Conspiracies

  Lew glanced at his watch. "Okay. I've got to move if I'm going to make it to the bank." He pulled out a card and wrote on the back. "There's my home address. Take the LIE—"

  "I'll find it. Let's make it five o'clock. I want to beat the rush."

  "Fine. Five o'clock." He reached across the table and grabbed Jack's right hand in both of his. "And thank you—thanks a million. You don't know what this means to me."

  I'm sure I don't, Jack thought. But I got a feeling I'm going to find out.

  Only Repairman Jack can find me. Only he will understand.

  Why me?

  4

  "So why should you call them nuts?" Abe said. "We are surrounded by conspiracies."

  Jack had swung by the Isher Sports Shop to say hello to Abe Grossman, a graying Humpty Dumpty of a man in his late fifties with a forehead that went on almost forever, and Jack's oldest friend in the city. In the world. They sat in their usual positions: Jack leaning on the customer side of the scarred wooden counter, Abe perched on his stool behind it, and around them, a gallimaufry of sporting goods tossed carelessly onto sagging shelves lining narrow aisles or hung from ceiling hooks, all in perpetual, undusted disarray. A Sports Authority outlet designed and maintained by Oscar Madison. One of the reasons Jack liked coming here was that it made his apartment look neat and roomy.

  "You know the root of the word?" Abe said. "Conspire: it means to breathe together. The world is rife with all sorts of people and institutions breathing together. Just take a look—" He broke off and cocked his head toward the pale blue parakeet perched on his stained left shoulder. "What's that, Parabellum? No, we can't do that. Jack is a friend."

  Parabellum tilted his beak toward Abe's ear and looked as if he were whispering into it.

  "Well, most of the time he is," Abe said, then straightened his head and looked at Jack. "See? Conspiracies everywhere. Just now, right in front of you, Parabellum tried to engage me in a conspiracy against you for not bringing him a snack. I should be worried if I were you."

  Usually Jack brought something edible, but he'd neglected to this time.

  "You mean I can't drop in without bringing an offering?" Jack said. "This was a spur of the moment thing."

  Abe looked offended. "For me—feh!—I shouldn't care. It's for Parabellum. He gets hungry this time of the day."

  Jack pointed to the Technicolor droppings that festooned the shoulders of Abe's half-sleeve white shirt.

  "Looks like Parabellum's had plenty to eat already. You sure he doesn't have colitis or something?"

  "He's a fine healthy bird. It's just that he gets upset by strangers—and by so-called friends who don't bring him an afternoon snack."

  Jack glanced pointedly at Abe's bulging shirt front. "I've seen where the bird's snacks usually end up."

  "If you're going to start on my weight again, you should save your breath."

  "Wasn't going to say a word."

  But he wanted to. Jack was getting worried about Abe. An overweight, sedentary, Type-A personality, he was a heart attack waiting to happen. Jack couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to Abe. He loved this man. The decades that separated their birthdays hadn't kept them from becoming the closest of friends. Abe was the only human being besides Gia Jack could talk to—really talk to. Together they had solved the world's problems many times over. He could not imagine day-to-day life without Abe Grossman.

  So Jack had cut back on the goodies he traditionally brought whenever he stopped by, or now if he did bring something, he'd sworn it would be low cal or low fat—preferably both.

  "Anyway, I should be worried about weight? If I want to lose some, I can do it anytime. When I'm ready, I'll go to Egypt and eat from street carts for two weeks. You'll see. Dysentery does wonders for the waistline. Richard Simmons should be so effective."

  "Im-Ho-Tep's revenge, ay?" Jack said, keeping it light. He didn't want to be a complete pain in the ass. "When do you leave?"

  "I have a call in to my travel agent now. I'm not sure when she'll get back to me. Maybe next year. But what about you? Why are you so careful with your foods? A guy in your line of work should worry about cholesterol?"

  "I'm an optimist."

  "You're too healthy is what's wrong with you. If you don't get shot or stabbed or clubbed to death by one of the many people you've royally pissed off in your life, what can you die from?"

  "I'm doing research. I'll find something interesting, I hope."

