F Paul Wilson - Secret History 03 Page 4
Shit!
“No. I didn’t even think…”
Truth was, thoughts of his brother rarely if ever crossed Jack’s mind. He’d never considered Tom a real brother, just someone who shared some of his genes and, for the first eight years of Jack’s life, the same house. Ten years older than Jack, Tom hadn’t been a presence even before he’d gone off to college, and after that he’d faded to a wraith who’d float in and out over the holidays and breaks.
Jack had his number somewhere. He’d had to call him a few times last September to update him on Dad’s coma, but not often enough to remember.
“You’ve got to call him.”
Yeah, he did. But how much would Tom care?
Jack caught himself. Not fair. Maybe Tom hadn’t gone to visit Dad in Florida when he’d been hurt, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be devastated to learn he was a victim of the flight 715 massacre. Back then he’d said he was tied up with “judicial matters,” whatever that meant. Yeah, he was a judge in Philadelphia and maybe he couldn’t leave in the middle of hearing a case, but still… if your father’s in a coma and no one knows whether or not he’s going to come out of it, hell, you find a way.
“Tom’s number is back at my apartment. So’s Ron’s.”
His sister’s kids needed to know about their grandfather.
He kissed Gia on the top of her head. “Got to get home and make those calls.”
Gia looked up at him. “Can’t you call information?”
“For Ron, yeah, I suppose. But I know Tom’s is unlisted, him being a judge and all.”
She grabbed his hand. “You’re going to come back, aren’t you?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Jack, you shouldn’t be alone tonight. This is something that needs to be shared. Vicky and I can help you through this, but you’ve got to let us. I know you, Jack. You’re like an injured wolf that goes off to lick its wounds alone. You can’t keep this bottled up. You’ve got to let it out. I’m—we’re here for you, Jack. Please don’t shut us out.”
“I won’t. I’ll make my calls and then come back.”
As Jack left, he hoped he’d be able to keep that promise.
* * *
10
Jack sat in the cluttered front room of his apartment. Still numb, he hadn’t turned on the lights. He sat in the dark with the glowing touchpad of his phone providing the only illumination. He started his calls.
The one-hundred-and-fifteenth precinct came first. A woman there told him they didn’t have any information yet on how relatives could claim the bodies of the deceased. The victims were being IDed and examined, and then they’d be released.
“Was your loved one with the Hasidic group?” she said.
“No. Why?”
“Well, there’s a lot of religious concerns on their part.”
“Like what?”
“Like burying the body before sundown and—”
“That’s long past.”
“I know, but there are issues about icing the bodies down and—well, it’s been very trying to say the least.”
“I’ll bet.”
“We’ve got assemblymen and congressmen and city council members calling, pushing to expedite matters and—”
“What? Their dead are more important than my father?” Jack could feel a quick burn accelerating. His rage wanted a target—any target. “Like hell!”
“I’m sorry, sir. Please call tomorrow morning. The post mortems should be completed and we’ll have a procedure in place by then. Thank you. Good-bye.”
Jack found himself holding a dead phone.
After taking a few moments to cool, he called Kate’s ex, praying Ron would answer instead of one of the kids. Jack had never met his niece and nephew, never even spoken to them, and didn’t want to start now. Kevin and Lizzie had lost their mother earlier this year; he hated being the one to tell them their grandfather was gone too.
Jack freely copped to cowardice in this.
Ron answered. It took Jack’s ex-brother-in-law a moment to figure out who he was. He took it hard, asking over and over how he was going to tell Lizzie. Jack promised to get back to him with the funeral arrangements.
“Oh?” his brother-in-law said in an acid-etched tone. “You’re going to show up this time?”
Jack hadn’t been able to attend his sister Kate’s funeral. Forced to stay away for reasons he couldn’t explain to them.
“Ron,” Jack said, feeling a lead weight in his chest, “you don’t know me, so I’ll let that pass. But if you had any idea of how much I loved Kate, you’d know that I would have been there if at all possible. Talk to you soon.”
And then he’d hung up.
God. Two tough calls. And now the last and possibly least: big brother Tom.
After half a dozen rings and no pickup or answering machine, Jack was about to hang up when a slurred voice came on.
“Tom?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Your brother Jack.”
“Oh-ho! Jackie, the prodigal brother. And to what do I owe this honor?”
“You been drinking?”
“What business of it is yours?”
