Yes! Jack resisted the impulse to pump his fist. Instead he rose to his feet.
"It's your decision," he said. "And either way, there's not much I can do for you. But I'll keep thinking on it. Maybe I can come up with someone who can help."
"Why?" she said. "Don't get me wrong. I'd welcome any help you care to offer. But I got the impression you're strictly fee for service. Why are you staying involved?"
Jack shrugged. "Curiosity."
"Considering what happened to the others who've gotten involved, curiosity could be dangerous."
"I know," he said. "You're a dangerous lady to be around."
She frowned, and suddenly he regretted the remark. She was feeling bad enough. But it was true: He'd have to watch his back if he linked up with Alicia. Have to find out who was behind all the rough stuff, then throw them off balance by feeding them a few doses of their own medicine. Get them watching their backs.
"Hang in there," he told her as he pulled open the door. "I'll let you know if I come up with something."
Jack walked away thinking about curiosity. One of his worst vices. Rarely did it fail to get him in trouble.
3
Jack spent most of the afternoon looking at real estate. He finally found the place he wanted: a three-story Victorian town house on West Twenty-first Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues.
The place had a history, and Dolores, the chubby agent from Hudak Realty, told him the whole sordid story. The previous owner had been a psychiatrist who'd blown his head off near Times Square and left the place to one of his patients. The patient later had an accident in the house and didn't want to stay there. So she was offering it for lease, fully furnished.
"Perfect," Jack told her. "But I must, absolutely must move in immediately. Rehearsals begin tomorrow, and I simply can't have any distractions."
Dolores said she was sure that would be no problem. She seemed ga-ga over the fact that her client was the actor who would be taking over the part of Javert in Les Misérables. He promised her tickets for his first performance. "When I step on that stage, you will be in the audience."
Jack signed a one-year lease as Jack Ferris, then paid first-month and last-month rent plus a security deposit with a check from a Santa Monica bank. He'd be done with the place before it bounced.
On the way out of the Hudak office he managed to snag a few pieces of stationery, and a blank deposit receipt form.
He picked up a disposable Kodak camera and hurried back to snap a couple of photos of the town house before the light faded. Then he called Jorge and met him at the Malibu Diner on Twenty-third—decent coffee and a fabulous array of their own baked goods.
He gave him the camera and a sheet with the layout and copy for the flyers they'd planned.
"Get this printed up with the Hudak Realty letterhead on top. Then pass them out like we discussed."
Jorge looked at the camera, at the rough sketch of the flyer, then at Jack.
"This will get me the money I am owed?"
Jack shrugged. "It's bait. If Ramirez bites, we've got a shot. If he doesn't, we'll try something else."
"All right. If you say so."
Jorge left, shaking his head.
Jack couldn't blame him. This was a long shot, even if Ramirez took the bait.
He stepped out under the Malibu's bright orange canopy and watched the crowd for a while. The offices and garment factories had let out and the hordes were on the move, streaming through the dark into the subway entrances or bustling toward Penn Station. Night came so early these days. Barely past five now and already the stars were poking through the inky mantle of night.
He headed back to the Center. All the while he'd been hiking around with the real estate agent—when he should have been concentrating on Jorge's problem—he'd found himself thinking instead about Alicia and that house. He kept reminding himself that it wasn't his sort of gig, that he couldn't resolve this for her.
But it wasn't concern for Alicia. It was the questions. It was the house. What was his secret? What was it about the place that a wealthy anonymous backer would offer a fortune for it through Thomas, and kill anyone who got in the way?
Jack had to admit it: He was hooked.
He wasn't far from the Center, so he headed that way. He wanted to tell Alicia that he'd figured a way she could keep her opponents off balance: Sean O'Neill. Jack had known the feisty little Irishman for years and knew he was an expert in legal harassment. He'd make life miserable for Thomas and his lawyers. He'd drown them in paper. Jack would have to warn him about the fate of his predecessor, but he doubted that would deter Sean.
As Jack came down Seventh, he thought he saw someone who looked like Alicia step out of the Center's front door and start downtown. He broke into a trot to catch up to her, and quickened his pace when he saw her turn a corner. She looked like she was heading home.
When Jack rounded that corner, he spotted her half a block ahead. He watched her angle toward the curb to avoid some guy sweeping the sidewalk. That brought her near a dark panel truck. Jack saw the truck's side panel door slide open, and as it did, the sweeper dropped his broom and charged Alicia, knocking her into the truck. He jumped in after her. The door slammed closed, and the truck roared off.
Jack stumbled a step and blinked. Had he really seen that? One second she was there, the next she was gone.
Shit!
He kicked into a sprint, dodging people and pushcarts and hand trucks as he dashed after the truck. He saw it up ahead. The light was turning red at Eighth Avenue. It would have to stop—
But no—it ran the red with a tire-squealing turn onto Eighth. An angry chorus of horns followed it uptown.
Jack kept running. He reached Eighth and stood panting, squinting into the red river of taillights streaming uptown. He spotted the truck two blocks ahead, moving away from him.
