Repairman Jack [08]-Crisscross (32 page)

"To do what?"

Jack shrugged. "Light all the bulbs on Brady's globe? I don't know. I'm counting on Cooper Blascoe to clear that up."

"If he's really Blascoe."

"Yeah. If."

15

Jamie had been praying that the man in the cabin was Blascoe, revving her interview motor for when she finally faced him. Now she wasn't so sure she wanted to hear what he had to say.

Jack slowed the car to a crawl along the rutted country road.

"Where did you park when you went up to the house that first time?"

"Somewhere along here, I think. I'd know better if you had the headlights on."

"Just playing it safe."

Out of necessity he'd kept the parking lights on. If there'd been a moon out, or even stars, he could have turned off everything. But the sky had put up a low roof of clouds, leaving the woods around them as dark as Kurtz's heart.

"Why don't we just turn and roll up the driveway?" She sounded impatient.

"Like you said before, we don't know what kind of security they've got here."

"Right, and I'd rather be inside a car when we find out. And I do not feel like pushing my way through two or three hundred yards of woods again."

"We'll compromise. We'll hide the car down here and walk up the driveway."

"How about
you
walk up the driveway and signal me when it's all clear."

"I don't mind going up there alone," he told her. "But you can forget about the all-clear signal. I'll talk to him myself and tell you what he said."

"Like hell you will!"

Jack smiled in the dark. He'd been pretty sure that would get to her.

He stashed the Crown Vic behind a stand of bushes. If it were earlier in the year, they'd be in full leaf. Now their bare branches didn't give much cover. A casual passerby probably wouldn't notice, but anyone on the lookout for a car couldn't miss it.

As they stepped out it began to rain. Nothing serious, little more than a light drizzle, but it made the chill night chillier.

They walked up a long driveway that was little more than two dusty ruts—steadily turning to muddy ruts—divided by a grassy hump. Jack took the lead, with Jamie staying close behind.

He was beginning to think that maybe this wasn't such a good idea. He could scope out the security setup—if there was one—better in daylight. Right now he felt as if he were flying blind. But he couldn't turn back. He was here and if the guy in the house was Cooper Blascoe, Jack was going to learn the connection between the designs on Anya's skin and Brady's globe. Tonight.

"So far, so good, right?" Jamie said.

"We could be walking past infrared sensors, motion detectors, you name it, and we wouldn't know."

"Let's go back."

Jack kept moving. "On the plus side, we're in the middle of nowhere. If we set off anything, it'll take time to get here. We do a quick in and out."

"But if it's Blascoe, it's going to take some time to get what we want out of him."

"We'll talk fast. Or take him with us."

Lighted windows from a typical woodland A-frame shone between the trees, and still no sound of an alarm, no blaze of light from security spots.

Jack and Jamie reached the front porch without incident. He made a quick perimeter check, looking in all the windows he passed, hunting for alarm tell-tales. He wasn't concerned with motion and infrared detectors; lie was looking for surveillance cameras. He didn't see any, but noticed odd-looking metal brackets on a couple of the walls.

The TV was on and someone was splayed supine on the couch, watching. All Jack could see of him were his legs and shoeless feet resting on a coffee table.

"What's the situation?" Jamie whispered when he returned to the front porch.

"We go in."

"Shouldn't we knock?"

"Don't know about you, but my plan is to go inside whether he answers the door or not, so why waste time knocking."

He pulled his Glock from the small of his back. He'd only seen one occupant, but you never knew…

He pressed the pistol against his outer thigh as he grabbed the knob. If it was locked, he'd kick the door open or break through a window.

Not necessary. The knob turned and the door swung inward.

He peeked into the room, giving the walls a good once-over. Not a surveillance camera in sight. That didn't mean there weren't any, but it was the best he could do at the moment.

He stepped inside, entering a high-ceilinged great room done up in standard Hollywood hunting lodge. Moose and deer heads stared down at him; antlers were framed here and there on the tongue-and-groove knotty pine walls; faux Indian throw rugs on the floor under rustic, rough-hewn furniture. Looked like a B-movie set. All it needed to complete the picture was John Agar entering stage right.

Keeping the Glock down, he stepped up to the couch and peered at the man sprawled on it. He looked maybe seventy, long gray hair lying on his shoulders, sunken, unshaven cheeks, oversized plaid shirt and jeans, both stained. He gripped a bottle of Cuervo Gold in one hand and a knockwurst-sized joint in the other. His eyes were fixed on the TV screen.

Jack said, "Cooper Blascoe, we've come for a visit."

The man's voice was thick, phlegmy, his words slurred. He spoke without turning his head.

"Fuck you, Jensen. Hope you brought me some good shit this time. This batch is bogus."

Jack walked past him toward the rear rooms.

"Hey!" the guy yelled. "Who the—?"

Jack waved the Glock at him. "About time you noticed. Keep it down."

"Why? Nobody here but me."

"We'll see."

Turned out he was telling the truth. The two bedrooms and littered bathroom were empty.

"All right, Mr. Blascoe," Jack said as he returned to the great room. He kept the pistol in hand for effect. "We've got a few questions for you."

The man give him a bleary look. "Who says I'm Blascoe?"

"You did when you answered to that name. And calling me 'Jensen' iced the cake."

Blascoe rubbed a hand across his mouth to hide a grin.

"Did I do that?"

"Yeah." Jack waggled the pistol in Blascoe's direction. "Let's go for a walk."

