Authors: F. Paul Wilson

The Haunted Air (48 page)

BOOK: The Haunted Air

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“You all right?” Charlie said from where he sprawled next to her.

Gia had landed on her left leg harder than her right and it hurt. She pulled it under her and tried to stand, leaning against the dirt wall at her back for support. It held.

“I think so.” She brushed off her jeans. “How about you?”

Charlie stood easily. “Fine.”

Light filtered down from above. Gia looked up. She could see the panels of the cellar ceiling, but all around her was dirt. She and Charlie had dropped into a well-like pit maybe a dozen feet deep and half that across.

She fought a surge of panic as the walls seemed to tilt toward her and move in. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth to let the moment pass. She'd never been claustrophobic, but she'd never been tossed into an oubliette before either.

“Tara?” she called. Her fear-dry throat made it sound more like a croak than a name. “Tara!”

No reply.

“Tara, why are you doing this to us? We never hurt you. We can help bring your killer to justice. Please let us out!”

Only silence from above.

Gia's heart pounded as she ran her hands over the smooth circular wall. The dirt was hard packed, with no ridges or depressions for handholds.

She glanced at Charlie. His wild-eyed gaze darted up and around and back. He licked his lips as he placed his sneakered right foot against the wall, then stretched out his arms and placed both hands against the opposite side. When he
raised his left foot and put it next to his right, he was arched across the pit. Now he started inching his hands and feet upward toward light and freedom.

But after half a foot or so his hands slipped off the wall and he fell, landing on all fours like a cat. Without a word he tried again, with the same result.

He stood and leaned against the wall, head back, eyes closed, breathing hard.

“Lord, give me the strength for this, I pray you. Please.”

He tried again and this time advanced maybe a foot before falling. He sat hunched against the wall, knees up, head down, the picture of dejection.

“If the walls was just one foot closerâhalf a foot, evenâI could slam it. I know I could.”

“It's okay,” Gia said softly. “You gave it your best shot.”

“Not good enough.” He stood and looked at her. “We trapped.”

Gia glanced up and thought about standing on Charlie's shoulders. But even then she'd be short of the upper rim.

“Maybe Tara will get us out when she's ready.”

“When's that gonna be? And why we down here anyway?”

Gia shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe she just wanted us out of the way.”

“That don't make no sense.”

Gia had to agree, but did a ghost have to make sense? Look at what she'd said before the ground opened up:
I
want to
be
a
mother
. What did that mean? How could she be a mother? She was dead. But that wouldn't stop her from wanting what she couldn't have, Gia supposed.

“At least we're not hurt.” She pointed to her shoulder bag lying on the dirt floor. She'd dropped it when they fell. “And we won't go hungry because I have a couple of power bars in myâ” She dropped to her knees beside the bag as she remembered. “Oh, God. My cell phone!”

She rummaged through the jumbled contents and pulled out the phone, but when she turned it on, nothing happened. No light, no beep, no power.

“Damn, it's dead.”

Charlie knelt beside her. “Like I said. We trapped. She wouldn't let us up the steps and I bet she ain't lettin' nobody down. All we got left is prayer.”

“And hope that Jack figures out I'm here.” Gia cursed herself for not leaving him a note, but she thought she was going
to
him. “Once he knows, he'll get us out.”

Charlie looked at her. “You say that like it a done deal.”

“In a way. it is. He's inventive and relentless and he won't quit on me. Ever.” The simple truth of that was a balm on her nerves.

“That ain't no done deal. That's just a hope.”

Gia smiled. “No â¦ it's faith.” She looked around at the high dirt walls. “But we ought to be trying
something
to get ourselves out.” She reached out and touched the pin on Charlie's sweatshirt. “WWJD. Not a bad idea in a situation like this.”

“True that. What Would Jesus Do?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of What Would Jack Do?” A thought occurred to her. “Where's Lyle, by the way?”

“Out mackin' some ladies group. Shoulda been back by now.”

“I'd guess you can count on him doing what he can to get you out of here as well, right? WWLDâWhat Would Lyle Do?”

Charlie looked away. “Anything he could. He never let me down before, not 'bout to start now.” Gia heard a catch in his voice. “More'n he can say for me.”

“I don't understand.”

“Long story.”

“I think we've got time.”

He shook his head and looked ashamed. “Nuh-uh.”

