The Haunted Air (34 page)

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Authors: F. Paul Wilson

BOOK: The Haunted Air
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“Tara Portman,” Gia said, rolling the two names through her brain for maybe the dozenth time. “I've known an occasional Tara and a couple of Portmans, but can't for the life of me recall a Tara Portman.”
They'd returned directly from the restaurant in Astoria—no stop at Menelaus Manor per Jack's insistence—and settled down for a movie. Gia had found
Stepmom
on one of the cable movie channels and declared tonight her turn to pick. Jack grumbled and groaned, saying anything but
Stepmom
, but finally gave in. He turned out to be a poor loser, editorializing with gagging and retching sounds at the best parts.
He'd checked his messages before they headed for bed and found an urgent call from Lyle Kenton who'd claimed that the ghost had told them her name.
Lyle had read off what the spirit had written and Jack had copied it down. Staring at the transcription now gave her a chill. A bodiless entity, the ghost of a little dead girl, had mentioned her. She shuddered.
“Well, whoever or whatever it is,” Jack said, “it thinks you're nice. At least that's what it says.”
Gia was sitting at the kitchen table, the transcription before her. Jack stood beside her, leaning on the table.
“You don't think I'm nice?” she said, looking up at him.
“I
know
you're nice. And you know my agenda. But we know nothing about this thing's.”
“Her name is Tara.”
“So it says.”
Gia sighed. Jack could be so stubborn at times. “Are you going to be difficult about this?”
“If being protective of you translates as difficult, then yes, I'm going to be very difficult about this. I do not trust this thing.”
“She seems to want me to come back.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “That's not going to happen.”
“Oh, really?”
Gia knew he was looking out for her, but still she bristled at being told what she could or couldn't do.
“Come on, Gi. Don't be like that. This is the Otherness we're dealing with here. Responsible for the rakoshi. You haven't forgotten them, have you?”
“You know I haven't. But you don't know for sure it's the Otherness.”
“No, I don't,” he admitted. “But I think the best course is to assume the worst until proven otherwise.”
Gia leaned back. “Tara Portman … how can we find out about her?”
“Newspapers are the best bet,” Jack said. “We can hit the
Times
or one of the other papers tomorrow and search their archives. Start in '67 and work backwards and forwards.”
“What about the Internet? We can do that right now.”
“The Internet didn't exist back in '67.”
“I know. But it can't hurt to try.”
Gia led Jack to the townhouse's library where she'd set up the family computer. She and Vicky were starting to use it more and more—Vicky for homework, Gia for reference stills for her paintings. She fired it up, logged onto AOL, and did a Google search for Tara Portman. She got over ten thousand hits, but after glancing at the first half dozen she knew this wasn't going to give her what she needed.
“Try ‘missing child,'” Jack suggested.
She typed it in and groaned when the tally bar reported nearly a million hits. But at the top of the list she noticed a number of organizations devoted to finding missing children. A click on one of the links took her to www.abductedchild.org.
She read the organization's mission statement as the rest
of the welcome screen filled in, and was dismayed to learn it had been founded in 1995.
“This isn't going to work. She's been gone too long.”
“Probably right.” Jack said. “But there's a search button over on the left there. Give it a shot.”
She did. The next screen allowed searches by region, by age and physical description, or by name. Gia chose the last. She entered “Portman” in the last name field, “Tara” in the first, and hit enter. The screen blanked, then a color photo began to take shape. Blurry at first, but increasingly sharper as more pixels filled in.
Hair … Gia felt her saliva begin to vanish when she saw that the child was blond.
Eyes … her breath leaked away as blue eyes came into focus.
Nose … lips … chin …
With a cry, Gia pushed back from the keyboard so hard and fast she might have tipped over if Jack hadn't been behind her.
Jack caught her. “What's wrong?”
“That's …” The words clogged in her throat. Her tongue felt like clay. She pointed to the screen. “It's her! That's the child I saw in the house!”
Jack knelt beside her, clutching her hand as he stared at the screen.
“Gia … really? No doubt?”
Her voice was a whisper. “None. It's her.”
Jack reached for the abandoned mouse and scrolled down the screen.
TARA ANN PORTMAN
Case Type: Nonfamily Abduction
DOB: Feb-17-1979
Height: 5' 4”-135 cm
Weight: 60 lbs–28 kg
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Blond
Parents: Joseph and Dorothy Portman
Circumstances : Tara was last seen in the area of
the Kensington Stables in the Kensington section of
Brooklyn near Prospect Park after horseback riding.
Date Missing: Aug-16-1988
City of Report: Brooklyn
State of Report: NY
Country of Report: USA
The photo above is how Tara looked the year she
was abducted. The photo below is age progressed
to age 18. Posted 1997
The age progression showed a strikingly beautiful teenager, a classic homecoming queen if Gia had ever seen one.