The Weariness gave way to a hard stare. Jack couldn't be sure at this distance, but the whites of Blascoe's eyes looked faintly yellow.

"You gonna shoot me, do it here. I ain't goin' anywhere."

"No shooting, just talk."

"If we're going to talk, we'll talk right here."

Jack leveled the pistol at Blascoe's face, thinking, This is going to sound like bad-movie night, but here goes.

"Don't make me use this."

"Jack!" Jamie cried.

Blascoe pivoted and looked at her. "Hey! A babe! You brought me a babe!"

Damned if Jamie didn't smile. And was that a blush?

"Been a long, long time since anyone called me that. I—"

Jack cut her off. "This place could be lousy with AV pickups. Someone could be watching us right now. We need to quiz him somewhere else."

"You worried about cameras?" Blascoe laughed and pointed to the wall brackets Jack had noticed before. "That's where they used to be."

"Where are they now?"

"Out in the yard. I rip them out and toss them off the porch. Jensen puts them back up, and I toss them out again. Don't want nobody peepin' on me."

"See?" Jamie said. "It's okay."

Jack shook his head. "I'd still rather—"

Blascoe fixed him with a rheumy stare. "Don't matter what you'd
rather
, no way I'm leaving here. I can't."

"Why can't you?"

"Because I can't, that's all. I just can't."

We're wasting time. Jack thought as he holstered the Glock. Wrestling him outside would waste even more. He unwrapped the flap of skin and held it up.

"What do you know about this? *

The old man squinted at it. "Not a damn thing. What is it?"

As Jack was trying to decide where to begin, Jamie stepped up to him and gripped his arm.

"Let me." She held up a small digital recorder. "I'm good at this."

"But—"

"My show now."

Jack reluctantly backed off. She made her living ferreting out information. He'd learned—sometimes the hard way—to respect experience.

Jamie sat next to Blascoe on the couch and turned on her recorder.

"I'd like to start from the beginning, Mr. Blascoe—"

"Call me Coop."

"Okay, Coop. I'm a reporter for
The Light
and—"

"
The Light
? I love
The Light
!"

Why am I not surprised, Jack thought.

But Jamie was all business. "Glad to hear it. Now, what I want from you is the truth, the unvarnished, warts-and-all truth about the Dormentalism situation: How you started it and how you came to your present… circumstances."

"You mean why I'm not in suspended animation, and how I came to be a shell of my former self?" He leaned closer and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "Know what? If you hold me up to your ear you can hear the ocean roar."

"I'm sure that would be very interesting, but—"

"This'll take all night," Jack said.

She looked at him. "Just let me handle this, okay. If Coop knows what you want to know, it'll come out. But this is a once-in-a-lifetime coup for me, and I'm going to squeeze all I can from it."

"See that?" Blascoe said. "She don't care about time. I like that." He leered at her. "But what if I don't feel like talking, beautiful?"

Jack cleared his throat. "Then I toss you in the trunk of my car—it's very roomy, you'll like it there—and haul your ass out of here."

Blascoe waved his hands like someone trying to flag down an onrush-ing car.

"No, no! Don't! I'll tell you."

Wondering why the guy was so afraid of leaving, Jack gave him one of his best glares. "Better not be bullshitting us,
Coop
."

The old man took a slug of Cuervo and held up his dead, half-smoked joint.

"Anybody got a match?"

Jack took the joint from him. "Let's not get you any more bent than you already are."

"Hey, I've been eight miles high for most of my life."

"Still…" Jack held up the J. "Let's leave this as a reward for when you come through with some answers."

Blascoe shrugged. "Oh, hell, why not. They can't do anything to me worse than what's goin' on. And it might be fun to watch the shit hit the fan."

"What
is
going on?" Jack said.

"Cancer for one thing." He managed a wry smile. "My fully fused xelton is supposed to be able to cure that, but he seems to be on an extended vacation."

Jamie said, "Let's go back to the sixties, Coop. That's where it all began, right?"

He sighed. "The sixties… yeah, that's when I invented Dormentalism… the best thing in my life that turned into the worst."

16

This time Jensen made it all the way to the sidewalk before his pager chirped.

"What now?" He was afraid to hear the answer.

Hutch's voice. "We've got some activity on that place we're monitoring."

Jensen stiffened. He wanted to ask which one of the telemetries was lighting up, but not on an open circuit.

"Be right up."

This could be good, he thought as he retraced his steps across the lobby, or this could be very bad. He'd feel a whole lot better if he knew where the Grant broad was.

Up in the office, Margiotta had gone home, leaving Lewis and Hutchison to man the fort. Lewis pointed to a red blinking light on the monitor labeled PERIMETER.

"In all the time I've been here, this is the first time I've seen that go off at night."

This was looking more and more like bad news.

"What's the readout?"

Lewis squinted at the screen. "Two large heat signatures—possibly a couple of bears."

Two
bears? Jensen thought. On the same night that Amurri or whatever his name was had helped Grant leave her tails in the dust?

"Could they be human?"

Lewis nodded. "I don't know much about bears, but I think they tend to scrounge around alone. So, yeah. More than likely they're human."

Shit.

Jensen gave Lewis a rough tap on the shoulder. "Up." When Lewis complied Jensen said, "You two wait outside."

He and Hutch exchanged puzzled looks but did as told. When Jensen had the room to himself he clicked his way to the AV monitors. There he entered his ID number and punched in a password. He toggled the pickups to LIVE. That turned them on and started them transmitting.