Yep, he’d been drinking. Probably not a bad thing, considering what he was about to hear.
“None. You sitting down?”
“I’m lying down—you woke me up. I hope this is fucking important.”
“Dad’s dead.”
A good ten, fifteen seconds of silence, then, “You’re not bullshitting me?”
“You know better than to ask that.”
“Jesus, when? What? Heart attack? Hit by another car? What?”
When Jack told him, the ensuing silence stretched even longer.
“Holy Christ. I knew he was swinging by to see you but I didn’t know when… never dreamed he was on that flight. This is unbelievable!”
“Tell me about it. I was there and I still don’t believe it. When can you get here? We need to claim the body.”
“Can’t you do that?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
Because I can’t even prove I’m related, let alone his son.
“Can’t explain. Just get here. I don’t want him on a slab in the morgue any longer than necessary.”
“Shit-shit-shit! Goddamn it! All right, I’ll come up. But the earliest I can get there is tomorrow afternoon, if then.”
“Christ, Tom—”
His voice jumped in volume. “That’s it, okay? I’ve got things coming at me from all sides here, and it’s going to take me a while to cut myself free. Tomorrow afternoon’s the best I can do. And since you, for God knows whatever reason, can’t seem to handle this on your own, you’re just going to have to wait!”
He was nearly shouting by the time he finished.
“Fine,” Jack said softly. “I’ll give you my number. Call me before you get here and I’ll meet you.”
He gave Tom his Tracfone number and hung up.
He leaned back and rubbed his eyes.
What was up with Tom? His brother had always been self-centered. No matter what happened, good or bad, his first reaction had always been, How does this affect me? But this seemed to go beyond that.
Jack sensed it was more than just the pressure of being a judge in a city like Philly. Another divorce? That would make three. Or was it something more serious?
Whatever it was, this was more important. He had to put everything else aside for a few days and tend to this.
Jack so wished he could handle this, but that was impossible. He needed Tom.
And he hated needing Tom.
* * *
11
“Don’t wait up for me,” he told Gia.
“You’re not coming back?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, Jack…”
The hurt and worry in her voice scalded him.
“I’m sorry. It’s just—”
“But we discussed this. You
shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
“Yeah, I should.”
“Jack—”
“Really, Gia, I’m okay. I’m just better off alone with this. I’m edgy and the truth is, I don’t think I can sit still. I need to be up and about… need to move around.”
“Move around how?”
“Take a walk, maybe a jog. Something to burn off this…”
He didn’t have a name for it.
“Don’t shut me out, Jack.”
“I’m not. I swear I’m not. I’ll be there early tomorrow. I’ll spend the whole day with you. But tonight… I need to move.”
“All right. I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I can tell I’m not going to change your mind. Be careful. Please?”
“I will. I promise.”
“I love you, Jack.”
“Love you too, Gi.”
* * *
12
Jack ambled in a slow jog along the most poorly lit paths in Central Park. He made a point of cutting through dark groves of naked trees as he moved between paths, hoping—praying—someone would make a move on him.
God, he needed to let loose on somebody. It would feel sooo good to fire his rage laser and crisp some asshole.
But something about him must have sent out warning signals, because no one bothered him. No one even spoke to him.
Figured. You could never find a dirtbag when you needed one.
* * *
TUESDAY
1
As Jack pushed through the front door of the Isher Sports Shop he realized he was arriving empty-handed. He always brought something to eat. Today he’d forgotten.
So be it. Abe would survive.
He walked toward the rear.
If Set, the Egyptian God of Chaos, had been a sports nut, his temples would have resembled Abe’s shop. Every size and shape ball imaginable plus the various instruments used to strike them, every wheeled contraption that could be sat or stood upon, plus a wide array of cocooning safety gear necessary to protect the users from grievous bodily harm during their pursuit of “fun,” all tossed with utter disregard for coherence or continuity onto rows of eight-foot shelves teetering over narrow winding aisles laid out in a pattern to rival the Wiltshire hedge maze.
The man responsible, Jack’s best and oldest friend, sat in his usual spot behind the scarred wooden counter near the rear. A few years shy of sixty, Abe Grossman had a Humpty-Dumpty shape and a balding crown. He was dressed in the Abe uniform of white—except for the food stains—half-sleeve shirt and black pants. And as usual, the morning editions of every daily newspaper in the city lay spread out on his counter.
