Bloodline rj-11

by F. Paul Wilson

  He'd been searching for that moment and circumstance for months now. Was it simply cowardice?

  "You're afraid of her reaction?"

  "You think I should be?"

  "I don't know. A terrible thing was done to her—to both of you, and Vicky as well. You're not to blame, but…"

  Yeah… but. His only blame was loving her, but would she see it that way?

  "She's lost her baby and almost robbed of her livelihood. She's having a hard enough time accepting those losses—and that's while believing herself the victim of a terrible accident. So how the hell is she going to handle know-ing…?"

  Abe stared at him. "The truth?"

  "Yeah. The truth: That the hit-and-run was intentional, and not simply to hurt her, but to kill her and the baby simply because of their connection to me, because they mean something to me." Something, hell—everything. "What's that going to accomplish besides causing more pain, and more fear?"

  "II truth she wants, truth she should have. The longer you wait, the harder it will be when this right moment you mention comes—if it ever does. Maybe it's come and gone already."

  Maybe it had.

  "She's improving, getting closer and closer to where she'll be able to paint and illustrate again. Once she can do that she'll feel she's able to exert a little more control over her life."

  "Why? She should be different from everybody else?"

  "I hear that."

  Jack polished off his bagel and grabbed Abe's copy of the Post. He flipped through it in silence while Abe studied Newsday.

  "Here's something," Abe said. "A fellow named Walter Erskine died in Monroe Hospital the other night."

  Jack frowned. "So?"

  "Says he's survived by his sister, Evelyn Bainbridge, of Johnson, New Jersey. Your hometown already."

  It hit with a flash. "Crazy Walt! He lasted this long? I thought he would've boozed himself to death long before now." He shook his head. "Harmless guy, but nutty as a Payday."

  "Says he's going to be buried in Arlington."

  "Yeah, he was a vet. Medic in Nam, if I remember."

  Too bad. He had fond memories of Crazy Walt, and unaccountably warm feelings for him… a vague recollection of Walt saving his life as a kid. Or maybe not. Kind of a blur. So many things from back then were blurred.

  Rest in peace, Walt. You sure didn't have much when you were alive.

  After a while Abe said, "Oh, I got a call last night from Doc Buhmann."

  "Who?"

  The name rang a bell but Jack couldn't place it.

  "My old professor. I sent you to him when that Lilitongue thing was causing all that trouble."

  "Right, right. The guy from the museum."

  Peter Buhmann, Ph.D., associate conservator of languages in the division of anthropology at the Museum of Natural History, professor emeritus at the Columbia University Department of Archaeology. Blah-blah-blah. They'd met only once, briefly, at his office in the museum.

  "How's he doing?"

  "Well enough. Getting ready to retire to Florida come the end of the year. He was asking about you."

  "Me? Why?"

  "Since he met you he can't stop thinking about the Compendium ofSrem."

  "Oh?" Jack felt a prickle of unease across his nape. "Why is that?"

  "Something about you intrigued him, he says. A scholar you weren't, yet you were asking about legends only scholars—and damn few of them—have even heard of."

  "I guess I neglected to mention that my interest was personal and my knowledge firsthand."

  "Yeah, but he sensed something, a feeling that you were speaking from experience. He wants to know if you ever found the Lilitongue or the Compendium."

  Jack knew Abe was the soul of discretion, but Buhmann was one of his revered professors from college. He might have said more than he should have.

  "What did you tell him?"

  Abe shrugged. "What else? I said I'd ask."

  Jack's small lift of relief annoyed him. Should have known better. But the last thing he needed was a bunch of academics sniffing around, looking for him and whatever he might have found.

  "Tell him I've got zorch."

  "Lie to that old man? He hasn't got long to live, you know."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "I should ask? But he told me he didn't have too long left, and how he'd go to his grave happy if he could see the Lilitongue of Gefreda or the Compendium ofSrem before he died."

