"That's just it," Jack told him. "I don't think it. It's against all logic. But my gut keeps saying otherwise."
"So listen. A man shouldn't ignore his guderim."
They sat in a cone of light, surrounded by Abe's true stock in trade—things that fired projectiles or had points and sharp edges or delivered blunt trauma. Unlike the chaotic arrangement on the upper floor, these items were carefully shelved and neatly racked.
Jack watched as Abe's stubby but nimble fingers resoldered the tiny wires from the display to the circuit board. Jack was no good with electronics. He could use the equipment, but the innards baffled him.
"There!" Abe said as the display lit with the time.
"Neat," Jack said. "Now check the alarm."
Abe pressed a button and 3:00 appeared.
"Three A.M.," Jack said with a sick coil in his stomach. If he hadn't found this today, tomorrow he'd have awakened without a sister. "The son of a bitch."
"You have a next step in mind?"
"Not yet."
Abe stared at him. "You don't look so good. You feeling all right?'
Did it show? He felt tired and achy. Irritable too.
"I'm okay. Nothing that can't be cured by a good night's rest and finding the guy who made this."
"Well, while you're figuring how to do that, I should tell you that I ordered your new back-up pistol. Should be here in a few days."
"I don't know, Abe. I'm having second thoughts about giving up the Semmerling."
"Listen, schmuck, a .45 that small stands out too much for a guy who shouldn't be noticed. Like a signature, that pistol."
"Wait," Jack said as a thought detonated in his skull.
"What?"
"Just stop talking a minute." Realizing he'd snapped, he added, "Please."
Like a signature … like all his jobs, Jack had tried to work his fix on the Kozlowskis from the sidelines, looking to move in, cripple them by blowing their stash, and then take off without ever making direct contact. But it hadn't worked that way. They'd shown up at their farm when they were supposed to be in the city and he'd had to shoot his way out. He'd used his Glock mostly, but he'd needed the Semmerling at one point. The Kozlowskis had seen the Semmerling, and seen his face…
And if they read the papers… and saw mention of a tiny .45… and decided to follow the reporter who claimed he'd been in touch with its owner…
"Damn him!" Jack pounded the workbench with his fist.
"Who? What?"
"Sandy Palmer! He damn near got Kate killed! I ought to wring his scrawny neck!"
He explained to Abe.
"Possible," Abe said, nodding. "Very possible."
"What am I going to do about him?"
"The reporter? I think maybe you should worry about the Brothers K first, don't you?"
"Them I can handle—especially now that I know who I'm dealing with. But Palmer… I think he sees me as some sort of cryptofascist comic book character. He was quizzing me about Nietzsche today—can you beat that?"
"Nietzsche? Have you ever read Nietzsche?"
"No."
"Don't try. Also Sprach Zarathustra? Unreadable."
"I'll take your word." He pounded the bench top again. "What a nightmare. Palmer's like a junkie—he'll keep biting my ankles until I lose it and strangle him or he slips up and exposes me. He thinks he's got this idea that I can make his career. Thinks he wants to be a great journalist, but what he really wants is to be a famous journalist."
Abe shrugged. "A product of the Zeitgeist. But listen: sounds to me like he admires you. If he sees you as some sort of comic book hero, then maybe you should play to that. Comic book heroes have boy sidekicks, don't they?"
"You mean, if I'm Batman, let him think he's Robin?"
"More like that boy reporter who was always tagging along after Superman." Abe snapped his fingers. "What was his name? Timmy…"
"Jimmy Olsen."
"Yeah. Get Jimmy Olsen's focus off you and onto something else."
"Like what?"
Abe shrugged. "I should know? You're Repairman Jack. Me, I'm just a lowly merchant."
"Yeah, right."
At least it was an approach, a possible way out of this mess. But Jack didn't have the faintest idea how to make it work. Yet. This would take thought. In the meantime, he had to deal with the Kozlowskis.
"Okay, lowly merchant. Show me your wares. I've got a feeling I'm going to need some specialized equipment to help me through the night…"
SATURDAY
1
"It's quarter to three, Jack. Aren't you ever going to sleep?"
Exhausted, Kate leaned in the doorway of the bedroom. Jack was a silhouette against the window overlooking the street.
"Not tonight, I'm afraid."
He turned toward her and she jumped when she saw two glowing green spots where his eyes should have been. Then she remembered the strange headgear he'd donned before turning out the lights and mumbling something about night vision.
He'd brought it back from his trip, coming and going via the roof somehow. He'd been gone almost two hours—the longest two hours of her life. When he'd returned he'd said almost nothing, and seemed even grimmer than when he'd left. He didn't look good. Pale, a glassy cast to his usually clear eyes. She chalked it up to stress. More than enough of that going around. She wondered how she looked to Jack. Probably worse.
At least the bomb was gone. He'd said he'd left it back at his place.
"Can I make you more coffee?"
He lifted his mug. "I'm set, thanks. Why don't you go lie down, close your eyes, and try for some sleep."
"Someone tried to bomb us! Someone wants us dead! How can I sleep?"
"I've got the watch. Nothing's going to happen while I'm here, I promise you. You're tired; sleep will come if you let it. Trust me."
She did trust him—more than anyone. And she was desperately tired. She needed sleep but even more she needed the escape it offered from the gnawing anxiety that had seeped into her.
She stepped back into the bedroom and crawled under the covers; she lay flat on her back, folded her hands between her breasts, and closed her eyes.
I'll pretend I'm dead, she thought. Why not? That's what someone wants.
Lord, what a thought. What had happened to her life? Facing the fact that she wasn't the all-American soccer mom she'd always thought herself to be had been tough, but she'd finally come to accept being bent in a straight world. She'd thought her life was turning topsy-turvy then, but that was nothing compared to this past week.
And poor Jeanette… where was she now? What was she doing?
Are you thinking of me, Jeanette? she asked the dark. I think of you constantly. Does a single thought of me ever cross your mind? Or are you so taken with this cult that nothing else matters?
And Kevin and Elizabeth… she'd been away from them too long… had to get back to them… she's…
… floating…
No. Not floating. Flying. She has multiple transparent wings jutting from her shoulder blades, vibrating in a buzzing blur, propelling her through a hive-like structure, a glowing golden maze of myriad stacked hexagonal tubes that stretches away in all directions, reaching into infinity.
And in the air about her, a hum, myriad voices joined in singing a single note.
As she flies on she sees that the tubes are not empty. People within them, faces staring out at her, strangers, but calling her name.