Repairman Jack [03]-Conspiracies (15 page)

They all began talking at once. Just for the hell of it, Jack added to the babble: "Um, how about Oswald?"

That stopped them cold. They all turned to stare at him. He suddenly felt like a caterer who'd just brought a platter of glazed ham to a Moslem banquet.

Finally the bearded man spoke. "Oswald? You some kind of nut?"

They all started babbling at once again, but this time at him. Jack backed away and escaped before they could encircle him, and in the process he bumped into someone.

"Sorry," he said, turning and offering an apologetic smile to a guy holding an eight-by-ten photo.

"It's okay," said the guy, who looked to be about eighty. He thrust the photo toward Jack. "Here. Take a look at this." He turned to the younger fellow with him who sported a Fu Manchu mustache. "Here's a completely neutral observer. Let's see what he says." Then to Jack: "Go ahead. Tell us what you see."

Jack looked at the photo and shrugged. "It's the Earth—looks like a picture of the northern hemisphere of the Earth from orbit."

"Right—a satellite shot of the North Pole. I had this part of it blown up. See that dark spot? That's the hole that leads to the inside."

"Inside where?"

"Inside the earth. It's hollow, you know. There's a whole other civilization inside, and that's the entrance."

"Looks like a shadow."

"No, you're not looking closely enough." He snatched the photo from Jack and jabbed his finger at the dark splotch. "That's a huge opening. That's where the saucers come from."

"Saucers?" Jack said.

Over the guy's shoulder Jack saw his Fu Manchu'd companion rolling his eyes and rotating his finger by his right temple.

"Yes!" said the old guy, brandishing the photo. "People have been brainwashed into thinking that UFOs are from outer space. They're not! UFOs are from inside the earth!"

He stomped off with his photo.

"UFOs from inside the hollow earth," the guy with the Fu Manchu said derisively, watching him go. "Some people will believe almost anything."

Jack nodded enthusiastically. At last—someone with an ounce of common sense. "A bit of a nut, ay?" he said from the corner of his mouth.

"I'll say. Everybody knows they're based on the dark side of the moon."

Jack said nothing, just kept nodding and smiling as he backed away. He heard "Princess Di" as he passed another group, and paused.

"It was the Royal Family, I tell you. Queen Liz offed Di with the help of the Masons. It was the minefield thing."

"The minefields? Oh, don't be silly!"

"Those mines are where they are for a
reason
. You don't really believe they're all just
normal
land mines, do you? If the poor girl had just kept her mouth shut, she'd still be with us."

"She
is
still with us! Nobody offed Di. That whole thing was faked. She's in hiding from the Royal Family."

"With whom?" Jack said. "Elvis?"

"Hey, now there's a thought!"

And there's my cue to move on.

He glanced at his watch. He had to get out to Elmhurst to set up watch in the Castlemans' backyard, to keep an eye on Gus and the purportedly abused Ceil.

On his way to the escalators, he saw a squat, red-haired man with a full beard in a wheelchair exiting the elevator. The man began rolling along but after a dozen feet or so he suddenly braked and stared at Jack. He looked almost startled to see him.

Do I know you? he thought as he passed.

No. He'd remember a guy like that.

Jack kept moving. He checked the front of his shirt and pants, but no, his fly was closed and he hadn't spilled anything. As he stepped on the escalator, he glanced back and found the red-haired guy still staring after him.

First the monkey, then Roma, now this guy. What is it about me that's so damn interesting?

8

Jack rubbed his grainy eyes as he crouched in the rhododendrons by the Castlemans' fence. Had to love rhodos—they provided the same cover year round.

His back ached and his butt was cold from sitting on the ground. He pulled his gym bag under him for insulation. The hard irregular lumps of the tools inside were almost as uncomfortable as the ground. Had to remember to bring a cushion tomorrow night.

He'd spent hours observing the Castlemans' home life and so far hadn't seen a hint of anything even remotely violent. Or remotely interesting. These were not exciting people.