  "Well, I can't help him with the Lilitongue—no one can—and as for the Compendium …" Jack shook his head. "Probably best if I keep that under wraps."

  "From an old and fading man you're hiding it? Isn't he the one who put you on to the Compendium? As I recall, if you hadn't found it, you never would have known how to—"

  Jack held up his hand. "Point taken." He scratched his jaw. "You think he can keep his mouth shut?"

  "Like a clam, he'll be. Like a stone. He just wants to see it, touch it maybe. This is for him, not for posterity."

  Jack considered. He did owe the old man…

  "All right then. Maybe I'll drop in on him this afternoon and let him have a peek."

  Abe clapped his pudgy hands and grinned.

  "Excellent. This is a mitzvah you do. You won't regret it."

  Jack hated when people said that.

  4

  Jack stepped into his apartment and sniffed. The air carried a musty tang. Not all that unusual after being closed up for a while. The old wood and old varnish on his Victorian wavy oak furniture gave off subtle but pleasant odors. The must came from the other junk arrayed on the walls—treasure in his eyes, though most other people would consider it junk. Or maybe junque.

  He jammed his finger into the soil in the pink Shmoo planter as he passed. Nothing stuck. The little ivy plant was thirsty. Had to remember to add water before he left. He glanced at the framed official membership certificates in The Shadow and Doc Savage fan clubs and straightened the Don Winslow Creed on his way to the oak secretary.

  Once there, he angled it out from the wall and removed its rear panel. An array of pistols adorned the top, side, and rear walls of the hidden space within. A rolled-up ten-by-twelve-inch flap of skin lay to the left, next to the Compendium of Srem. A Ruger SuperRedhawk chambered for .454 Casulls rested atop that.

  Jack slipped the book free. Big and heavy, its covers and spine made of some sort of stamped metal.

  With the secretary closed and returned to its original position, he placed the Compendium on the paw-foot oak table but did not open it. Something about the way the characters blurred and swam for an instant whenever he peeked inside made him queasy.

  Instead he pulled his Tracfone from a pocket along with a slip of paper. He dialed the number Christy P. had left. She picked up on the third ring.

  "Yes?"

  "Christy? This is Jack. You left this number on my Web site."

  A pause, then, "Oh, yes. Repairman Jack." Her tone was hesitant. "Interesting name. Did your mother pick it?"

  "No, and neither did I. But it gets the job done. You mentioned something about your daughter and a mistake?"

  "1 think I'm having second thoughts about hiring someone for this via the Internet."

  Smart lady.

  "Consider having third and fourth thoughts while you're at it. But my site isn't the sort people find by accident. Someone must have sent you. Who?"

  "Jeff Levinson. You know the name?"

  "I do."

  Jack had hired on a few years ago to take care of a recurrent swastika problem at Jeffs delicatessen.

  "He speaks very highly of you. But still…"

  "Your call, lady."

  "I don't know…"

  He could almost hear her chewing her lip.

  "Maybe I can help you make up your mind if you tell me what you need done."

  "How's that going to work?"

  "Because maybe I'm not interested."

  A brief pause. "Interesting tactic, playing hard to get."
>
  "Not a tactic. I am hard to get."

  Especially these days.

  "I like that. I suppose we should meet then. I want someplace public because—"

  "You haven't told me yet what you need done."

  "So you're really serious about that."

  "Some fixes I can do, some I can't. No sense in both of us wasting our time."

  Even this phone call was beginning to sound like a waste of time.

  She sighed. "Okay. She's involved with an older man."

  Hoo-boy. Jack glanced at his watch. How much time had he just wasted?

  "So?"

  "He's old enough to be her father."

  "So?"

  "Can you say something else?"

  "I'm waiting to hear something I can do something about. Affairs of the heart do not fall into that category."

  "Dawn's eighteen and he's in his mid-thirties. Twice her age."

  Jack's age.

  He tried to imagine a relationship with an eighteen-year-old. What the hell would they talk about? What could he have in common with someone who hadn't finished her second decade, who was basically a high school kid? Sure, fantasy cheerleader sex and all that, but you needed something more to fill the down time.

