The ramifications tied Jack's gut in a knot.
"Relax. We'll be just fine."
As Tom lapsed into morose silence, Jack popped back onto the deck to make a scan of the dark ocean. All clear.
When he returned below he found Tom refilling his cup.
"You going to be able to handle your watch?"
"Yeah, don't worry about it. I'm pacing myself. Don't want to start seeing things again."
"Like what? You said you hallucinated back on the dock. What did you see?"
"Nothing."
"Which is pretty much what you're getting out of this trip."
"Got the Lilitongue."
"Whoopee."
Tom leaned back. "Maybe I'm crazy, but I've got to tell you, I first laid eyes on that map maybe ten years ago, I… I can't describe it. I knew the Lilitongue was important and I knew I had to have it."
"Let me guess: You stole the map."
"'Stole' is kind of harsh. Old Wenzel was dying and his estate was set to be divvied up equally between his three kids, none of whom had any interest in his map collection beyond its cash value. So I, um, rescued it before it disappeared into some collector's cabinet."
Jack was nodding. "I see… you didn't steal it, you pilfered it."
"I prefer to categorize it as an honorarium for legal work well done."
"You would."
Tom straightened and jabbed a finger toward Jack.
"Don't try that holier-than-thou shit again, because it won't work! I know your story, Jack."
"Do you."
"Damn right. You put on this supercilious, disapproving look when all the while you're as crooked as they come."
Jack blinked "What?"
"You think I'm stupid? You think I can't put two and two together?" He reached into his pocket, withdrew a wad of paper, tossed it at Jack. "How do you explain that?"
Jack snatched it from the air and uncrumpled it: his fuel receipt from the marina. Anger surged.
"You've been going through my things?"
"Didn't have to. You left it by the helm. Take a look. It's got the first name right: John. But 'Tyleski'? That's a long way from the name on your birth certificate, Jack. So here you are, ripping off some unsuspecting guy—"
"I'm not ripping off anyone."
"Really? That'd be easier to believe if your name were on the card. Don't try to bullshit a bullshitter. That's a stolen card."
Jack shook his head. "Wrong. It's mine. I get billed every month and I pay it."
Tom's eyes narrowed. "But you're not John Tyleski."
"Maybe not. But the credit card company doesn't care. And the store-owners don't care. As long as everyone gets paid for their goods and services, who cares what name is on the card?"
Tom continued his stare. "Does all this have something to do with your Repairman Jack thing?"
Jack felt as if he'd been Tasered—couldn't move, couldn't speak.
Tom grinned. "Gotcha, huh?"
Jack found his voice, but it came out a whisper. "What are you talking about?"
Tom then launched into how he'd pieced together remarks from Dad and Gia, lyrics from Bighead's song, and Jack's inability to claim Dad's body. The conclusion he'd reached was disconcertingly close to the truth.
He pointed to the receipt in Jack's hand. "That was the capper. I suspected you were some sort of urban mercenary, but when I saw you were using a false identity, I was sure." He leaned back with a smug expression. "So no more holier than thou, okay? 'Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.' Remember that one?"
"You think knowing what I am gives you a free pass?"
"I just don't want to hear any criticism from a criminal."
Jack leaned toward him. "Maybe I am a criminal. Maybe I could even be considered a career criminal. But I'm not a crook. When I say I'm going to do something, I do it. Ironclad."
Tom reddened. "And I don't?"
"From what you've told me, your word's worth less than those queer twenties you were trying to pass."
"Hey, just a fucking—"
"As a judge you took an oath to uphold the law, didn't you?"
"Yes, but—"
"But nothing. That's giving your word. I could never take that oath—too many laws I disagree with—but you did. You bound yourself to a certain code. But you broke your word. Worse, you sold your word."
"I didn't do anything lots of other people weren't doing—still doing."
"I'm not going to have to repeat what Dad used to say about if everyone was jumping off a bridge, am I?"
