Now a rakosh was loose in the pines. And if Scar lip got too much of a head start, it would be lost forever.
Jack drove around until he found an all night 7 11. He bought half a dozen bottles of Snapple, drank one, then emptied the rest onto the side of the road. He put all the empties into a duffel bag in his trunk. When dawn began to lighten the low overhang of clouds that lidded the area, he took 9 north until it intersected the Parkway, then got back on southbound until he came to the site of the accident. He pulled off the shoulder onto the grass just past the truck tire ruts. He took one of the gallon cans of gas and placed it in the duffel bag along with some old rags in the trunk. The bottles clinked within as he headed for the trees. It seemed logical Scar lip would have traveled directly down the slope and into the trees rather than cross the highway.
Jack looked for a break in the brush – a deer path or the like – and found it. The sand was wet. He saw what looked like deer tracks, and more: the deep imprints of big, alien, three toed feet, and work boot prints coming after. Scar lip, with Hank following – obviously behind because the boot prints occasionally stepped on the rakosh tracks.
As soon as he was out of sight of the road Jack filled the Snapple bottles with gas and stuffed their mouths with pieces of rag. Then he began following the tracks.
The trail wound this way and that; the scrawny pines closed in around him as he followed the tracks. He’d gone maybe half a mile when the trail changed.
The otherwise smooth sand was kicked up ferociously for a space of about a dozen feet, ending with two large, oblong gouts of blood, drying thick and brown on the sand, with little droplets of the same speckled around them. A cloud of flies hovered over the spot. A twelve gauge Mossberg pump action lay in the sand. Jack lifted it and sniffed the barrel. Unfired. Not that firing it would have changed the outcome here.
Only one set of prints led away along the trail – the three toed kind.
Jack crouched, staring around, listening, looking for signs of movement. Nothing. He glanced at the flies partying on Hank’s blood, then started again down the trail. His foot slipped on something a few feet further on. The sharpened steel rod Bondy had used to torment the rakosh lay half buried in the sand. He switched the duffel bag to his left hand, picked up the rod, and carried it in his right like a spear. He had two weapons now. He felt like an Indian hunter, armed with an iron spear and a container of magic burning liquid.
Half an hour later, as he was stepping over a fallen log in the center of a small clearing, his foot handed on something soft and yielding. Jack glanced down and saw a very dead Hank staring up at him. He let out an involuntary yelp, then whirled and scanned the area for signs of the rakosh. Nothing stirred. He dropped the iron spear and pulled one of his Molatov cocktails from the bag. He held his butane lighter ready before he chanced a closer look at Hank. Dead blue eyes fixed on the overcast sky; the pallor of his bloodless face accentuated the dark rims of his shiners and blended almost perfectly with the sand under his head; his right arm was missing at the shoulder; flies taxied around the stump.
A noise behind him. Jack whirled. Scar lip stood at the edge of the clearing, Hank’s arm dangling from its three fingered right hand. The rakosh held it casually, like a lollipop. The upper half of the arm had been stripped of its flesh; pink bone dragged in the sand.
Jack lit the tail on the cocktail and moved to where he could straddle the duffel bag. He pulled out a second bottle and lit it from the first. His heart was turning in overdrive, his lungs pumping to keep up. He knew from past encounters how powerful these creatures were, how quick and agile in spite of their mass. But he also knew that all he had to do was hit it with one of these flaming babies and it would all be over.
With as little warning and as little wind up as he dared, he tossed the one in his right hand, saw the rakosh duck left, threw the other left handed to try to catch it on the run. Both missed. The first landed in an explosion of flame, but the second skidded on the sand and lay there intact, its fuse dead, smothered. As the rakosh shied away from the flames, Jack pulled out a third cocktail. He had just lit the fuse when he sensed something hurtling toward him through the air, close. Too close. He ducked but not soon enough. The twirling remnant of Hank’s arm hit him square in the face. As he sprawled back, he felt the third cocktail slip from his fingers. He turned and dove and rolled. He was clear when it exploded, but he kept rolling because it had landed on his duffel bag. He was back by Hank’s body when the other three went up.