  Or did you?

  He guessed coming so close to being a father—of a daughter, no less—could be affecting his perspective.

  "I don't see how hiring me is going to help, Christy. What are you looking for? Someone to break his legs? Shoot him? That's not the way I work."

  At least not unless someone really had it coming.

  "No, nothing like that! I want to get something on him. Something that'll let my little girl see him for what he really is."

  "You already know what he really is?"

  "Well… no. But there's got to be something. There's always something, right? Besides, I get a bad vibe from this guy."

  Time to end this.

  "I suppose. But what you need is a private investigator. Someone who can—"

  "I've already been that route."

  "And?"

  "Long story. Look, Jeff said you were tops—pricey, but tops—and just the guy I need. Can't we just sit down and talk over the details? I probably shouldn't say this, but money isn't an object. I've got money. It's results I want."

  "I don't think I'm your man."

  "If nothing else, maybe you can get my retainer back from the investigator I hired." Out of the blue she sobbed. Once. The sound took Jack by surprise. He hadn't seen it coming. "Please? I'm really, really worried about my little girl."

  Her little girl… she might be eighteen, but he guessed your little girl was your little girl forever.

  Like Emma would have been.

  "Okay. We'll meet. I'll listen. But I'm not promising anything."

  A sniff. "Thank you. Where? No offense, but I'll feel safer if it's a public place."

  Jack laughed. "So will I. Where are you located?"

  "Queens. Forest Hills."

  Fairly ritzy neighborhood.

  "That means it's no big deal to get into the city."

  "I'm in all the time."

  He doubted he could help her, but he could hear her out and maybe point her in the right direction.

  "Can you make it in this afternoon?"

  He was testing. If she wouldn't meet this afternoon, he'd know it wasn't as important as she'd made it seem.

  "Sure. Tell me when and where."

  Well, that settled that.

  "There's this bar I know in the West Eighties…"

  5

  Jack stepped into the open door and knocked on the frame.

  "Doctor Buhmann?"

  He'd called ahead to make sure the professor would be in. The man glanced up from his desk.

  "Oh, yes. Mister… I must confess I've forgotten your surname."

  Wrong. Jack had never told him.

  "Just Jack'll do fine. How're you doing?"

  Not well, if his appearance meant anything. He looked even thinner and sallower than on Jack's December visit. And his office seemed even more cramped and claustrophobic. What courses had Abe taken from him in his Columbia days? How to Cram Amazing Amounts of Junk onto Shelves 101?

  The old man waggled his hand. "So-so. No use complaining." His wrinkle-caged gaze was fixed on the plastic shopping bag dangling from Jack's hand. "You said you had something to show me?"

  "Remember that mythical book you told me about?"

  He licked his lips. "The Compendium ofSrem. Don't tell me…"

  "Before we go any further, we need to agree on some ground rules."

  "Conditions? Yes-yes. Anything, anything." He reached toward the bag. "Just let me—"

  "First condition: Not a word of this to anyone."

  "You want to keep your ownership a secret? Yes, of course. I can understand that. The means by which antiquities change hands can at times be—how shall I say it?—controversial. I assure you, your name—which I don't even know—will not be connected with it."

  He thinks I stole it, Jack thought.

  Well, in a way he had.

  "No. When I say not a word, I mean just that: You speak to no one about this. No one is to know the book exists. It remains a myth."

  The professor looked shocked. "That is much to ask. I cannot even speak of what I've seen?"

  "I'm doing this as a favor to Abe because of his high regard for you, and as payback for your giving me a little guidance when I needed it."

  The Compendium had helped save Vicky from… what? He still didn't know exactly. But he did know that if not for this book she'd be gone now.

  "Then surely you can allow me to lord it over my colleagues that I've touched something they've denied existed, seen something they haven't and most likely never will."

  "And when you can't produce it, they'll think you're either going senile or you've lost your mind."