Skinny little Ceil apparently had got home shortly before Jack arrived. Schaffer had said his sister worked for a small publishing house in Manhattan. The little kitchen TV was on—Jack recognized
Eyewitness News
—and she was pouring herself a stiff vodka. She watched the news as she started slicing and dicing for dinner; she'd smoked three cigarettes and downed another vodka by the time big Gus Castleman came in from a hard day of accounting at Gorland Industries. He peeled off his suit coat and went straight to the fridge. Maybe he grunted hello to Ceil; Jack couldn't be sure. Sure as hell no hello kiss. Gus pulled out two Bud Lights and sat down before the family room TV—Jack couldn't see what he was watching.

When dinner was ready Gus came to the kitchen table and they ate watching the TV. After dinner, more TV. Gus fell asleep around ten. Ceil woke him up after the 11:00 news and they both went to bed.

Such was life at the Castlemans'—boring to live, excruciating to watch. But Jack had a rule about being sure of a situation before he did a fix. After all, people lied. Jack lied to most people every day. Schaffer could be lying about Gus, might want him laid up for something that had nothing to do with his sister. Or Ceil might be lying to her brother, might be telling him it was Gus who gave her those bruises when all along it was some guy she was seeing on the side. Or Schaffer and Ceil could be conspiring against Gus ...

Jack smiled and shook his head. Less than one day with the SESOUP folk and already he was hunting up conspiracies.

Whatever, Jack needed to be sure Gus was doing what his brother-in-law said he was before he made a move on him.

But so far Gus was just boring and inattentive. That didn't rate hospital-league injuries.

If something was going to break here, Jack wanted it to happen before Sunday. Clocks were due to get pushed ahead then and the extended daylight would make surveillance a lot tougher.

Calling it a night, he crept back to the street. As he headed for his rented sedan, he heard the hum of a car engine growing behind him. He tensed. Cops, maybe? He continued strolling along with his gym bag over his shoulder, doing his best to look like a local on his way back from a late night work-out. Trouble was, the bag wouldn't withstand even a cursory inspection: under the sneakers and sweatsuit lay a full set of burglar tools and a special .45 ACP automatic.

Jack didn't turn, didn't give a hint he'd even heard the car until it came even with him. Then he glanced over, real casual like, preparing to nod and give a friendly little neighborly wave.

The car was passing under a streetlight—a black Lincoln Town Car, a later model than the one he'd seen in Monroe. And the two guys in the front seat weren't cops. Jack wasn't sure what the hell they were: Ditko characters with pale faces, black suits, white shirts, black ties, and black hats with the brims pulled low over dark glasses.

Dark glasses? It was edging toward midnight.

The driver was closer, staring straight ahead, but the passenger was leaning forward, studying Jack. Without changing speed, it glided past and cruised on down the street.

Just two guys dressed like the Blues Brothers.

So how come they left him with a case of the creeps?

IN THE WEE HOURS

Roma ...

Salvatore Roma paced the narrow, ill-lit space between the antique boilers in the hotel basement.

It's beginning, he thought.

He could feel it, but it was building so
slowly
.

Patience, he reminded himself. Patience. You've waited so long already, you can wait a little longer now.

Mauricio had made room for himself on a low shelf. He rummaged in the white plastic shopping bag he'd brought along and removed a human finger. He held up the severed digit for Roma to see.

"Look at that fingernail," he said in the Old Tongue, his tone dripping contempt. The nail was very long, perfectly shaped, and painted a bright fuchsia with a diagonal turquoise stripe. "Where do they get the idea that this is attractive?" He bit into the nail with his sharp teeth and wrenched it free, exposing the raw nail bed. He spat it back into the bag. "I'm glad their time is up. I hate them."

Roma watched with amusement as Mauricio began to gnaw on the bloody stump of the finger, tearing off bits of flesh with quick, jerky movements. He could tell that his old companion was in a foul mood. Roma said nothing. He knew more was coming.

"As I am sure you can tell," Mauricio said finally, "I'm very upset with this recent turn of events."

"Really?" Roma hid a smile. He was fond of Mauricio but wished he had a sense of humor. "You hide it
so
well."

