He shook himself and jumped up and down, trying to restore full circulation to his cold limbs. And as he did, he realized he’d been presented with the perfect opportunity to catch H3 in its lair—hit it with a no-miss tranq or two, then call the Plum Island boys and get this over with.
And maybe then he’d get some answers. Because he had questions about H3—big ones.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait. With H3 across the Belt and out and about over on the commercial strip, here was Jack’s chance to learn a little on his own. H3’s lair was somewhere in here under the grandstand. It wouldn’t be back for a while, so… why not?
Maglite in one hand and Glock in the other, he moved to the rear of the deep recess and searched along the steep angle where the concrete support met the concrete floor. Leaves and food wrappers, blown in from the parking lot, littered the corners. But one spot, darker than the rest, stuck out.
Jack approached and found an area of perfect blackness. A heavy steel grate had been moved aside, leaving a dark, empty square in the floor. Here was where H3 did its disappearing act.
He flashed his light down and saw foot rungs imbedded in the concrete wall. Jack didn’t expect H3 back soon but had no doubt it would return, so he couldn’t waste what time he had. Holstering the Glock, he slipped through the opening and clambered down the rungs.
Another tunnel but unlike the usual drainage pipe. Bigger, a comfortable six feet in height, and of more recent vintage than the one running under the Belt. Its floor was flat but its walls and ceiling angled this way and that. Like a German expressionistic design without a true vertical anywhere. He could imagine Dr. Caligari’s somnambulist wandering by. Drainage from the main parking lot and the grandstand had to go somewhere. Maybe through here. But that wouldn’t be a concern until the weather thawed.
The question now: which way to go? He sensed a slight incline to his right and decided to try uphill first.
The tunnel curved to the left ahead of him. A half dozen feet around the bend his beam reflected off some plastic packing on the floor. Closer inspection revealed a Star Wars action figure: Ridley. Beyond that another plastic pack, this one with a doll’s dress. The one stolen from the Stop & Shop truck?
What was going on here? What was H3’s attraction to these toys?
A few feet past that Jack found a cubic battery pack loaded with four D cells; a switch jutted from one end and wires trailed off into the dark from the other. A few feet away Jack’s flash picked up a tiny bulb jutting from one of the wires.
Lights?
Weirder and weirder.
Feeling a little reckless, he flipped the switch.
The alcove-like space ahead of him came to life, brightening with multicolored lights. It took him a moment to recognize what he was looking at. And then—
“Aw, no!”
12
The limo had limped into the Enterprise lot where Tier learned they had a Ford Explorer with four-wheel drive. He claimed it. Marley arranged to leave his limo on the lot for eventual towing while he rented a car to return to the city.
As Tier was signing the rental papers, Poncia said, “Hey, Tonto, I’m hitting the head to take a dump. Don’t leave without me.”
Five, Tier thought.
“Why you let him talk you like that?” Marley said when Poncia was gone.
Tier knew exactly what he was talking about, but put on a puzzled expression. “Like what?”
“He call you ‘Tonto.’ Me, if I you and he call me that, I straighten him right quick.”
“Tonto was a loyal partner, a brave friend, a standup guy. I should take it as a compliment, don’t you think?”
“You believe me, mon, he no mean that as a compliment. He think he insulting you.”
“Well, Marley, for an insult to mean anything, you have to respect the source.”
Marley considered this, then shrugged. “I still not let him get away with it. Just because he white, he think he can speak any way he please to you and me.”
“I know plenty of whites who wouldn’t think of speaking that way. He’s a bad person, a man of no worth. He’d be the same no matter what color his skin. But his whiteness allows him to think he can say whatever he pleases with impunity.”
“Why you work with him?”
“It’s a short-term thing. He works for a man who hired me. We’ve been temporarily thrown together. I expect us to go our separate ways tomorrow. After that I will never see him again.”
Which was true in more ways than one. Tier had decided to break his rule about no more killing and gut Poncia when this was over.
