Okay, he could buy that. Plum Island was home to animal experiments and investigations. Also, he’d sensed a hardening in Monaco when he’d asked him about the mystery stuff. He’d been genuinely afraid to give up the name, and deeply upset when Hess had slipped up—both good signs he was telling the truth about it.

  So far, so good.

  Hess and Monaco had been mixing human stem cells with the melis and injecting them into various animals, causing changes in those animals. The Montauk Monster had been one of them. The experiments had been going on for over two decades with no lasting success because the cells start killing themselves. But finally they get this wolf-human hybrid that survives, and it escapes.

  He could buy it. Far-fetched to some, maybe, but a bit prosaic compared to a Rakosh and other weirdness Jack had encountered over the past couple of years.

  Monaco’s story about the DIA agent—what was the name? Quinnell?—was the st
umbling block. Not only the story itself, but the way Monaco had told it.

  A member of the Defense Department’s in-house intelligence agency—something Jack hadn’t even known existed—had spirited an experimental animal off Plum Island to enter it in a Long Island dogfight so he could make a few quick bucks? After he’d exposed this top-secret beastie to his ex-wife and child?

  Uh-uh. Couldn’t buy that.

  Here’s a cliché for you, Monaco: I might have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night.

  Why add the Quinnell story and the threat to his family if it wasn’t true? To suck Jack into staying on the job?

  He glanced over at the end table by the door where Monaco had left the card.

  And why leave an address?

  Obviously, they wanted Jack to go there.

  He kicked a chair across the room and it felt good. Felt good to be pissed off. He hadn’t felt much of anything beyond frustration for too damn long.

  He felt…alive.

  He grabbed the card off the table. An address in Howard beach.

  All right, you sons of bitches. I’m still on the job.

  9

  “So, you are certain she left the Bagaq at this apartment,” Roland said.

  His male nurse or orderly or whatever he was called had got him out of bed and into a wheelchair which he’d rolled into the high-ceilinged library. The chair had ended up behind the heavy, pool table-size desk. A tube from a suspended bag of slightly yellowish fluid ran into his arm. Shelves crammed with beat-up-looking books and folios ran up toward the ceiling and disappeared into the shadows.

  “I am not certain of that at all,” Tier said. Hadn’t he been listening? “I said I’m certain she dropped something off—something the approximate size of the object you seek. I did not see the object itself.”

  Had to be precise here.

  “You say you tried to enter his apartment after you saw him leave?”

  That was exactly what he’d said.

  “Yes. With no success.”

  “I’d’ve gotten in,” Poncia said from where he stood off to the side with his left little and ring fingers splinted and swathed in bandages.

  His presence annoyed the hell out of Tier. He did not so much as glance at him when he continued speaking to Roland.

  “The apartment is protected by a thick steel door—”

  “I’d’ve gotten in.”

  “—secured with a complex combination lock.”

  “I’d’ve—”

  Roland raised a hand. “Enough.” To Tier: “Your job is merely to find the Bagaq, not retrieve it. Why didn’t you follow the occupant?”

  Tier shrugged. Had to be careful here. “He left empty handed. I had a possible location and saw an opportunity to confirm or deny while he was out. I took it.”

  Roland studied him in silence.

  Suspicious bastard, aren’t you.

  As the scrutiny reached an uncomfortable point, Roland said, “It appears we now have two people who require observation.”

  “Correct. And since I can watch only one, I suggest—”

  “I will make the suggestions here, Mister Hill. Albert will watch the apartment while you will continue your watch on the Allard.”

  No-no-no-no-no! In recounting the events of the day Tier had edited out mention of the fact that he’d lost the Medici woman. She might be back in her apartment but he doubted it. Standing outside would be a complete waste of his time. He needed to watch the brownstone. Assuming its occupant “Jack” had the Bagaq, tomorrow—being Monday—would be the perfect day to move it to a safer location.

  “I believe you would be better served if I watched the brownstone.”

  Poncia sneered. “‘Better served.’ Listen to this guy.” He turned to Tier. “You already had your chance to get the Bagaq and totally blew it. Now it’s gonna be in the hands of someone who knows what he’s doing.”

  How dearly he would have loved to set this scumbag straight but he stayed focused on Roland and bottled his anger. But not before letting a little escape.

  “I fear Mister Poncia’s spavined physique might prove too conspicuous.”

  Yes!

  Poncia huffed. “What’d he—?”

  “Be that as it may,” Roland said, cutting him off. “You stick with the woman.”

  Hiding his frustration, Tier said, “If I am to stay focused on Madam de Medici then, perhaps you could fill me in on her. My usual lines of inquiry have not borne much fruit.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Roland said. “She remains something of an enigma in the collecting circles. No one had ever heard of her until she bought an old Garden District mansion in New Orleans. Moved in a collection of antiquities from her home in Egypt but apparently displays it only for herself. At least so we’ve gleaned from various workers she employed to set it up.”