As Charlie folded his hands and bowed his head to pray, Gia scanned the walls again looking for something, anything. She remembered Jack asking her once if she wanted to take up wall climbing. She'd laughed him off. The last thing she wanted to do with her spare time was cling to a
wall like a bug. Now she wished she'd taken him up on it. Not that this wall offered much in the way of handholds, but at leastâ

What was that?

She spotted something shiny up on the wall. There. About six inches or so above her head. Keeping her eyes fixed on the spot, she reached up and touched it. Something hard stuck in the dirt. It felt metallic. She dug her fingernails into the dirt around it, clearing some away, but it was too hard.

“Charlie? I've found something.”

He was beside her in a flash, “What? Where?”

“It's some kind of metal.”

Charlie's extra height put him at eye level with it. “Look like brass or copper. Probably just scrap from when the place built.”

“Let's dig it out. Who knows? Maybe it's something we can use.”

“A'ight. Let's see.”

As Charlie dug with his hands, Gia knelt and dug into her shoulder bag again. Finally she found it.

“Here,” she said, holding up a metal nail file. “Try this.”

He took it and began stabbing at the dirt, loosening it and then digging it out with his fingers. Soon it became clear that they'd found some sort of metal bar. When he'd exposed enough of it, Charlie grabbed the end and began wiggling it back and forth.

“Here we go!” he said as dirt began flying everywhere. “We got it now!”

Suddenly it came free and he stumbled back; falling against the opposite wall. He shook off the dirt and held up what he'd unearthed.

Gia gasped. “A cross!”

A cross with no top piece worth mentioning. Exactly like the crosses left on the wall after the whirlpool had receded. This one's crosspiece was slightly bent and twisted and looked like nickel or silver; the upright was brass, or something that looked very much like it.

Charlie stared at it. “Gotta be one of the tau crosses from the blocks in the wall. They musta buried them after they pried them out. But we found one!” He held it high. “It's a sign!”

“It's a digging tool!”

“Dig? I think we deep enough already.”

“Not downâin. We can use this to dig footholds and handholds so we can climb out of here.”

Charlie grinned. “Why didn't I think of that?” He gripped the base and swung the cross at the wall. The crosspiece dug in and sent dirt flying. “Oh, yeah! We on our way. We beat this ghost yet.”

“Shit!” Jack rose and stepped back from the door. “Latch won't budge. We'll have to do this the hard way.”

The hard way? Lyle had thought they were already doing it the hard way. Here he was standing in his socks on a rooftop in SoHo while the guy he was with tried to break into the building below. He felt exposed, as if he were on an open-air stage. At least there was no moon, but plenty of light leaked in from the city around them. All someone had to do was look out a window in one of the higher buildings nearby and see them trying to jimmy the lock on the roof door. A 911 call would get them arrested for criminal trespass, attempted B and E, and who knew what else.

Still, better to be caught now than after they'd picked up what they'd come for; kidnapping was a capital offense.

Half an hour ago Jack had left Lyle at a bar named Julio's; he'd returned a few minutes later in a different set of clothes and carrying a gym bag that clinked and rattled with the metallic sound of tools. They'd driven here in Jack's
car and parked outside. Jack had stood across the street from the building and studied it for a few minutes, then moved on. Half a block down they'd sneaked up a fire escape and traveled across three other roofs to reach this one. Sure, easy for Jack; he was dressed for this sort of thing. Lyle was still in a dress shirt and suit pantsâand black leather shoes no less. Jack had made him take them off when they reached this particular roof.

So, if what they'd been doing was the easy way, what was the hard way?

Jack lifted his jersey and began unwinding a length of nylon cord from around his waist. Where'd that come from?

He handed Lyle the free end of the rope and whispered, “Tie this to that vent pipe over there.”

Lyle was more used to giving orders than taking them, but this was Jack's show, so he deferred to his expertise. Jack seemed to know what he was doing. With somebody else this sortie might have turned into a male-bonding experience, but Jack had changed after leaving the house. He went silent and into himself. The easygoing manner had fallen away, replaced by cool crisp efficiency behind an impenetrable hardshell exterior. A man on a mission, determined to bring home the goods at whatever cost. Lyle found him a little scary. As if he'd locked all the gentler human emotions in a small back room, leaving his dark and raw side unfettered.

“Tie why?”

“I'm going over the side.”

Lyle's chest tightened. He stepped to the parapet and peeked over. He stood atop a three-story building. Falling from here would be like jumping out a fourth-story window. A surge of vertigo gripped him and threatened to pull him over, but he hung on until the spinning passed. He expected to see a brick wall; instead he saw smooth beveled surfaces and ornate columns.

