The Haunted Air (11 page)

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Authors: F. Paul Wilson

BOOK: The Haunted Air
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“Give me a boost,” Jack said.
Lyle gave him a dubious look.
“Come on,” Jack said, laughing. “I know how it's a matter of pride with you scammers about getting your hands
dirty, but a little alley oop is all I need and I'll take it from there.”
Shaking his head, Lyle laced his fingers together and boosted Jack up to where he could grab the limb. As Jack clambered onto the branch, he noticed Lyle stepping back between two parked cars and into the street.
“Where you going?”
“No offense, but I figured I'd get out of the way in case you and/or that branch come down.”
“Aw, and I was counting on you catching me if—”
Jack heard an engine rev. He looked down the street and saw a car with its lights out racing Lyle's way.
“Incoming!”
Lyle looked around but didn't react immediately. Maybe he didn't see the car right away because its lights were out. When he finally did move, jumping back toward the curb, the car swerved toward him, missing him by a thin breeze as it creased the fender of the parked car to his right.
“That them?” Jack shouted as he swung down from the tree.
The car didn't stop, didn't even slow. Jack glanced at Lyle, who looked shaken but otherwise unscathed.
“I-I don't know.”
Jack took off. I'm not even hired yet, he thought as he sprinted along the sidewalk.
He'd started running by reflex but didn't stop. Starting a job without a down payment was against Jack's rules, but after this, Lyle was a pretty sure bet to come across. And a look at the mystery car's license plate tonight might save Jack days of surveillance next week.
He kept to the sidewalk, hoping the driver wouldn't spot him. As the car passed under a street light he saw that it was either yellow or white, but he couldn't identify the make or model. Couldn't be something distinctive like a PT Cruiser, could it; no, had to be one of those generic-looking mid-size sedans that could be a Camry, a Corolla, a Sentra, or any of half a dozen other models. With its lights
still off, the Camrollentra's license plate remained hidden in the shadow of the bumper.
Ditmars Boulevard lay maybe a hundred yards ahead. The traffic light showed red. Would the car stop?
Fat chance. Jack saw its brake lights glow as it slowed, but that was it. The Camrollentra cruised the red and turned right.
Jack kept moving, putting a little more juice into his stride. Probably a waste of energy, but who knew? Might get lucky and find that the mystery car had plowed into a cab and locked bumpers. Stranger things had happened.
He rounded the corner and skidded to a stop … just like the traffic. People out on the town for Saturday night had done what the red light hadn't.
Jack started moving again, at a more relaxed pace this time, sorting through the cars in the jam as he strolled past the brightly lit store fronts. Within the first twenty-five yards he found two Camrollentras, one white, one pale yellow. Swell.
But the yellow one had a dented front fender and its headlights were out. The woman in the passenger seat kept looking over her shoulder. Her gaze swept right past him. Looking for someone with lots darker skin, no doubt.
Gotcha.
She faced front again, banging on the dashboard and pointing ahead, obviously telling her driver to get moving. But cars were lined up ahead and behind, and the opposite lane was no better. They'd move when everyone else moved.
Coming almost parallel, Jack ducked out of her line of sight and squatted, pretending to tie his shoe. After checking to make sure no one was paying attention, he crabwalked between two parked cars. This placed him two feet from the target car's right rear tire. He was close enough now to see that he was dealing with an aging Corolla. He wormed the black-handled Spyderco Endura Lightweight out of his back pocket, did a one-hand flick-out of the four-inch serrated blade, and jabbed it through the sidewall of
the tire. Then he slunk back to the sidewalk, made a show of tying his other shoe, and rose again to his feet.
Without a glance back, he checked out the store signs and found a Duane Reade. He'd go with that. Hoped it had what he wanted.
It did. Gotta love these Duane Reades. Called themselves pharmacies but carried so much more. Just about everything anyone could need.
Like duct tape.
And pantyhose.
Jack walked along, noting that traffic had thinned. He paused by a trash receptacle to open the pantyhose package; he cut off one of the legs and threw the rest away. Then he moved on, searching for the yellow Corolla. He went three blocks without seeing it. Had they decided to keep driving, flat tire or no? He hadn't figured on that because it was sure to draw attention, maybe even a police stop, and they'd want to avoid something like that.
As he was crossing a side street, heading into block four, he heard a clank of metal off to his right. Stopped, listened, heard a man's voice cursing in English. Peered up the block and saw a man and a woman by the curb just past a streetlight. The man knelt by the wheel of a pale Corolla that had pulled in next to a fire hydrant, the woman stood, as if on guard.
“Come on, come on!” said the woman. “Can't you do this any faster?”
“Fucking lugs are rusted. I—” Another clank. “Shit!”
Jack stepped off Ditmars and crept up the other side of the street, keeping low behind the parked cars. When he came even with the Corolla he found a pool of shadow and watched from there.
The man was average height, maybe forty, with receding hair and a medium-size gut; she was pint-size, five-one, tops, and built like a fire plug. The mouth on her would make Eminem blush.
