Her throat tightened, her eyes filled. Aw, Mom. Why didn't I listen to you? Why didn't I appreciate you while you were here? I miss you.
She swallowed and blinked back the tears. Had to stay tough. Spoiled brats didn't whimper, they screamed and threw tantrums. And if that was what it took to get somebody to listen around here, then this place was about to become Tantrum City.
Totally.
"Gilda tells me there's a problem, miss?"
Dawn looked up and saw Henry standing in the entry to the great room. As usual, he wore his chauffeur's black livery. Reed thin with a tall frame—six-four if an inch—that made him look even thinner. His angular, dark-eyed, thin-lipped face never smiled, at least not when Dawn was looking. Mr. Osala didn't seem to have a first name; Henry didn't seem to have a last.
She hadn't changed out of her bikini and robe, electing to sit in the glass-and-chrome great room and wait for Henry to show his face. She'd turned on the gigonda plasma-screen TV and pretended to be watching.
She rose and faced him. Normally she'd never have the guts to confront someone like this, but she was playing a part now—the bitch brat.
"I want out of here."
"I'm afraid that is out of the question." His stiff posture and faint British accent gave him a snooty air, but she heard no hesitation in his voice. "The Master won't allow it."
"He can't keep me prisoner!"
"His promise to your mother was to keep you safe, and he is doing so."
"I'm sure she didn't want me totally isolated like I am."
"You have the television, you have a computer—"
"Yeah, one that's fixed so I can't IM or send e-mail."
She still couldn't believe that AOL, Yahoo, Hotmail, Gmail, and all the rest were blocked to her. She could surf anywhere, even MySpace, but couldn't message anyone.
"That was done for the same reason the telephone is coded: to prevent you from accidentally revealing your location. We are sure your friends are being watched, and one or two of them might even have had their computers hacked and monitored."
"That's crazy. How could Jerry do that?"
He wagged a finger at her. "You can't be too careful these days."
"This is crazy." She felt herself filling up. She would not cry. But she felt so totally helpless. "I'm a prisoner."
To her amazement, Henry's features softened—just a bit.
"I know it seems that way, miss, but you must resign yourself to the fact that you cannot risk showing your face. He might see you."
"And then what? Grab me and drag me kicking and screaming down the street?" She felt a spark of rage begin to glow. "You ever think maybe he should be worried about me? Like maybe if I saw him first I'd be on him like a cat, scratching his eyes out of his head?"
"Now, miss, I know how you feel—"
"No, you don't!" The rage flared. "You haven't a clue how I feel! You can't begin to know how I feel!"
"Allow me to rephrase: I cannot imagine how you must feel, but you must not reveal yourself. Not yet."
She felt herself cooling. Would she really have the nerve to attack that bastard? She wanted him hurt, but she didn't know if she had it in her to do it. Maybe some day she'd find out.
"What if I wore a disguise—like a brown wig and big sunglasses?"
He shook his head. "Still too dodgy, I fear."
That hadn't been a flat no. Was he softening?
And then it hit her—the perfect solution to the whole problem.
Jack let himself into his third-floor apartment but didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need light. He emptied tonight's proceeds from the Park-a-Thon onto the round oak table in the front room. He knew a fence who'd turn the gold chains and rings and medallions into cash tomorrow morning, then he'd give everything to Gia who'd make the official donation to the Little League.
He dropped into a chair and stared out at the night. Not much to see, just other brownstones like his across the street. No famous Manhattan skyline visible from here, just an occasional tree.
No need to keep an eye out for the mysterious watcher tonight. He'd just had a beer with him and he was home with his sick wife.
Or so he said.
Jack didn't know what to believe anymore. Everything he'd believed about himself and his family and the world around them all had been shot to hell in the last couple of years. Nothing was what it seemed.
And to top it off, his relationship with Gia was starting to feel a little strained.
His fault.
He'd withdrawn from her and Vicky. Not completely, but after moving in and living with them during the months they'd needed to recuperate from the accident, returning to his own apartment must have seemed like a form of abandonment.
But he hadn't abandoned them. He still saw them on a daily basis, but it wasn't the same. Things had changed—not them, nor his feelings for them. But his feelings about himself… those had changed when he'd learned about the measure of Otherness he carried in his blood.
The Taint.
What a perfect name for the perfectly awful.
Knowing the truth had, well, tainted his relationship with them. He felt the need for some distance. Rationally he knew he couldn't contaminate them any more than they already were—he'd been assured everybody carried a little oDNA—but something deep in his subconscious wasn't so sure. Sex with Gia, so sweet and sweaty and wonderful… he couldn't escape a hazy image of him injecting her with bits of Otherness.
Crazy, yes. They'd been together almost two years. But knowing… knowing colored everything.
He shook himself. Had to get over this. And he would. Just going to take some time, was all.
But he felt so alone. He'd always been able to be alone without being lonely, but this was different. He felt like a Stylite monk standing on an infinitely tall pinnacle. Everyone he cared about waited far below, forever out of reach as he faced the swirling cosmos alone.
He smiled and shook his head. Look at me: drama queen.
Buck up and shut up.
He rose and stepped over to his computer. Needed a distraction.
He logged onto repairmanjack.com and checked the Web mail there, deleting the predictable inquiries about appliance repairs until he came to one with "Stolen—help please" in the subject line.
He knew what that meant: Something indeed had been stolen, but the victim could not report the theft to the cops because the item was either illegal or ill-gotten. That was where private eyes came in. But if it was very, very illegal or major-felony ill-gotten… that was where Jack came in.
This sounded promising. He opened the file.
Dear Mr. Repairman Jack—
I was given your name and told you might help me find a lost object. The authorities cannot help. I am praying you can help.
—N
Concise and to the point—Jack liked that. The authorities cannot help—liked that too. Implied he couldn't go to them. But "authorities"… who still called them "authorities"?
He pulled one of his TracFones from a drawer and punched in the number. After two rings he heard a male voice say, "Hai," and rattle off a string of syllables that sounded Japanese.
Surprised, Jack hesitated, then said, "Um, did you recently leave a message at a certain Web site?"
The voice switched to accented English. "Repairman Jack? You are Repairman Jack?"