His mind raced. What now? He wasn't even sure that had been Alicia. And even if it was… he should stay out of it. Chasing after them himself was dangerous. Cowboy stuff like that was a sure way to get collared, and a collar could wreck his life. He should call the cops—do the 911 thing and let them handle it.
But he hadn't caught the license plate on the truck, and hadn't seen any distinctive markings.
She's in a dark panel truck somewhere on Eighth Avenue—maybe.
Yeah, right. That would—
A horn blared to his left. A taxi wanted to pull away from the curb, and Jack was blocking him. Jack held up his hand and approached the driver.
4
Alicia felt her taching heart pound against her ribs and heard the breath whistling in and out of her nostrils as she struggled against the tape that bound her to the seat.
They're going to kill me! she thought. I'm going to end up just like the others.
It had happened so fast! The man had caught her in mid-stride, hurled her into the truck, and jumped in after her. Before she could react the door was closed and she was taped into this chair, with a short piece slapped across her mouth. She felt tears crowding into her eyes. What did they want with her?
And then she remembered: They can't kill me. The house will go to Greenpeace if they do.
But what if this is something else? What if this has nothing to do with the house? You hear of people disappearing all the time. What if this is just some random abduction?
The inside of the truck was as dark as a tomb. She could make out the shape of the man who'd pushed her in, and sensed someone else sitting behind her. The first man had her shoulder bag and seemed to be pawing through it—she could hear the contents being pushed this way and that. What were they looking for? Who were they? What did they—?
And then the one behind her spoke. She recognized the nasal voice.
"Hello, sis."
Thomas.
Anger sliced through her. She couldn't see him, but she could imagine him—his lanky brown hair, his big-nosed, pockmarked face, his pear-shaped body. Had he gained weight since she'd last s
een him a dozen years ago? Undoubtedly.
She wanted to scream at him, but knew nothing would pass her taped lips. So she stopped struggling against her bonds and forced herself to be calm. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her terror.
"Sorry we have to meet like this," he said in a casual, offhanded tone. Alicia could almost hear his smirk. "But I wanted to act out one of my bondage fantasies. And I also wanted to make it clear in no uncertain terms how disturbed we are by what you did—or tried to have done to the house last night."
We … he was as much as telling her that he wasn't in this alone.
"I don't want this to be a lecture, so I'm going to have my associate here remove the tape from your mouth. If you begin to scream or cause any unpleasantness, it goes back on and stays on. Is that clear?"
Alicia refused to nod.
"I said, is that clear?"
Still she wouldn't nod.
Finally she heard Thomas sigh. "All right. Take it off."
The dark figure next to her reached over and tore the tape roughly from her face. From the way her flesh stung, she was sure it had taken an upper layer of skin with it.
"You bastard," she said in a low voice without turning. She did not want to see him. "You filthy piece of—"
"Ah-ah-ah," Thomas said. "I warned you about unpleasantness."
"Just a statement of fact, Thomas."
"Really?" His voice changed to a hiss. "Then try this statement of fact: If you ever, ever try to do harm to that house again, you'll—"
"I'll what? Be run down by a car? Be blown up? Be burned at the stake? What, Thomas? I know what happens if I die. So don't try to threaten me."
"Who said anything about dying?" he said. "How about just hurting? You can be hurt. And you can be hurt again. You can be damaged temporarily or permanently. You can be scarred. You can be maimed. You can be blinded. The list goes on, Alicia. Dying is not the worst that can happen to you."
Alicia licked her lips with a cottony tongue. Was this really Thomas talking? Weak ineffectual Thomas?
"I know what you're thinking," Thomas went on. "You're thinking Thomas is just talking. Thomas is a wimp. He won't do anything of the sort. But listen well, sister: Thomas doesn't have to do any of it. He's got people who will do it for him, and enjoy it."
Her intestines coiled in fear as she realized these were not empty threats. She hid the tremor that shot through her. How had she got into this nightmare?
"Give it up," Thomas said. "I've all but won as it is. It's all just a matter of time now—a very short time. Save me the trouble of having the will set aside, and you'll walk away from the closing a very rich woman. You keep fighting me and you wind up with nothing—no house, no money. I call that a no-brainer, Alicia. Why are you being so damn stubborn?"
You of all people should know, she thought. But she said: "Why? Why do you want the place so badly?"
"I have my reasons. Nothing that concerns you." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I can hurt you in other ways, Alicia. I can ruin you professionally. I can make that medical degree of yours completely worthless."
Alicia froze, afraid to move, afraid to hear.
Thomas's voice sank to a whisper. "I found his stash… the master collection. It's mine now. And I can release parts of it to the state board, to select magazines and newspapers."
Alicia knew that if her hands were free now, she'd turn and go for his throat, try to rip it out to silence that smug voice. But the cold sick dread flowing through her stole her voice.
And then she felt his hand grab her left breast and squeeze.
"Remember the good old days?"
What Alicia remembered was the seventeen-year-old Thomas sneaking into her room at night to cop a feel while she was sleeping. Something he quit after she slashed his palm with the knife she'd begun keeping under her pillow.
Her fury broke free. She flexed her neck, then rammed the back of her head into Thomas's face.
She heard him cry out in pain, and then heard a horn blare as the truck screeched to a crashing halt.