Tom slashed the air with a hand. "Wake up, Jack. It's the way of the world. Two sets of rules out there. One is for public consumption, for the hoi polloi. But the other set, the real rules, are for those who know the game and how to play it. Someone once said that all of life can be summed up by the verb to eat, in both the active and passive sense. I'll take active, thank you."
"Well, there's a third set: mine. And so far no one's taken a bite out of me." He sighed. "Maybe I do sound holier than thou, but Jesus, Tom… without your integrity, what are you? What's left?"
Tom gave a derisive snort. "Tell me what you've got with it? Does it buy food? Does it pay the rent? You think that guy back at the marina would've given you all that fuel for free just because you've got integrity? I don't think so."
What's the use? Jack thought. Like discussing color with a blind man.
Shaking his head, Jack made another quick trip topside. Staring at the empty ocean, he thought about that lost soul below: his brother. His brother didn't get it. He was never going to get it. Maybe because he never had it.
No. He must have had it.
Jack returned below and took the seat across from Tom.
"Let me ask you something. Are you happy with who you are?"
Tom's mouth twisted. "Happy? How could I be happy? I'm up to my lower lip in legal trouble."
"Don't dodge the question. You know what I'm talking about. Are you satisfied with yourself?"
Tom sighed. "No, I can't say I am. In my heart of hearts I know I'm an asshole."
"How'd you get there? How did it happen?"
He looked up from his cup. "I assume you'll accept that I didn't start out with the goal of being a crooked judge."
"Accepted. So how?"
"It's an incremental process. Sometimes I think law school's to blame."
Jack snorted. "Cop out."
"No, I'm serious. And I'm not saying it's not my fault. But law school teaches that the letter of the law is all that counts. Forget the spirit of the law—the letter, the letter, the letter. So if you find a loophole or an interpretation that lets you sidestep the spirit of the law, it's okay to exploit it. Right and wrong, just and unjust don't play into it. The only thing that matters is what's on paper."
"Okay, but even the letter of the law doesn't give you a green light on bribery."
Tom nodded. "True, true. But you don't start with bribery. You start with bending here, shading there. And as the benefits accrue, you graduate to bigger bendings and darker shadings. You get caught up in a subtly escalating process that goes on until you wake up one morning and realize you're not the man you intended to be. Not even close. In fact, you're exactly the kind of asshole you despised when you started out."
"So that's the day you start to make changes."
"Wish it were that easy. You owe people favors—it's all quid pro quo—and these people know things about you. They hold your strings, strings you can't cut. You're not quite a puppet, but pretty damn close. So you go with it. You stay on the downward spiral." He looked at Jack. "Same thing probably happened to you, right?"
That took Jack by surprise. "Me?"
"Come on, Jack. Admit it. You didn't go to New York to become a criminal. But maybe you stole a little here, sold a little weed there, did a little grifting, then bought a Saturday night special and graduated to strong-arm stuff. Now you're Repairman Jack."
Jack shook his head. "Not even close. No increments for me.
When I dropped out of Rutgers and stepped onto the bus in New Brunswick, I'd made a decision to break with whoever I was and whatever future I'd been on track for. I said good-bye to a way of life I no longer felt part of. When I stepped off that bus in the Port Authority I was someone else. Didn't know who that guy was—not yet, at least—but I was sure of who I didn't want to be. I made a clean break, Tom. No increments. And no excuses."
Tom sighed. "Looks like I'll be doing the same thing soon: Throwing out the old me and buying a new one. You're still going to help me, right?"
Jack nodded.
Help Tom disappear? Oh, yes.
SATURDAY
1
Back again on terra firma, the first thing Tom did was plunk some change into the phone by the Wanchese dock and call home. They'd made good time coming back.
He watched the sun rise over the North Carolina pines as he listened to the rings.
Finally a voice thick with sleep answered. "Hello?"
"Terry? It's me."
Suddenly she came alive. "Tom! Oh, God! Where are you?"