Obviously the guy hadn't changed too many tires, and his companion's constant bitching didn't help, but finally
he got the spare onto the wheel. When the car was off the jack, the woman got back into the front seat.
As the man gathered up his tools, Jack pulled the pantyhose leg over his head; slipped his left wrist through the roll of duct tape and ripped off a six-inch length; stuck this to his left forearm and waited for the man to lift the flat tire.
When he did, Jack dashed across the street, straight at him. He didn't see Jack until he was in his face. Guy's mouth dropped open into a terrified
O
as he looked up but both his hands were burdened with tire, making him a sitting duck for the fist that rammed into his nose. Dropped the tire as his head snapped back. Jack grabbed his shirt, hauled him forward, and flung him into the trunk. Guy was dazed, didn't struggle as Jack pushed his legs over the rim and slammed the lid closed.
Without slowing Jack slipped around to the passenger side, pulling his knife and flicking out the blade as he moved. The raised trunk lid had hidden him from the passenger. Now he yanked open the door and slapped a hand over her unsuspecting yap.
He wiggled the knife blade before her terrified eyes and spoke, raising his pitch in a bad German accent, one that wouldn't have made the cut even on
Hogan's Heroes.
“Vun peep unt you ah dead!”
She glanced at his stocking-distorted face, made a soft noise that sounded like, “
Gak,
” then shut her mouth.
“Dat's da spirit.”
Jack replaced the hand over her mouth with the length of duct tape. Then he pulled her out of the front and pushed her face down on the back seat where he taped her hands behind her back and wrapped up her ankles.
Final touch: flipped her face up and taped over her eyes—a vertical strip on each, then twice around the head. Rolled her onto the floor, then got her buddy out of the trunk and went through the same procedure on him.
All told, a two-minute process. Maybe less.
Jumped into the driver's seat, hit the ignition, and they
were rolling. Pulled off the stocking and rubbed his itching face. Then he addressed his whimpering, struggling audience of two.
“You ah probably vondering vhy I haff brought us togezzer like zis. It iss a mattah of money. I need, you gots. So vee ah all going zumplace nize unt private vhere vee can make zee exchange. Nuzzing perzonal. Opportunity has knocked unt I haf anzzered. Do not giff me troubles unt you vill valk avay in vun piece. Zat iss clear, yah?”
He didn't care if they bought the accent; he simply didn't want them to recognize his normal speaking voice when they heard it. Because if his plans worked out, they'd be hearing it fairly soon.
After driving aimlessly for twenty minutes, making a succession of unnecessary lefts and rights, bogus three-point turns, Jack was fairly lost. He figured if he was confused, his passengers had to be completely disoriented.
He found Ditmars Boulevard again, reoriented himself, then meandered back to the Kentons' house. When he pulled into the driveway, Lyle and Charlie hurried out onto the front lawn. Jack jumped out and motioned them to be quiet. He led them to the car and pointed through the rear window. The brothers started when they saw the two bound forms on the back seat and turned to him with wide eyes. Jack motioned them to open the garage door.
When the car had been moved inside and the door closed behind it, Jack motioned them into the house.
“They're the ones?” Lyle said, his voice barely above a whisper even though the car was far out of earshot.
Jack nodded.
“The ones who tried to run me down?”
“The same.”
“But how did they wind up … ?”
“Part of the service.”
“Who are they?”
“We'll find that out in a couple of minutes. By the way, I hope I'm hired. Otherwise I'll have to throw them back.”
“Don't worry,” Lyle said. “You're hired. You're so very hired. Do we sign a contract or something?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, and stuck out his hand. “Here it is.”
Lyle shook it, then Charlie.
“That's it?” Lyle said.
“That's it.”
“Ay, yo, you kidnapped them!” Charlie said.
“Technically, yes. Does that bother you?”
“No, but the cops, the FBI—”
“Won't ever hear about this. Those people never saw me, and they don't know their car is parked in your garage.” Jack rubbed his hands together. Time to learn a little about the Kenton brothers. “So, the question now is, what do you want to do to them? We can break their arms, break their legs, break their heads …”
He watched their expressions, was glad for the revulsion reflected there.
“Oh, man,” Lyle said. “This afternoon I wanted blood. I wanted to kill them. Now …”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “They are kind of pathetic looking. Personally I prefer messing with heads to breaking them.”
“Mess with their heads,” Charlie said, looking relieved. “Yeah, I'm down with that. Sound like the way to go.”
Lyle nodded. “Fine with me. How?”
“First off, some rules. Only I speak in their presence, and I'll sound like Colonel Klink. Not a word out of you two because they might know your voices. We don't want them connecting you with this, right?”
They both nodded.
“Good. That settled, the first thing we'll do is take them out of the car, lay them on the floor, strip search them—”
“Yo. Rewind there. Strip 'em?”
“Right. I think a little humiliation will be good for the souls of a couple of attempted murderers, don't you? Plus, it'll keep them cowed; nothing makes you feel more vulnerable and helpless than being without your clothes. On top of all that, it'll scare the hell out of them, wondering if we've got some twisted sexual plans for them.”