But Tara Portman never made it to her prom. Gia felt her throat constrict. She never even made it to high school.
“I don't like this,” Jack said. “Any of it.”
Of course not. What was there to like? But Gia had never known Jack as one for obvious statements.
“What do you mean?”
“Abducted kids. First I get involved with one, now you. It bothers me. Too …”
“Coincidental?”
“Right. And you remember what I was told.”
Gia nodded. “No more coincidences.”
The mere possibility that such a thing might be true sickened her.
“You think Tara and Duc might be connected?”
“I don't see how. I mean, there's such a long span between, but then … no more coincidences.” He shrugged. “Let's see what else we can dig up on her.”
The page listed an email contact and three phone numbers: a toll-free for the Abducted Child network, one for the local Brooklyn precinct, and one for the family.
“Abducted 1988,” Jack said. “That doesn't fit with the sixties song, but if that's the girl you saw, we'll worry about the song later.”
“That's her.”
Gia stared at that nine-year-old face, wondering who
could have a soul so dead that he'd want to do harm to such beauty, such innocence?
“Look,” Jack said, pointing to the screen. “Posted in 1997, when she was eighteen. She'd been gone nine years and the family was still looking for her.”
“Or looking for closure.” She looked at him. “Jack, we've got to do something.”
“‘We'? You and the baby are staying far away from Astoria and that house, remember?”
“All right then, you—you or somebody else has got to find her remains and let her family bury her.”
“I'll take care of it,” he said. “Just promise me you'll stay away from there.”
. “Look at her, Jack. Look at that face. How could you believe that child could hurt anyone?”
“Something awful happened to ‘that child.' Abducted and killed are bad enough, but who knows what was done to her in the time between? She's not an innocent child anymore. She's not even human. And I don't like that she appeared to you and no one else.”
“Look what she wrote for the Kentons: ‘Mother.' That's me. A mother of one and mother-to-be of another. She wants her mother and I was the closest thing to one in that house.”
“Could be,” Jack said slowly. “But I still don't like it.”
“Jack, if she was looking for her daddy she might have appeared to you.”
“Why
isn't
she looking for her daddy?”
“Maybe he'd dead, or her folks were divorced, or maybe she was raised by a single mother.”
“Or maybe her daddy's involved.”
Gia hated that thought but had to accept it as a possibility.
“None of that matters as much as finding her. We can let the police sort out the rest afterwards.”
“I'll handle it,” Jack said. “I'll be in touch with Lyle tomorrow and see how far he wants to take this. Maybe I can talk him into tearing up his cellar floor.”
“And me?”
“You work on your paintings and whatever else you usually do on a Wednesday.”
“Yes, Poppa.”
He kissed her cheek. “Please, Gia. Stay safe and stay put.”
Gia nodded. “Okay.”
But she couldn't take her eyes off the Portman family phone number at the bottom of the screen … a 212 exchange … right here in Manhattan …
The being that was Tara Portman floats in the darkness between. She knows who she is, she knows who she was, she knows why she is here, she knows who must die.
But after that death
—
another death in this place of death—what?
Return to nothingness?
No … there must be more. She wants, she needs more.
Knowledge of her old self has awakened memories of the barely blossoming promise of her life before it was ended.
Knowing what she has lost … this is agony.
Knowing all that she will never have, never be … this is unbearable.
The being that was Tara Portman wants more
.
“It's called what?” Abe said, frowning down at the froth-filled cup Jack had just placed before him on the counter.
“Chai,” Jack said. “They told me at the coffee shop it's very in.”
“What is it?”
“Gal said it's an Indian thing.”
“Indian as in the subcontinent?
“Right. Told me it was tea with milk, plus sugar and spice and everything nice.”
All true. The woman ahead of him at the coffee shop this morning had ordered a chai and he'd asked about it. He'd figured what the hell, try anything once. Anything to give him a break from thinking about Tara Portman and Gia and Duc Ngo, and all the possible interconnections.
“I got you a skinny.”
Abe's frown deepened. “A skinny what?”
“It means they use skim milk instead of regular—'cause I know you're watching your waist.”
Yeah, Jack thought. Watching it grow.
Abe continued to stare at the cup. It seemed to have mesmerized him. “How do you spell it?”
“C-H-A-I.”
Abe shook his head. “You're pronouncing it all wrong.” He repeated the word his own way, hardening the “ch” to a raspy sound that originated in the back of his throat. “Like Chaim or Chaya or Chanukah.”
“Not according to the girl who sold it to me.”
Abe shrugged. “Whatever. And I should be drinking this why?”
“I read where it's the new fave drink of all the cool,
contemporary, contemplative people. I decided I want to be cool, contemporary, and contemplative.”
“For that you'll need more than a drink. What's in the other bag you brought in? The one you put on the floor?”