“Still, you should make him stop calling you ‘Tonto.’”
“He has called me ‘Tonto’ five times already today. I’m sure there will be many more.”
Marley’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been counting?”
“Of course.”
Yes. Let Poncia keep it up. The total would decide how many times he stabbed his piggy body before he let him die.
13
Jack stared at the miniature Christmas tree and its blinking lights… and all the presents piled around it.
And he knew.
“Those sons of bitches! Those rotten, lying, evil sons of bitches!
The suspicion growing in him since he’d watched H3 with little Cilla Quinnell in her backyard yesterday had just bloomed into an inescapable fact.
H3 was David Quinnell…or at least had been at one time. And now he ran on all fours. How much human was left in him?
Apparently enough to remember his daughter…and that Christmas was near.
Rage combined with wonder and stirred in more rage. How had they managed this? How had they got him out of prison? How had he been declared dead? And how the hell had they turned him into H3?
They’d talked about stem cells treated with some mystery substance. Melis. Had any of that been true? Might have been the only true thing they’d told him.
Jeez, what had he gotten himself into?
Get back in the game…it’ll do you good…start slow… track down a lost beastie… no emotional involvement there… it’s just an animal… no sweat…
Sure.
Whatever the truth about his origin, H3 was a killer. The dead perv and the two dead teens were ample proof of that. And since Quinnell had been sent up for murder in the first place, the conclusion wasn’t such a stretch.
Remembering H3 crouched across the fence from Cilla Quinnell, Jack stared at the blinking tree, at the girly toys, and didn’t like at all what he saw developing.
Crap.
He wanted nothing more to do with this whole bizarre, rotten situation, but he couldn’t walk away and leave H3 out there. The blood and blame for what H3 had done to this point were on Hess and Monaco’s hands. Any blood from now on would be on Jack’s as well.
He worried about little Cilla. David Quinnell might want only the best for his daughter, but rejection was a real possibility, and H3 might not take that too well.
Time to improvise. And Jack hated to improvise.
Okay…one—get the hell out of here before H3 came back. Jack wanted room to maneuver when he dealt with it and the conduit provided very little.
Two—decide on that after he’d completed one.
He took one last look at the surreal scene of the blinking Christmas tree and the presents centered on a Caligari set, then turned off the lights and made his way back up to the space under the grandstand. The snow storm hadn’t let up yet. Faint light suffused the flake-filled night air over the parking lot.
Using his flash, Jack searched for the darkest spot available with a clear view of the entrance to H3’s hidey hole. He settled into an angled corner with the tranq gun in hand and the Glock cocked and ready on his lap.
He didn’t think he’d have a long wait. And he was right.
H3 arrived under the grandstand in a rush. The snow muffled everything, so Jack hadn’t heard it coming, but he’d caught sight of it as it rounded the barrier along
the parking lot. It had been running on all fours in the lot but rose to a slightly crouching upright posture once it hit the dry surface. Jack’s big worry was how well it could see in the dark. That turned out to be a nonissue because it headed straight for the opening without looking around. Must have been pretty sure it had the grandstand to itself.
Jack sat with his back against the wall and his knees up, the tranq gun in a two-handed grip and his wrists resting atop his knees. Taking a breath, he fired a dart at H3’s silhouette. He couldn’t see the dart land, but the way H3 jerked and spun told him he’d scored a hit. If H3 felt it, that meant the needle had penetrated and injected the neuromuscular agent. With no idea how fast it would work, Jack immediately reloaded.
H3 turned Jack’s way and snarled. Could it see him? It answered the question by heading straight for him. Jack fired another dart and once again H3 reacted by jerking to a halt. But only for a heartbeat. As it moved closer, Jack grabbed the Glock.
But before he could pull the trigger, H3 stumbled and dropped to its knees. Jack held his fire as H3 struggled back to its feet. But instead of continuing its charge, it wheeled and staggered back to the hole.