“But we don't, right?” Charlie said with a pleading look.
“You kidding?” Jack said. “You got a look at them. Having them lying around naked will be lots tougher on us than them.”
“And after that?” Lyle said.
“We comb through their clothes, their wallets and pocketbooks, the glove compartment, learn everything we can about them, then decide how you guys get even.”
Jack noticed their reluctant expressions. Like true scam artists, they didn't like getting physical.
“If it makes you too uncomfortable, I can do it alone. But things'll move much faster if I have some help.”
Lyle glanced at Charlie, then sighed. “Lead the way.”
Twenty minutes later they were back in the kitchen.
Jack dumped the man's wallet, the woman's pocketbook, and the contents of the glove compartment onto the table, then began sorting through them.
Lyle had this dazed expression. He'd looked that way since they found a .32 caliber pistol in the trunk's now-empty spare tire well.
“Those two people,” he muttered. “They want me dead.”
“What gives you that idea?” Jack said. “Just because they
shot at you, tried to burn down your house, and run you down with their car?”
“This isn't funny.”
Jack looked up from the car registration and driver licenses he'd collected. He had to lighten this guy up.
“Damn right it's not funny. Especially cutting their clothes off.” He cringed at the memory of the woman's pale, squat, flabby body. “I had to keep mentally dressing her.”
Finally a smile from Lyle. This was one major stiff.
“Okay,” Jack said. “From what I can gather here, we're dealing with a married couple, Carl and Elizabeth Foster.”
Lyle pulled a stack of business cards from the purse and shuffled through them. “I'll be damned!”
“Not if I can help it,” Charlie said.
If Lyle heard, he didn't acknowledge the remark. “She's Madame Pomerol! I've heard of her. She was on Letterman.”
Jack rarely watched talk shows. “She's big time?”
“Pretty much. Upper East Side. I hear she's been hot the past few years. Her name's popped up quite a bit from my sitters—a
lot
of them used to be Pomerol regulars.”
“There you go,” Jack said. “You know who, and now you know why.”
“They Upper East Side?” Charlie said. “How come they got such a hooptie ride?”
Jack was about to explain that it was a city thing, but Lyle cut him off.
“The bitch!” he muttered, still staring at Madame Pomerol's business card. “She tried to kill me!”
“The husband was driving the car that just missed you, don't forget,” Jack told him. “Looks like a joint effort to me.”
“Yeah, but I bet she's been running the show.”
Charlie said, “Yeah, well, don't really matter who was the shot calla. The right-now real is that our garage is holdin' two butt-naked honkies tied up like calves ready for slaughter. What we gonna do with them?”
“Not sure yet,” Jack said. He was winging it here; usually he went into a job with at least half a plan, but events tonight had moved too swiftly. “The more immediate question is, What are we gonna do
to
them?”
Charlie was watching Jack. “What you mean, ‘to'? I know they tried to hurt us—”
“They tried to
kill
us, Charlie,” Lyle said. “Not hurt us,
kill
us! Don't you forget that!”
“A'ight. So they tried to off us. But that don't give us no right to off them.” He was fingering his WWJD button again. “We gotta turn the other cheek and hand them over to the police.”
Jack didn't like the way this was going. “Do that and you leave yourself open for charges like assault and battery, kidnapping, unlawful confinement, and who knows what else,” he said. “You want that?”
“No way,” Charlie said.
“And who said anything about killing them?”
“Well, the way Lyle talkin'—”
Lyle said, “I didn't mean we should kill them, Charlie. For Christ sake, you know me better than that! It's just that I don't know what we've accomplished here besides figuring out who they are. We let them go and they're right back on our asses tomorrow, trying to off us or run us out of town. I don't want to keep looking over my shoulder, man. I want this done with!”
“That's where I come in,” Jack said. He felt the adrenaline start to flow, singing along his nerves as the beginnings of a plan took shape. He took one of the Madame Pomerol business cards from Lyle and waved it in the air. “We've got their address. We've got a set of their keys. Let's see if we can rig some surprises for them.”
Charlie nodded. “I'm down with that. What you got in mind?”
“Still working on it, but I think I can find a few ways to keep Madame Pomerol too distracted to worry about bothering you. At least in the short run. We can worry about the long run later. But if I'm gonna make a move it's got
to be tonight, and that means I'll need some help.” He turned to Charlie. “Where's your key cutter?”
Charlie blinked and looked at Lyle. “Key cutter?”
“I know you've got one. Take me to it. We're wasting time.”
“Do it,” Lyle said.
Charlie shrugged. “Okay. We doin' copies of their crib keys?”
“You got it. And while we're at it, what do you keep in the way of spare parts for your magic tricks?”
Charlie grinned. “Got boxes and boxes.”
“Swell. Show me your stock and let's see if you've got anything we can put to use.”
Jack didn't know how the night would turn out, but he knew he'd be a lot later getting to Gia's than he'd planned. Had to give her a call soon. But not now. His blood was tingling and he felt more alive than he had in months.

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