As soon as the initial explosion of flame subsided, Scar lip charged across the clearing. Jack was still on his back in the sand. Instinct prompted his hand toward the Semmerling but he knew bullets were useless. Instead he reached for the iron spear, swung it around so the butt was in the dirt and the point aimed toward the onrushing rakosh. Jack’s mind flashed back to his apartment rooftop last summer when Scar lip’s mother was trying to kill him, when he had run her through. That had only slowed her then, but this was iron. Maybe this time....
He steadied the point and braced for the impact.
The impact came, but not the one he’d expected. In one fluid motion, Scar lip swerved and batted the spear aside, grabbed the shaft and tossed it into the pines. Jack was left flat on his back with a slavering, three hundred pound inhuman killing machine towering over him. He tried to roll to his feet but the rakosh caught him with its foot and pinned him to the sand. Jack struggled to slip free but Scar lip increased the pressure until Jack thought his ribs would cave in. He popped the Semmerling into is hand – useless, but all he had left. And no way was he going out with a fully loaded pistol. As he stopped struggling and readied to fire, the pressure from the foot eased. He lay still and it let up completely, although the foot remained on his chest.
Jack looked up at Scar lip and met the creature’s yellow eyes. It gave one more thrust against his chest with its foot, then backed off a couple of steps.
Slowly, hesitantly, Jack sat up. Was this some sort of game?
But rakoshi didn’t play games. They killed and ate and killed again.
Scar lip backed off another step and pointed down the trail Jack had come.
No. This couldn’t be. It was letting him go. Why? Because Jack had stopped Bondy from tormenting it? Not possible. Rakoshi knew nothing about fair play, about debts or gratitude. Those were human emotions and –
Then Jack remembered that Scar lip was part human. Kusum had been its father. It carried some of Kusum in it.
Jack got to his feet and edged toward the trail, always keeping his face toward the rakosh, unable to quite believe this, afraid that if he turned his back on the creature it would strike. Much as he hated to leave the rakosh alive and free here in the wild, he didn’t see that he had much choice. He’d been beaten. The foot on the chest had signaled that. He had no weapons left, and he was certainly no match one on one.
So it was time to go. He took to the trail. One last look over his shoulder before the pines and brush obscured the clearing showed the rakosh standing alone on the sand, surveying its new domain.
*
Jack got lost on the way out. The trail forked here and there and he couldn’t be sure of the sun’s position through the cloud cover. His release by Scar lip had left him bewildered and a little dazed, neither of which had helped his concentration. But the extra hour of walking gave him time to think about his next move. He felt an obligation to let people know that there was something very dangerous prowling the Pine Barrens. He couldn’t go public with the story, and who’d believe him anyway?
He heard voices up ahead and hurried toward them. The brush opened up and he found himself facing a worn two lane blacktop. A couple of Jeep Cherokees were parked on the shoulder. Four men, thirty to forty in age, were busily loading their shotguns, slipping into their day glo orange vests. Their equipment was expensive, top of the line. Their weapons were Remingtons and Berettas. Gentlemen sportsmen, out for the kill.
Jack asked which way to the Pa
rkway and they pointed off to the left. A guy with a dainty goatee gave him a disdainful up and down.
“You could get killed walking through the woods like that, my friend,” he said. “It’s deer season. Someone might pop you if you aren’t wearing colors.”
“I’ll be sticking to the road from here on,” Jack said. He hesitated. He felt he owed these guys a warning. “Maybe you fellows ought to think twice about going in there today.”
“Shit,” said a skinny one with glasses. “You’re not one of those animal rights creeps are you?”
The air suddenly bristled with hostility.
“I’m not any kind of creep, pal,” Jack said through his teeth and took faint satisfaction in seeing the skinny guy step back and tighten his grip on his shotgun. “I’m just telling you that there’s something real mean in there.”