Something in her tone warned him against answering that.
"In transit."
"But where?"
Although he already knew the answer, Tom said, "Something wrong?" Then held his breath.
"Wrong? Yes, damn it, something is very wrong! I've been visited every day by a pair of federal marshals. They know you're gone and they're watching the house. They follow me wherever I go—probably think I'm sneaking off to meet you or something. But how can I when I don't know where you are? I wasn't even sure you were still alive until just now!"
Oh, shit. Oh, hell.
Sweat oozed onto Tom's palms. He was fucked.
"Wh-why did they come by?"
"To bring you down to the federal building to ask you some questions about Bieber. I made excuses the first two times, but then they got suspicious. They know you've left town, Tom, but they don't know for how long. If you come back now, maybe…"
"Maybe what?"
"Maybe you can tie it in to your dad's death. You know, you just had to go see his grave or something like that."
… or something like that…
Oh, sure. That'll fly. Like a penguin.
"Come home, Tom. With your father's death—I mean, how it happened, and the national day of mourning and all—maybe you can get them to give you another chance."
Tom didn't see that happening without putting on a huge display of grief and throwing himself on the mercy of the court. And even then it was iffy.
No, he wasn't about to play the penitent bad boy for those gonifs.
Then he realized the feds probably had his line tapped. Shit! He should have thought of that. They'd probably pinpointed this pay phone already.
But he had to say something. No sense in lying about where he was… but he had to play dumb… ease into it.
He licked his lips.
"Great idea, Terry. Next time they come knocking, tell them you spoke to me. Tell them I'm like you said… really upset about Dad's death and hanging out at the graveyard."
"No way, Tom. I'm not lying for you. You've dug one big lousy hole for yourself, but I'm not getting in there with you."
"Come on, Terry."
"No! Look what you've done to my life! I can't go anywhere without people talking and pointing and whispering behind my back! I've tried to get together with Lisa and Susan for lunch but they both always seem to have something else to do, and they can't get off the phone fast enough. You're the one who's under indictment but I'm the prisoner. I'm stuck in this house because I've got nowhere I can go!"
Tom gritted his teeth at the sound of her sob.
So typical. I'm the one whose career is down the toilet, I'm the one facing opprobrium and jail time, and she's all bent out of shape because her social life is on the rocks.
Fuck. Her.
Okay. Time to send the feds in the wrong direction.
"Terry, I'm sorry for the way things are going but I'll make them right. Just between you and me, I'm about to leave for Bermuda and—"
She gasped. "Bermuda? But that means you're… you're leaving the country?"
Give the virago a prize!
"Yes, but only temporarily."
"They'll hang you if they find out!"
"Don't worry. I've just got an errand to run, and when I come hack, we'll be fixed up."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll see."
"But how are you getting there?"
"By boat."
"You don't have a boat!"
"I'm borrowing one."
"You can't do this! You'll only make things worse. It'll be in the papers and—"
Unable to weather another second of objurgation, he hung up. Then he leaned against the side of the booth and squeezed his eyes shut.
They'd loosed the hounds. What the hell was he going to do?
The feds would be sending someone to Wanchese. When they didn't find him here they'd assume he was headed across to Bermuda. Would they go so far as an air-sea search? He doubted it. But he'd bet they'd send marshals to Bermuda to nab him when he showed up at the bank.
He had to get out of here mach schnell. But where to?
Philly was out of the question now. Show his face and they'd toss him into their deepest dungeon.
New York…
Yes… bring the Lilitongue to New York. Probably an even better place than Philly to learn about it, what with Columbia University, NYU, the Museum of Natural History and all.
But where to stay? He couldn't use a credit card…
He glanced over to where Jack was stowing the last of their gear into the coffin-sized trunk of his Crown Vic.
Jack's place… a safe haven. Wherever it was, a sure bet he had it listed under a phony name. Just like his credit card.