“Never mind that now.” Jack lifted his cup. “Let's give it a go. Chai away.”
Abe toasted with his. “
Lochai.
”
Jack took a sip, swirled it across tongue, then looked around for a place to spit. Finding none, he swallowed.
Abe's sour expression mirrored Jack's sentiments. “Like an accident in a clove factory.”
Jack nodded as he recapped his cup. “Well, now that I've tried chai, I can tell you that I feel cool and contemporary, but I'm also contemplating why anyone would want to drink this stuff.”
Abe handed his cup to Jack. “See if you can get a refund. Meanwhile, have you got in that second bag what I hope?”
Jack retrieved the bag from the floor and produced two coffees. “Just in case the chai sucked.”
Jack took a quick sip to rinse the chai taste out of his mouth, then settled over the
Post
, flipping the pages in search of a particular name.
“Have you seen any mention of Carl and Elizabeth Foster, or Madame Pomerol?”
“The psychic lady?” Abe shook his head. “Neither of them made the news today.”
Jack closed his paper. “Didn't expect anything so soon.” He sipped his coffee, grateful for the familiar flavor. “Come up with any ideas on making me a citizen?”
“Nothing yet, but I'm thinking.”
He told Abe his idea about assuming a dead man's identity.
Abe shrugged. “As a plan it's got possibilities, but God forbid a long-lost sister should come looking. What do you do then?”
“I improvise.”
“Not good. If that plan's going to work, you've got to find a dead man with no friends and no living family.”
“Tall order.”
Very tall. So tall it was bringing Jack down.
Abe looked at him. “How do you feel about getting out?”
Jack shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe it's time. I've been lucky. I've mined this vein for years without getting myself killed or crippled. Maybe I should take this as a sign to stop stretching my luck and call it quits. I've had a good run, saved a decent amount of money. Maybe it's time to kick back and enjoy the fruits of my labors.”
“Before forty? You'll do what with your time?”
“Don't know yet. I'll think of something. Hey, need a stock boy?”
“
Oy
!”
“No? Well then how about you, Abe? How do you feel about me getting out?”
Abe sighed. “With fatherhood looming, it's a good thing. Overdue, even.”
The remark took Jack by surprise. This was the last thing he expected to hear from Abe.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you're mellowing.”
Jack laughed. “That chai must be potent stuff. It's affecting your brain. Me? Mellowing? Never.”
“You are. You think maybe I'm blind? I've watched it. A slow process, it's been, but it's happening. Ever since you and Gia got back together. Almost a year now, right?”
“A year ago this month.”
“You see? I'm right. Before last summer, you were a lobster—a spiny lobster.”
“And what am I now? A softshell crab?”
“S'teitsh
! Let me finish. Lobsterman Jack kept to his shell. With all his spines sticking out, people kept their distance. Nobody touched him. Such a hair trigger he had. Now …” Abe gave one of his major shrugs, palms turned up, lips turned down. “Now, I should dare say, you've opened a few windows in your shell. You take a longer view. That's the result of the love of a good woman.”
Jack smiled. “She's that, all right.”
“Until Gia, you never had anyone you cared about. Like a daredevil you were. Completely reckless. Now, you've got someone you want to get back to, someone you know is waiting for you. That changes everything. Makes you more careful.”
“I've always been careful. It's essential in my business.”
“But you can be too careful,” Abe said. “And that's why I'm glad you're getting out. Because having a child will make you way too careful.”
“No such thing as too careful.”
“In your field of work, there is. I know you, Jack. Once that child is born, it's going to be the center of your world. You'll feel responsible for its welfare and well-being. Beyond responsible. You'll obsess about it. You'll want to be there for it, want to get home safe every night so it shouldn't have to grow up without a father. That's going to push you past too-careful into cautious. Ultimately it's going to make you hesitant in a field where an instant's hesitation can kill you. I'll miss Repairman Jack, but at least Daddyman Jack will still be alive to come around for breakfast, and maybe bring the little one with him.”
“You're overstating this just a little bit, don't you think?”
Abe shook his head. “Unless you quit or drastically limit the types of jobs you take on—jobs that will be no fun for you—I don't see you surviving a year after your baby is born.”
Jack went silent, thinking about that. Didn't buy it, didn't believe it, but it shook him to know Abe did.
In the long run, though, what did it matter? He was getting out. He was going to become Citizen Jack.
Talk about a bowel-clenching thought.
This life he'd been leading had had more than its share of hair-raising moments, and flying below the radar twenty-four-seven could be exhausting at times, and there were many days he wearied of looking over his shoulder, but damn he loved getting up in the morning without knowing what the day would bring.
Going straight was going to be so strange.
But it would pay the dividend of allowing his child to be able to stand anyplace with anyone and point to him and say, That's my dad.

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