“Like what?” said the goatee, grinning. “The Jersey Devil?”
“No. But it’s not some defenseless herbivore that’s going to lay down and die when you empty a couple of shells at it. You’re not the top of the food chain in there, guys.”
“We can handle it,” said the skinny one.
“Really?” Jack said. “When did you ever hunt something that posed the slightest threat to you? I’m warning you, there’s something in there that fights back and I doubt any of your type can handle that.”
“What’s this?” said the third hunter. “A new tactic? Scare us off with spook stories? It won’t work.”
The fourth hunter hefted a shiny new Remington over under.
“The Jersey Devil! I want one! Wouldn’t that be some head to hang over the fireplace?”
As they laughed and slapped each other high fives, Jack shrugged and walked away. He’d tried.
Hunting season. He had to smile. Scar lip’s presence in the Pine Barrens gave the term a new twist. He wondered how these mighty hunters would react when they learned that the season was open on them.
And he wondered if there was any truth to those old tales of the Jersey Devil. Probably hadn’t been a real Jersey Devil before. But there was now.
introduction to “Home Repairs”
Richard Chizmar had asked me for a crime story for an anthology he was editing called Cold Blood. So in May of 1990, a few weeks after finishing “The Last Rakosh,” I began work on a Jack story with the working title of "Domestic Problem." I ended up calling it…
Home Repairs
The developer didn’t look like Donald Trump.
He was older, for one thing – mid fifties, at least – and fat and balding to boot. And nowhere near as rich. One of the biggest land developers on Long Island, as he was overly fond of saying. Rich, but not Trump rich.
And he was sweating. Jack wondered if Donald Trump sweated. The Donald might perspire, but Jack couldn’t imagine him sweating.
This guy’s name was Oscar Schaffer and he was upset about the meeting place.
“I expected we’d hold this conversation in a more private venue,” he said
Jack watched him pull a white handkerchief from his pocket and blot the moisture from a forehead that went on almost forever. Supposedly Schaffer had started out as a construction worker who’d got into contracting and then had gone on to make a mint in custom homes. Despite occasional words like venue, his speech still carried echoes of the streets. He carried a handkerchief too. Jack couldn’t think of anyone he knew who carried a handkerchief – who owned a handkerchief.
“This is private,” Jack said, glancing at the empty booths and tables around them. “Julio’s isn’t a breakfast place.” Voices drifted over from the bar area on the far side of the six foot divider topped with dead plants. “Unless you drink your breakfast.”
Julio came strutting around the partition carrying a coffee pot. His short, forty year old frame was grotesquely muscled under his tight, sleeveless shirt. He was freshly shaven, his mustache trimmed to a line, drafting pencil thin, his wavy hair was slicked back. He reeked of some new brand of cologne, more cloying than usual.
Jack coughed as the little man refilled his cup and poured one for Schaffer without asking.
“God, Julio. What is that?”
“The smell? It’s brand new. Called Midnight.”
“Maybe that’s when you’re supposed to wear it.”
He grinned. “Naw. Chicks love it, man.”
Only if they’ve spent the day in a chicken coop, Jack thought but kept it to himself.
“Is that decaf?” Schaffer asked. “I only drink decaf.”
“Don’t have any,” Julio said as he finished pouring. He strutted back to the bar.
“I can see why the place is deserted,” Schaffer said, glancing at Julio’s retreating form. “That guy’s downright rude.”
“It doesn’t come naturally to him. He’s been practicing lately.”
“Yeah? Well somebody ought to see that the owner gets wise to him.”
“He is the owner.”
“Really?” Schaffer mopped his brow again. “I tell you, if I owned this place, I’d–”
“But you don’t. And we’re not here to talk about the tavern business. Or are we?”
“No.” Schaffer suddenly became fidgety. “I’m not so sure about this anymore.”
“It’s okay. You can change your mind. No hard feelings.”