  "Yes, I suppose they will."

  "And then, to defend your reputation, you'll tell them about the guy who brought it to your office. And maybe someone will believe you. And maybe I'm on a security tape entering and leaving the building. And maybe someone will start looking for me."

  Jack had honed his skills at spotting security cameras. When he couldn't avoid them, he'd wear a baseball cap—today's was emblazoned with the Mets' orange NY—and kept the peak low over his face.

  But no tactic worked one hundred percent. If one of Buhmann's younger, aggressive colleagues knew Jack's face and went looking for the Compendium …

  Jack lived not far from here. What if the guy got lucky and spotted him on the street and followed him home?

  No thanks.

  "You're a very cautious young man. I might hazard to say overly cautious."

  Jack smiled. "You wouldn't be the first to say that."

  Buhmann sighed. "Very well. I will go to my grave without uttering a word about what you're going to show me."

  Jack thrust out his right hand. "I have your word on that?"

  The professor gripped it. His skin was dry and papery.

  "My word as a gentleman and a scholar." He blinked at Jack. "Now, may I please see what's in that sack?"

  Jack pulled the thick volume from the bag and, despite the care he took, its weight made a thunk as it settled on the desktop.

  "Here you go. A real, live myth."

  Buhmann sat and stared, saying nothing. Jack stared too, watching as the doodles embossed on the metallic cover blurred and shifted into the word Compendium in large ornate letters; below that, smaller, the word Srem.

  Buhmann looked up at him as if to say, Did you see that?

  Jack nodded. "It gets better. Open it."

  The old man's gnarled fingers trembled as he lifted the cover. He froze, blinking as the squiggles on the first page morphed into words.

  "Incredible."

  "Yeah. I know. You don't expect something this old to be in modern-day English."

  "If this is truly the Compendium of Srem, English wasn't even a langu
age when it was written."

  Back in December the prof had given him a crash course in the legends surrounding the ancient book: Written in the First Age, filled with the lore of a civilization predating known history, and virtually indestructible. Legend had it that Grand Inquisitor Torquemada had consigned it to the flames as heretical and blasphemous. And when it wouldn't burn he ordered it hacked to pieces. And when axes and swords failed to get the job done, he buried it in a deep pit in Avila and built the Monastery of St. Thomas over the spot and lived there until his death.

  Jack had found all that pretty hard to swallow. Even harder had been the legend that its text conformed to the native language of the reader.

  The Compendium hadn't stayed buried. Somehow it fell into the hands of a globe-spanning cult. And from there, into Jack's.

  He'd soon learned that all the tales were true.

  Buhmann stared at Jack; tears rimmed his eyes. "It's in German! I… I was born in Vienna and came here when I was ten. English has been my language for over seventy years, but I grew up speaking German. What language do you see?"

  Jack knew the answer but took a look, just to be sure.

  "English."

  The prof turned back to the book and began leafing through it.

  "Does it list, as I told you, the Seven Infernals?"

  "It do."

  "And the Lilitongue of Gefreda? Did you find it?"

  "I did."

  His head shot up. "No! You did? Where is it? I must see—"

  "Gone. And don't ask where because I don't know." He pointed to the book. "You'll even find an animated page in there."

  Jack hadn't been through the whole book. It seemed to have far more pages than even its size would account for, and little of what he'd read made much sense. At least not to him.

  The prof fixed his gaze on Jack. "Can we try a little experiment?"

  Wary, Jack said, "Like what?"

  "1 want to see what happens when I photocopy a page. We have a copier just down the hall."

  Though not crazy about the possibility of someone in the hall spotting the book and asking about it, Jack decided he'd like to see that too.

  "Okay. But let's not make a production out of it. Down the hall and back, lickety-split."

  Buhmann rose and, with the book clutched against his chest like a child's teddy bear, led the way into the hall. He nodded and smiled and said hello to a Maggie and a Ronnie, who looked like secretaries, and to a Marty whose mop identified him as a janitor.