He looked up, saw Jack coming, and quickly began shuffling the papers into a pile. He was shoving them under the counter when Jack arrived.
“It’s okay, Abe. I’ve seen them—the front pages at least.”
How could he have missed them? Every newsstand he’d passed on the walk over from his apartment had the screaming headlines on display. The radio and TV weren’t talking about anything else. He’d listened briefly this morning for new developments, but heard only the same old speculations. If the cops and FBI had learned anything new, they weren’t sharing it.
Abe stashed them out of sight anyway.
“A terrible, terrible thing, Jack. I feel so bad for you. I feel worse for your father, of course, but you… how are you doing?”
“Still in shock… in rage. But no grief. Kind of worries me. Think there’s something wrong with me?”
“With you? Something wrong? Not a chance.”
He knew Abe was trying to lighten his mood, but Jack wasn’t looking for that. And he hadn’t been kidding about being worried. He’d broken down and cried when Kate died. Why hadn’t he cried for Dad?
“I’m serious, Abe. I don’t feel like moping or crying, I just want to break things. Or people.”
“Grief will come in its time. We all have our own way of living through something like this.” He shook his head. “Listen to me. Like a living, breathing cliché.”
Jack reached across the counter and patted Abe’s beefy arm.
“It’s okay. At least you didn’t say he’s in a better place. I swear I’ll do some damage if someone tells me that.”
“That’s not an ‘if,’ it’s a ‘when.’ You know it is.”
“The thing is, we’d just found each other. After all these years, we’d made real contact and discovered we liked each other. And then…”
There—a lump in his throat, cutting off his voice. It felt… good.
Parabellum, Abe’s little blue parakeet, hopped over and stopped between Jack and Abe. He cocked his head and looked up at Jack as if to say, Where’s my food? He usually served as the cleanup crew, policing the countertop for spilled bits of whatever Jack had brought. With the way his master ate, crumbs were never in short supply. But today he’d have to settle for birdseed.
“At least you reconnected. Think how you should feel if you hadn’t.”
Jack opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as a realization hit him like a runaway train.
“Oh, hell…”
“What?”
“I’d be feeling fine right now—because he’d still be alive.”
Abe rubbed his partially denuded scalp. “This you’ll have to explain.”
“He was coming to visit me, Abe. If we were still on the outs he’d have stayed in Florida, or would have been flying into Philly to see his grandkids for Christmas. Either way, he wouldn’t have been at La Guardia yesterday. My dad’s dead because we connected.”
“You’re holding yourself responsible? This is not my Jack.”
“The ones I’m holding responsible are the two shits with the guns. But goddamn!” He slammed his fist on the counter, sending Parabellum fluttering toward the ceiling. “If only he’d taken another flight…”
“You can if-only yourself into a straitjacket.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m halfway there.”
“More like three quarters. How much sleep did you get last night?”
“Zilch.”
Hadn’t even tried. After he’d crapped out in the park, he’d wandered around until predawn. When he’d finally put himself to bed he just lay there, staring at the ceiling in the growing light. Finally he’d given up.
He was running on caffeine and adrenaline.
“Can I get you something to eat?” Abe said. “Some leftover Entenmann’s, I’m sure.”
Jack had to smile. Food was Abe’s answer to everything. He shook his head.
“Thanks, but my appetite hasn’t come back yet.”
“You’ve got to eat.”
“I’ve got to get a new backup is what I’ve got to do.”
“Something’s wrong with the AMT?”
“Yeah. It’s scattered in pieces around one of the airport parking lots.”
“You want another?”
Jack had been thinking about that. His Glock was a 9mm model, but the little AMT had been a .380. Dealing with two kinds of ammo wasn’t a major chore, but he liked to keep things as simple as possible. And he hadn’t been crazy about the AMT’s trigger.
“Got anything in a nine?”
Abe thought a moment, then held up a pudgy finger.
“Just the thing. Lock the door and I’ll show you.”
* * *
2
After hanging up the BACK IN A FEW MINUTES sign, Jack joined Abe in a rear closet. He closed the door behind him as Abe pushed on the closet wall. It swung open. Abe hit a light switch, revealing the worn stone stairway down to the basement. Ahead a neon sign buzzed to life.
Fine Weapons
The Right to Buy eapons
is the Right to Be Free
“You lost a W,” Jack said.