  “So, she’s Egyptian?”

  “Who is to say? You’ve seen her. Some sort of mixed breed, I imagine. I don’t know what she is. She made the acquaintance of a New Orleans collector named Jules Chastain who came into possession of another Infernal called the Cidsev Nelesso.”

  Cidsev Nelesso…where did they come up with these names?

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “The details are confusing, but apparently Chastain lost the Cidsev along with part of his arm.”

  “I’m seeing a pattern,” Tier said. “Does the Madame possess Chastain’s Infernal now?”

  “Who can say? For all we know, she might possess the missing part of his arm as well.”

  Tier blinked. “Pardon?”

  “The severed section was never recovered. But I am joking. No one has seen her collection. But I don’t need to see the Bagaq to be sure she has it. I suspect she’s after all seven Infernals and will stop at nothing until she completes her collection. Which is why she stole my Bagaq.”

  Stop at nothing…

  “Is she dangerous?”

  Another sneer from Poncia. Was that the limit of his expressions? “Getting the jitters, Hill?”

  A boor and a bore.

  Tier continued to ignore him, saying, “I believe my question is reasonable considering how someone who possessed something she wanted is, as you said, missing the object along with part of his arm.”

  “Yes, a practical concern, I suppose. But I’ve heard nothing to that effect, though I’m told she has some people on her staff who appear to be of rather dubious character.”

  Look around, Roland. You too.

  “One curious thing,” Roland added. “I found a mystifying reference to a Madame de Medici as a person of interest in the theft of an ancient inscribed sapphire from the Egypt Exploration Society in London. Of course, the police didn’t use the term ‘person of interest’ back then, but they were on the lookout for a young woman named Madame de Medici whose description is uncannily similar to our own Madame’s.”

  “Why ‘mystifying’?”

  “Well, the year was 1912.”

  10

  Jack inspected the scratches on his apartment door lock. They centered around the latch and hadn’t been there when he’d left this morning. Obviously, someone had tried to break in, but he couldn’t imagine why. He lived a low-profile life with nothing of value in there except some quality weaponry. But no one knew that. So why—?

  Oh, yeah. That Infernal that Madame what’s-her-name had left with him.

  Damn. Someone must have followed her here. And since they’d failed to break in, they’d be watching the place, waiting for him to leave again—hopefully with the Bagaq. Because if they had half a brain, they’d know they weren’t getting through this door.

  So, what would he do if he were after the Bagaq and knew it was out of reach in here?

  He’d have no choice but to wait for someone to bring it out.

  Which was exactly what he planned to do tomorrow morning. In the meantime, though…

  He punched in a six-digit code and entered, then—he couldn’t help it—he checked t
he top of the front closet. Yep. Bagaq still there.

  He’d planned to start a Peckinpah festival tonight, skipping The Deadly Companions, which Peckinpah had pretty much disowned. He’d seen it once and that was more than enough—good start, but the last forty minutes or so were a chore. He was starting with Ride the High Country, even though he’d seen it maybe fifty times already. Never tired of that one. Major Dundee would be next, but first…

  After grabbing himself a Yuengling, he plugged the Internet cable into the back of his desktop—no wi-fi for Jack—and started a search for David Quinnell. Success…too much success. A ton of hits. He tried putting it in quotes but even so that garnered about four thousand hits. He tried adding “defense department” and “DIA” and “Defense Intelligence Agency” to the search but they didn’t help. No surprise there. DoD might not want their agents listed in search engines.

  The David Quinnell who got the most hits was a guy who was convicted of killing a DEA agent and doing life in the federal pen in Canaan, Pennsylvania. Looked like he’d been a big story a few years back but Jack had missed it. No surprise there. He didn’t keep up on murders.

  But this Quinnell had also popped up on the “+defense” search so he opened it. Turned out the “defense” hit was triggered by his plea of self-defense. No help there. But as Jack was about to click the article closed he spotted “resident of Queens” at the end of a paragraph. Reading further he learned nothing more. Queens was a big place with lots of residents. And anyway, this guy was a lifer.

  Jack figured Abe was his best bet for info. Abe knew people who knew people who knew people. He’d planned to stop by tomorrow anyway. Now he had two favors to ask.

  Which would make a food stop doubly necessary.

  He moused over the power button, ready to shut down, when the word popped into his mind.

  Melis.

  Strange word. Most likely a shortened form of a long, complicated scientific name.

  He popped DuckDuckGo back onto the screen and began typing the letters into the search box. Wait. One “L” or two? He’d try one first, and if that got nothing, he’d give two a try.