"I'll thank you not to mock me. You should not have admitted that stranger. The instant I laid eyes on him I knew he was trouble."

"And how, pray tell, did you know that?"

"
I felt
it. He is a wild card, an unexpected, unquantified element who spoke not a word of truth. You should have ejected him and not allowed him to set foot through the door for the rest of the weekend."

"That was my first impulse as well, but I had a change of heart."

"The hotel was supposed to be filled with sensitives—at least one in every room. He now has one of those rooms."

"True, and I believe he may be a sensitive himself."

Mauricio had gnawed the finger's proximal phalanx clean. He cracked the bone in half and began sucking out the marrow.

"Oh? And on what did you base that decision?"

"The fact that he is marked. You noticed that, I assume."

"Of course. Immediately. But he is not merely 'marked,' he is
scarred
, and that means he has fought the Otherness—fought and survived."

"'Fought' is a loaded term, Mauricio. He was most likely just an innocent bystander, a wounded civilian."

"Perhaps, but the very fact that he survived bothers me—bothers me very much. He could be working for the enemy."

Roma laughed. "Do not be such an old woman, Mauricio. We know the enemy's agents and he is not one of them."

"We know only of the Twins. How do we know there are not more? I say we should call this off."

Roma felt his amusement fade, replaced by irritation. "I wish to hear none of that. You have been against this plan from the start and you will latch onto any excuse to abort it."

Mauricio had finished with the first phalanx. He tossed the bone fragments back into the sack, then went to work on the rest of the finger.

"I've tried to discourage you for good reason. I was put here to advise you, remember?"

"To
serve
me, Mauricio."

The monkey glared at him. "I serve the Otherness, as do you."

"But I am The One. I decide, you facilitate. Do not forget that."

They'd had this argument before—many times. Mauricio had been sent to aid him, but over the years he had come to see himself as a mentor. Roma resented that. No one on this plane had worked longer in service of the Otherness than he. He had learned the hard way, through pain, imprisonment, even death, and the last thing he needed was someone offering half-baked advice, especially at this late date.

Mauricio said, "Why won't you listen to me when I tell you this whole plan is premature? You are too impatient."

"Impatient? I have waited ages—
literally
ages—for this. Do not dare call me impatient!"

"Very well then: You are not impatient. But you have not dealt with The Lady, and the signs are not quite right yet."

They
are
right, Roma thought, because I
say
they are right.

"The Lady does not matter."

"And why here?" Mauricio went on. "New York is too crowded. Too many variables, too many ways for something to go wrong. Why not somewhere in the desert? A hotel in, say, Nevada, or New Mexico?"

"No. I want it here."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons."

Mauricio hurled the partially eaten finger across the room and leaped to the floor. He shot upright to stand on his hind legs. His usually high-pitched voice dropped two octaves as he abandoned his capuchin monkey guise and expanded to his true self—a powerful, bull-chested, midnight-furred creature with blood-red eyes, standing four feet tall, "You're not
allowed
reasons! You are The One. You are here to open the way. It is your duty and your destiny. Personal vendettas have no place in your life!"

"Then someone else should have been chosen," Roma said calmly, coldly. "Not someone with a past—a
long
past. Not someone with scores to settle. But there is no one else on this plane with the capacity to make the choice. So if I say it begins here, then here is where it will begin."

"I see I have no say in the matter," Mauricio said sullenly. He shrank into the capuchin guise again. "But mark my words well: I still think this is premature—the wrong time as well as the wrong place—and that it will end badly. I also think allowing that stranger in was a mistake. He's an enemy. And a terrible dresser."

Roma laughed, glad to ease the tension between them. Mauricio needed to be put in his place every so often, but he was too valuable an ally to alienate. "Admit it, Mauricio. That is what really bothers you about him, isn't it."

"Well, after all, did you see that hideous warm-up he wore? Absolutely dreadful." He looked Roma up and down. "How about your new suit? Any compliments on it?"

"Many." Not that he cared in the least.

"See? I told you—"

Roma held up his hand. "Wait!" A tingle began running over his skin. "Feel it? It's happening ... the power is growing, building. Any moment now."