A certain small percentage of customers who got this far developed cold feet when the moment came to tell Repairman Jack exactly what they wanted him to fix for them. Jack didn’t think Schaffer would back out now. He wasn’t the type. But he’d probably want to dance a little first.
“You’re not exactly what I expected,” Schaffer said.
“I never am.”
Usually they expected either a glowering Charles Bronson type character or a real sleazo. And usually someone bigger. No one found Jack’s wiry medium frame, longish brown hair, and mild brown eyes particularly threatening. It used to depress him.
“But you look like a...yuppie.”
Jack glanced down at his dark blue Izod sports shirt, beige slacks, brown loafers, sockless feet.
“We’re on the Upper West Side, Mr. Schaffer. Yuppie Rome. And when in Rome...” Schaffer nodded grimly.
“It’s my brother in law. He’s beating up on my sister.”
“Seems like there’s a lot of that going around.”
People rarely sought out Jack for domestic problems, but this wouldn’t be the first wife beater he’d been asked to handle. He thought of Julio’s sister. Her husband had been pounding on her. That was how Jack had met Julio. They’d been friends ever since.
“Maybe so. But I never thought it would happen to Ceilia. She’s so...”
His voice trailed off.
Jack said nothing. This was the time to keep quiet and listen. This was when he got a real feel for the customer.
“I just don’t understand it. Gus seemed like such a good guy when they were dating and engaged. I liked him. An accountant, white collar, good job, clean hands, everything I wanted for Ceil. I helped him get his job. He’s done well. But he beats her.” Schaffer’s lips thinned as they drew back over his teeth. “Dammit, he beats the shit out of her. And you know what’s worse? She takes it! She’s put up with it for ten years!”
“There are laws,” Jack said.
“Right. Sure there are. But you’ve got to sign a complaint. Ceil won’t do that. She defends him, says he’s under a lot of pressure and sometimes he just loses control. She says most of the time it’s her fault because she gets him mad, and she shouldn’t get him mad. Can you believe that shit? She came over my place one night, two black eyes, a swollen jaw, red marks around her throat from where he was choking her. I lost it. I charged over their place ready to kill him with my bare hands. He’s a big guy, but I’m tough. And I’m sure he’s never been in a fight with someone who punches back. When I arrived screaming like a madman, he was ready for me. He had a couple of neighbors there and
he was standing inside his front door with a baseball bat. Told me if I tried anything he’d defend himself, then call the cops and press charges for assault and battery. I told him if he came anywhere near my sister again, he wouldn’t have an unbroken bone left in his body to dial the phone with!”
“Sounds like he knew you were coming.”
“He did! That’s the really crazy part! He knew because Ceil had called from my place to warn him! And the next day he sends her roses, says how much he loves her, swears it’ll never happen again, and she rushes back to him like he’s done her a big favor. Can you beat that?”
“Nothing to keep you from getting a bat of your own and waiting in an alley or a parking lot.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought of it. But I’ve already threatened him – in front of witnesses. Anything happens to him, I’ll be number one suspect. And I can’t get involved in anything like that, in a felony. I mean I’ve got my own family to consider, my business. I want to leave something for my kids. I do Gus, I’ll end up in jail, Gus’ll sue me for everything I’m worth, my wife and kids will wind up in a shelter somewhere while Gus moves into my house. Some legal system!”
Jack waited through a long pause. It was a familiar Catch 22 – one that kept him in business.
Schaffer finally said, “I guess that’s where you come in.”
Jack took a sip of his coffee.
“I don’t know how I can help you. Busting him up isn’t going to change things. It sounds like your sister’s got as big a problem as he does.”
“She does. I’ve talked to a couple of doctors about it. It’s called co dependency or something like that. I don’t pretend to understand it. I guess the best thing that could happen to Ceil is Gus meeting with some sort of fatal accident.”
“You’re probably right,” Jack said.
Schaffer stared at him. “You mean you’ll...?”