Jack held his position as it disappeared into the floor, then he rose and waited a little longer. He tucked the tranqer away and, with the Glock extended, made a slow approach.
A few peeks into the opening with the flash showed an empty passage below. A cautious descent put him on the floor. He stood and listened. From up ahead, where he’d found the Christmas tree, came a dragging sound, and heavy breathing.
Jack stalked forward, found the little light switch, and flipped it.
H3 sprawled in the middle of the floor, trying to drag itself away. Finally, it lay still, panting. A feral face glared at Jack from within the hood and from under the cap bill. It bared sharp teeth as it growled—a weak growl. It had taken two darts, but whatever the Plum Island boys had put in those darts had worked its magic. H3’s muscles had turned to silly putty.
“Hello, David,” Jack said. “When was the last time anyone called you that?”
14
“They can put up all the Jackie Robinson Parkway signs they want,” Poncia said, “it’ll always be the Interboro to me.”
They’d left the Enterprise office and headed west on the Jackie Robinson—AKA the Interboro Parkway. Usually two lanes each way, it had been reduced to one, and that lane in lousy shape. But the Explorer handled well in the slush.
Hours ago—was it only hours?—Jack had turned south off the LIE onto Woodhaven Boulevard. Tier’s plan was to head back toward Woodhaven via the Interboro and then follow that south. He’d taken the wheel and put Poncia in charge of watching the phone to see if they got a hit on the Jeep. Chances were near nil along this stretch through Forest Park.
“Y’hear me?” Poncia said.
“I’m concentrating on the road. Looks like they plowed it once and forgot about it.”
“I’m betting you like Jackie Robinson better.”
Tier sensed where Poncia was going with this—try to make it racial.
“Helluva a ball player.”
“Hey, no argument there. But I remember driving this with my dad as a kid—before he took off for parts unknown. It was called the Interboro then and it should be called the Interboro now.”
“Got something against change?”
“Not if it’s for the better. But usually it ain’t. Look at the Queensboro Bridge. It’s now the Ed Koch. Same with the Triboro—renamed it after Robert Kennedy. Fucking guy was born and raised in Massachusetts. Those are changes but they ain’t improvements. What next? No more Brooklyn Bridge? Gonna be the Bloomberg Bridge? The DeBlasio Bridge?” He made a gagging sound.
As much as he hated to be on the same page as Poncia about anything, Tier had to agree. He found renaming landmarks after politicians offensive. He preferred the descriptive names. The Triboro Bridge connected three boroughs. The Interboro ran between the boroughs of Brooklyn and Queens. But he couldn’t bring himself to openly agree.
Poncia ripped open another foil ketchup packet—his second since the Enterprise office—and began sucking on it.
“How many of those do you have?” Tier said.
“Plenty. I like to play this little game with the 7-Elevens and convenience places. I buy a sandwich and then I ask for ketchup and they point me to the bins where they keep the packs of mayo and mustard and shit. And I say, ‘Okay if I take some?’ And they say, ‘Sure.’ And I say, ‘Sure?’ You see, I’m waiting for the magic words, and so I keep it up until they say, ‘Help yourself.’ And that’s it. I go over and empty all the ketchups into my pockets. And if somebody says something, I say, ‘You said I should help myself so that’s what I’m doing!’”
Poncia laughed like this was the funniest damn thing.
“I get ’em every time!”
“What a scallywag you are,” Tier said.
How much longer would he be trapped in the car with this asshole?
“Yeah, whatever. What are we doing here anyway? Seems like a total waste of time.”
“I’m open to a better idea.”
A safe offer because Poncia wouldn’t have one.
“Like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Can’t argue with that. But we’ll hit Woodhaven soon. We’ll ride back up toward the LIE, then come back down. If he’s stopped anywhere within a half mile along the way, we’ll get a ping.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Then we improvise. Just keep your eyes on that screen. We don’t want to miss him.”