From the other side of the front partition she faintly heard the driver say something about a "Goddam cab" as he got out.
Behind her, Thomas was whimpering. "I think you broke a tooth!"
"Shut the fuck up," said the man beside her—the first words he'd spoken since he pushed her in here. "This could be trouble."
She heard shouting outside, then something slammed against the side of the van.
"That does it," the man said. "I'm going out to see what's up. You just stay put."
Alicia didn't have a choice, so he must have been talking to Thomas. She'd thought Thomas was in charge, but this thug showed him no respect. Who was in charge here?
She got a glimpse of the man's blocky build and thick features as he pulled the side door open, then it closed behind him.
5
Yoshio was amazed at the sudden, bizarre turns of events.
He had been watching Thomas Clayton and had seen him get into a dark panel truck outside his apartment house. He had recognized Sam Baker through the open door. Since this allowed him to keep track of two of his surveillance targets at once, he'd followed.
For a good half hour he had watched Baker sweep the same section of sidewalk in front of a shuttered Korean toy wholesaler's shop. Yoshio had returned to his car from a quick walk to the pushcart vendor on the corner, and was just biting into his souvlaki on a pita when he saw Alicia Clayton get pushed into the truck.
Shocked, he dropped his souvlaki—salad, sauce, and all—onto his lap, and followed.
Were they mad? What did they hope to accomplish by this?
He got caught at the red light at the next corner. He would have run through it like the truck, but the cross traffic was too thick when he reached the intersection.
While he was waiting, he noticed a dark-haired man run up to the corner and stare after the van. Apparently he had seen the abduction and wanted to do something about it. A concerned citizen. A rarity.
As soon as the cross traffic thinned, Yoshio eased through the red light and pursued the van, leaving the man behind.
He found the truck and followed it onto a cross street. Suddenly a taxi, piloted by a madman, swerved around him and cut off the truck. After the impact, the cabdriver jumped out and Yoshio recognized him: the concerned citizen from moments before.
Yoshio watched in stunned amazement. What demon had possessed this man? What did he think he was going to accomplish alone?
6
Baker took a quick look around. He wasn't exactly sure where they were—somewhere in the West Thirties, probably. That had been the plan: take her for a ride, scare the shit out of her, then dump her in some dark deserted spot as far west as possible.
At least there weren't too many pedestrians here. He saw how the left front end of their truck had inserted itself into the rear door of a beat-up yellow cab. What kind of asshole move had this cabbie tried to pull to cause this? Was he trying to get hit?
Whatever. The thing was to get the truck moving again. No cops, no accident report. Chuck had the frightened-looking cabbie pinned helpless against the side of the panel truck. He was an average-size white guy, and Chuck was a monster. The cabbie wasn't going anywhere.
Good. We'll do a little tap dance on this guy's head, then we'll be out of here.
Baker stepped forward. He was going to enjoy this.
That was when the cabbie stopped cursing and looking helpless. He grabbed Chuck's right wrist with both hands and gave a sharp backward twist. Baker thought he heard a bone crack. The cabbie ducked the pile-driver left Chuck threw at him and delivered a vicious sidekick to the inside of Chuck's knee. Baker knew he heard a ligament pop.
Chuck grunted and dropped to the street, clutching his knee. The moves took Baker by as much surprise as Chuck. Something very wrong here. Instead of running, the cabbie was coming his way, looking anything but frightened. Baker had a big weight advantage—what w
as this guy thinking? But then the guy was in his face. Who was this guy? Cabbies sat on their butts all day. They weren't supposed to move this fast…
Baker swung a right and missed as the cabbie leaned away from it. He grabbed the guy's arm with his left hand to steady him for the next shot, but he was slippery as a greased snake. He pulled free, and Baker's face exploded in pain as the heel of the cabbie's palm rammed up into his nose. Baker swung blindly and connected with what felt like ribs, but then something—a fist or a foot, he didn't know—pounded into his solar plexus. He heard himself grunt as the air exploded from him. He grabbed for the guy as he doubled over, hoping to take him down with him, but then something that had felt like a billy club but had to be an elbow rammed into his right kidney.
That did it. Baker dropped through a haze of nausea and agony, landing on his hands and knees, with his dazed mind mumbling, What happened? What happened?
7
Horns were beginning to blare from traffic backed up behind the accident as Jack jumped to the panel truck's side door. He cocked his right arm as he yanked the handle with his left.
Had to be someone else inside besides Alicia, he figured, and he wanted to strike while he still had surprise on his side.
He wished he'd been prepared for this. He had the Semmerling, of course, and the knife strapped to his leg, but as comforting as they were, he'd truly have liked a twelve-ounce sap in his hand right now.
The first person he saw when he opened the door was Alicia. They'd taped her into a chair, but other than that it didn't look like they'd harmed her. Her eyes widened when she saw him.
"Jack!"
And he'd been right about someone else being with her, but the doughy guy with the bloody mouth didn't look like a problem. A quick glance inside revealed no one else.
As Jack leaped inside, Mr. Bloodymouth shrank back.
"Who are you?" His voice rose in pitch with each word. "What do you want?"