Tom had almost burst out laughing when he'd seen the name on the gas receipt. John Tyleski… the name from the hotel. Tom hadn't dreamed that was Jack.
Despite all the shit coming down, Tom had to smile. Little Brother was soon going to be getting one mammoth MasterCard bill.
The smile faded. The last thing Little Brother wanted was him crashing for a week or two. If asked, Jack would turn him down—no question. So he'd have to get in through the back door. There had to be a way. After all, he had an eight-hour drive to figure it out.
Yeah, like it or not, Jack was going to have a houseguest. And once he got himself inside, there he'd stay until he'd unlocked the mysteries of the Lilitongue.
Tom smiled. Call me Sheridan Whiteside.
2
Jack breathed a sigh of relief as he and Tom pulled away from Ernie's Photo ID. Ernie had taken a few photos of Tom and promised to get to work on a new identity right away.
He'd brought Tom directly to Ernie's from the Lincoln Tunnel. Ernie could work miracles, but he needed time, and the sooner Tom got started, the better.
Because as soon as Tom became someone else, he and his Lilitongue would be on their way.
It was almost four thirty and the sun was hitting the horizon somewhere beyond the high-rises.
Jack was looking forward to getting home and crashing.
Long day. Up before dawn, cooped in a car with Tom for eight hours… he was fragged.
Had to admit, though, that Tom had been better company on the way back than the way down. Not because Jack was getting used to him or that they'd bonded. Hardly. The simple reason was that Tom hadn't talked as much. Of course, when he had it had been about Gia, but a generally non-toxic trip.
Tom had insisted on driving the first leg. They'd switched after lunch at a no-name diner somewhere on the DelMarVa Peninsula. Tom had insisted that diners were far superior to fast-food chains. Jack's burger was okay but he really could have gone for a Whopper with cheese. Tom's beef stew had looked and smelled like hot Alpo.
Jack had had the wheel from there on.
As Jack wound through the traffic on Tenth Avenue, Tom grabbed his arm.
Jack tensed, his eyes doing a quick 360 scan via the mirrors and windshield: nothing.
"What's wrong?"
Tom was doubled over. "Pull over! Now!"
Jack swerved right and pulled in by a fireplug. Before the car had stopped, Tom was leaning out the door. Jack heard him retching.
When he finished, he levered himself upright and sat there panting.
"Oh, God. Must be that stew. Never should have—"
Then he was hanging out the door and retching again.
"You okay?" Jack said.
Tom nodded.
"Done?"
Another nod.
As Jack put the Vic back into gear he realized with a shock that Tom had no place to stay.
"We've got to find you a hotel."
Shit. A Saturday night in Manhattan the last weekend before Christmas… where the hell were they going to find a room?
Tom slumped against the door.
"Jesus, Jack, I don't think I can make it."
"What do you mean?"
Jack knew what Tom meant but his mind shied from acknowledging it.
"Searching for a room." Tom groaned. "I don't think I can make today. I'll find a place tomorrow. I just need a little time to get over this."
"How much time?"
"Food poisoning doesn't last long. One night will probably do it. By tomorrow it'll be like it never happened." He winced and doubled over, then looked at Jack. "How about your place?"
Jack felt like the driver of a jackknifed semitrailer in mid-skid on an icy road, painfully, hopelessly aware that no matter what pedal he tromped or which way he yanked the wheel, the ending was a foregone conclusion.
"Tom…"
His voice took on a whiny tone. "Come on, Jack. Would it kill you to let me crash one night? One lousy night?"
Bastard.
3
"He'll be bunking in the TV room," Jack said.
He'd called Gia as soon as he'd unloaded the car and parked it in its garage.
Tom had carried his backpack and the Lilitongue chest up to the apartment, then slumped on the couch, leaving Jack to unload and haul the rest up to the third floor by himself.
Gia said, "You… with a houseguest…" A suppressed laugh trickled through the phone. "The hermit of the Upper West Side with overnight company. I can't believe it."
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