He turned back to Jack. “You're crazy. There's nothing to hold on to.”

“Yeah. These old ironclads can be a bitch.”

Lyle felt a seismic tremor start from his center and pulse out to his extremities.

“I don't think I can do this, Jack.” Actually he was absolutely positive he could not go over that ledge.

Jack gave him a hard look. “You backing out on me?”

“No, it's just â¦ heights. I'mâ”

“You thought you were going over that wall?” He shook his head. “Not a chance. You're here to watch the rope and make sure that pipe doesn't start to bend.”

Lyle sighed with relief. That he could do.

Jack pulled on a pair of work gloves and took the rope from Lyle. He tied it around a steel pipe jutting vertically from the roof, tested the knot, glided to the parapet, and sat on the edge.

“How do we know this guy's even home?”

“We don't. But the third floorâwhere I assume the bedrooms would beâis dark. The second floor is all lit up and a television is on.”

“How can you tell?”

Jack looked impatient. “Different kind of light. And besides, he hasn't been very mobile since our last meeting.” He glanced down. “Here's the plan â¦”

Lyle listened, nodded a few times, then helped Jack ease over the edge. Shifting his attention between Jack and the vent pipe, Lyle watched him ease down the iron facade and stop next to the window directly below. Further down, Lyle saw passing cars and strolling pedestrians.

Please don't look up.

Jack placed a foot on the ledge and eased up the window. Great. It was unlocked. But then, who locks a third-story window? Especially in summer.

Jack disappeared through the opening and seconds later the free end of the rope sailed back out. Lyle quickly hauled it up and untied the other end from the pipe. He coiled the rope as he padded back to the roof door, then shoved it into Jack's gym bag. As instructed, he pulled on a pair of
latex gloves and was ready and waiting when Jack opened the door from the inside.

As Jack exchanged his work gloves for a latex pair, he whispered, “Here's where it could get dicey. If Bellitto's alone, we're golden. But if that big guy I told you about is here â¦”

He reached into the bag and pulled out a pistol with a dark matte finish. Lyle didn't know much about guns, but he knew a semi-automatic when he saw one, and assumed it was a 9 mm. And he knew that fat cylinder stuck on the end of the barrel was a silencer.

The sight of it, and the casual way Jack handled it, made him queasy.

It had seemed like such a good idea back at the house, a simple, straightforward plan: Trade Tara's killer for Charlie and Gia. But the farther they'd traveled from the surreality of Menelaus Manor into the reassuring hard reality of Manhattan, the more the idea of kidnapping a child murdererâ
suspected
child murderer; they had no real proofâfrom his own apartment seemed downright insane.

And now â¦ a gun.

Lyle swallowed. “You're not really going to use that, are you?”

Jack's voice was flat. “I'll use whatever I have to. He's no good to us dead, so I want him alive, if that's what you're worried about. But I'll do what needs to be done to get him.” His cold dark eyes, the ones that had seemed such a mild brown this morning, bored into Lyle. “Maybe you should wait here.”

“No.” That was Charlie trapped in that house back there. His brother. His blood. Lyle would help Jack and worry about law and morality later. “I've come this far. I'm in.”

Jack nodded once. “Want the Glock?”

Glock? Oh, the gun.

“I'd better not.”

“Well, no way you're going in empty-handed.”

He reached back into the gym bag and came up with something Lyle recognized: a black leather sap.

“Comfortable with this?”

Lyle could only nod. He wasn't comfortable at all, and doubted he could crack that weighted end against anybody's skull, no matter who they were, but he took the heavy thing and stuck it in his pocket.

Next Jack pulled out a roll of duct tape and began tearing off strips, some long, some short. These he stuck to the front of his jersey.

Then they were ready. Jack worked the slide on his pistol, picked up the bag, and started down the stairwell.

“Hey, wait,” Lyle whispered as something occurred to him. “Shouldn't we be wearing masks? You know, like stockings or something?”

“Why?”

The reason was so obvious he was surprised Jack hadn't thought of it. He seemed to have thought of everything else.

“So this guy doesn't see our faces.”

“Why should we care?”

“Because what if Tara doesn't want to trade? Then we're left with a guy we've kidnapped who knows what we look like. He can go to the copsâ”

“He won't be going to the cops.”