“Don’t worry, Tonto. I ain’t gonna miss nothing.”
And that made six.
15
The flaccid Quinnell offered little resistance beyond growls when Jack used a set of Monaco’s cuffs to shackle his left arm to one of the pipes running through the space. His hands had shortened and thickened to semi-paws, but he still had enough wrist to make the cuff effective.
Jack seated himself against the opposite wall. He placed the tranq gun on the floor nearby but kept the Glock in his lap within easy reach.
“You’re supposed to be dead, you know,” Jack said. “I mean, Canaan lists you as dead.”
Quinnell gave him a dull stare.
“Can you speak?” Jack said.
Quinnell growled and shook his head.
Okay, so he’d lost the power of speech—due to changes in the brain or in his throat? Jack guessed the latter since he seemed to understand easily enough. But damn the loss of speech. Jack had so many questions. He’d have to go the Twenty Questions route and frame them for yes or no answers.
“First off, I’ve got a very good idea why you killed the perv. But why those two kids?”
Quinnell growled and bared his teeth as he briefly raised the sleeve of his overcoat. He hadn’t the strength to hold it up long, but from across the space, even in the dim, multicolored blinking light, Jack could make out the scorched area.
“They tried to burn you?”
A nod.
Wouldn’t be the first time some sicko set fire to a homeless man. Sometimes they survived, sometimes they were too drunk or drugged to wake up in time. He couldn’t imagine what possessed two middle schoolers to take that leap. Probably heard about it and thought it would be—what—fun? Or maybe their civic duty? Whatever, if they were expecting a helpless victim, they couldn’t have made a worse choice.
Stupid kids…well, after he’d settled the H3 fix, he’d make an anonymous call about where to find the bodies. The families needed to know. But for now…
Jack waved his hands at Quinnell’s body, trying to indicate his changes, his overall condition. “How did this happen?”
Quinnell simply stared at him. No way he could explain without words.
“Okay, okay,” Jack said. “Let’s try this: I’ve met Monaco and Hess and—”
The loudest growl yet from Quinnell.
“Yeah, not my favorite people either. They sent me
to find you and bring you back.”
More growling, accompanied by violent shaking of his head.
Jack could see he should leave going back to Plum Island out of the conversation. At least for now.
“What I’m trying to fathom is how this came about. They told me they injected you with something. That right?”
A nod.
Okay. At least that much was true. Jack couldn’t be sure about anything those two had told him.
“But did you let them or were you forced?” No, wait. That wasn’t a yes-or-no question. “Were you forced?”
A head shake.
“You let them?”
A nod.
Jeez.
“Why?”
Oh, hell, that wasn’t yes or no either.
But before Jack could rephrase, Quinnell scratched something on the floor with one of the claws on his free hand. Careful to stay out of reach, he leaned over to see.
$
“Money?”
A nod.
“I hope it was a lot.” A helluva lot.
Quinnell scratched something next to the dollar sign. The effort seemed to exhaust him. Yeah, the agent was still working.
$500K
“Five hundred thousand bucks?”
A nod.
“A lot of money, but then not a lot of money at all when you wind up not human and unable to spend it.
He pointed to himself and gave his head a vigorous shake. Then picked up one of the Barbie dresses and waved it.
“Ah. For your family.”
Kind of noble. No, insanely noble. David Quinnell abruptly soared in Jack’s estimation.
“But even so…to sacrifice your humanity…”
Quinnell made a slashing motion across his throat.
“You want me to shut up?”
A head shake and a repeat of the slash, then a claw digging into his stomach.
Jack raised his hands in a not-following-you gesture.
Quinnell did a retake…and then Jack got it. The throat slash…
“You were dying?”
A nod.
When Hess had been spewing his line about sticking human stem cells into a wolf, he’d said the wolf had had cancer and that the stem cells had cured it. Did he mean…?
The Last Christmas: A Repairman Jack Novel Page 22