“Why? Because he's a child killer and he's got more to hide than we do? Maybe. But we're taking him to my house, not yours. He'll know where
I
live, notâ”

“Won't matter what he knows.”

“It'll matter to me, damn it.”

Jack looked at him, his eyes colder and darker than ever, and spoke very slowly. “It â¦ won't â¦ matter.”

The full meaning of the words struck Lyle like a runaway D train.

“Hey, listen, Jack, I don't think I want to be part ofâ”

Jack turned away. “You won't be. Not your problem. Come on. Let's bag this mutant.”

Jack started down the stairs. Lyle held back, weighted down by the cold lump of lead that had formed in his stomach. But the thought of Charlie spurred him to follow.

At the bottom of the stairwell they entered a dark hallway
lined with a number of doors, all closed. No light seeped around them. Cooler here. Air-conditioning doing its job. The smell of fried onions in the air. Light filtered up from a stairway at its far end, and with it the sound of canned laughterâa sit-com on the TV.

Jack handed the bag to Lyle and moved toward the stairs with his pistol before him. Lyle followed. At the top step he motioned Lyle to wait, then he descended the stairs one at a time with excruciating slowness, keeping his sneakered feet against the wall at the very edge of each tread. He reached the bottom and disappeared for a moment, then returned to motion Lyle down. Walking in his socksâhis noisy leather-soled shoes were stowed in the gym bagâLyle followed Jack's example, staying near the wall end of the treads.

At the bottom he looked around. They stood in a small, spare dining room. Dinner plates still cluttered the mahogany table. The kitchen to the left, and another room beside it; Lyle guessed from the glowing computer screen that it was some sort of office. The living room lay to the right; the TV sounds came from there.

Lyle jumped as a phone rang in the office. He looked to Jack to see what to do but Jack was already moving like a cat toward the living room. He reached the entrance at the same time another man dressed in gray suit pants and a white shirt with French cuffs came out. He was older, a six-footer with pale skin and dark receding hair, and he was moving carefully, as if movement was uncomfortable. This had to be the man they'd come for, the Eli Bellitto Jack had told him about.

Jack shoved the silencer under the man's chin and grabbed a handful of hair at the back of his head, yanking it back to expose his throat.

“Hello, Eli,” he said in a low, harsh voice. “Molest any little boys today?”

Lyle didn't think he'd ever seen anyone more terrified. The man looked ready to collapse from shock and fear as Jack backed him into the living room.

“W-what? Howâ?”

Lyle, still carrying the gym bag, followed at a distance. In the living room a big Sonyâa thirty-something-incherâwas playing a
Seinfeld
rerun.

“Down! On the floor!”

Bellitto's face twisted in pain as Jack kicked the back of his knees, sending him down to a praying position.

“No! Please! I'm hurt!”

The
Seinfeld
audience laughed.

“That's the least of your worries,” Jack said, his voice still low.

He pushed Bellitto face down on the bare hardwood floor, then half straddled him, pressing a knee into the small of his back. Bellitto groaned in pain.

Lyle kept reminding himself that this creep had killed Tara Portman and who knew how many other kids, and that Jack was closer to this situation than heâafter all, he'd seen the guy snatch a kid firsthand. He was playing rough, but if anyone deserved it â¦

Jack pulled a short strip of duct tape from his shirt and slapped it over the man's mouth. Then he looked up at Lyle.

“Over here.”

Lyle hesitated, then approached. Jack handed him the pistol.

He winked at Lyle. “He tries anything cute, shoot him in the ass.”

The
Seinfeld
audience laughed again.

“Yeah.” Lyle cleared his throat. His saliva felt like glue. “Sure thing. Which cheek?”

Jack smiledâa quick one, the first Lyle had seen tonightâand gave him a thumbs up. Then he pulled Bellitto's arms back and used the longer strips of tape to bind his hands. He stood and held out his hand; Lyle gladly returned him the pistol.

“One down.” Jack looked around. “Maybe one more to go. Maybe not.”

Lyle hoped not. Barely thirty seconds had passed since
the phone ring, but in that brief period he knew he'd gone from flimflam man to class-A or -B felon. He wasn't made for the rough-and-tumble scene, for guns and violence. It had him shaking from his fingernails to his spine.

Jack gestured with his pistol toward Bellitto. “Help me get him up.”

They each grabbed the trussed man under an arm and lifted him into a soft, cream-colored chair. Bellitto winced in pain but Jack seemed unmoved.

BOOK: The Haunted Air

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