  "Nothing you'll die of! And how will that look on your death certificate? 'Cause of death: Nothing.' Won't you feel foolish? Such an embarrassment. It will have to be a closed-coffin service to hide your red face. And really, how could I come to your funeral knowing you died of nothing?"

  "Maybe I'll just die of shame."

  "At least it's something. But before you pass on, let me tell you a little something about conspiracies."

  "Figured you have something to say on the subject."

  "Indeed I do. Remember that global economic holocaust I used to warn you about?"

  For years Abe had gone on and on about the impending collapse of the global economy. He still maintained a mountain retreat upstate, stocked with gold coins and freeze-dried food.

  "The one that didn't happen?"

  "The reason it didn't happen is that they didn't want it to happen."

  "Who's 'they'?"

  "The cabal of international bankers that manipulates the global currency markets, of course."

  "Of course."

  Here we go, Jack thought. This ought to be good.

  "'Of course," he says," Abe said, speaking to Parabellum. "Skepticalman Jack thinks his old friend is meshugge." He turned back to Jack. "Remember when the Asian and Russian markets went into free fall awhile back?"

  "Vaguely."

  "'Vaguely," he says."

  "You know I don't follow the markets." Since he didn't own stocks, Jack pretty much ignored Wall Street.

  "Then I'll refresh your memory. The fall of 1997: the bottoms fell out of all the Asian markets. Less than a year later, the same thing in Russia, making rubles good only for toilet paper. People were losing their shirts and their pants, banks and brokerage houses were failing, Asian brokers were hanging themselves or jumping out windows. Do you think that just happened? No. It was planned, It was orchestrated, and certain people made money that should be measured in cosmological terms."

  "What people?"

  "The members of the cabal. They're drawn from the old royal families and international banking families of Europe along with descendants of our own robber barons. Most of their influence is concentrated in the West, and they were probably miffed at being left out of all the emerging economies booming in Asia. So they invited themselves in. They manipulated Asian currencies, inflated the markets, then pulled the plug."

  Jack had to ask: "How does that help them?"

  "Simple: They sell short before the crash. When prices have bottomed out—and they know when that is because they and their buddies are pulling the strings—they cover their short positions. But that's only half of the equation. They don't stop there. They use their stupendous short profits to buy up damaged properties and companies at fire sale prices."

  "So now they've got a piece of the action."

  "And no small piece. After the crash, enormous amounts of Thai and Indonesian stock and property were bought up at five cents on the dollar by shadow corporations. And since the lion's share of profits from those upstart countries will now be flowing into the cabal's coffers, those economies will be allowed to improve."

  "Okay," Jack said. "But who are they? What are their names? Where do they live?"

  "Names? You want I should give you names? How about their addresses too? What's Repairman Jack going to do? Pay them a little visit?"

  "Well, no. I just—"

  "If I knew their names, I'd probably be dead. I don't want to know their names. Someone else should know their names and stop them. They've been pulling the world'
s economic strings for centuries but no one ever does anything. No one hunts them down and calls them to account. Why is that, Jack? Tell me: Is it ignorance or apathy?"

  "I don't know and couldn't care less," Jack said with a shrug.

  Abe opened his mouth, then closed it and stared at him.

  Jack fought the grin that threatened to break free. Goading Abe was precious fun.

  Finally Abe turned to Parabellum. "You see what I put up with from this man? I try to enlighten him as to the true nature of things, and what does he do? Wise he cracks."

  "As if you really believe all that," Jack said, grinning.

  Abe stared at him, saying nothing.

  Jack felt his smile fading. "You don't really believe in an international financial cabal, do you?"

  "I should tell you? But one thing you should know is that a good conspiracy theory is a mechaieh. And also great fun. But this group you mentioned, this Bouillabaisse—"

  "SESOUP."

  "Whatever. I'll bet it's not fun for them. I'll bet it's very serious business for them: UFOs and other stuff far from the mainstream."

  "UFOs are mainstream?"

  "They've been mainstreamed. That's why sightings are up: believing is seeing, if you should get my drift. But when you start talking with members of Zuppa De Peche—"

  "SESOUP."

  "Whatever—I bet you'll run into meshuggeners so far from the mainstream they're not even wet."

  "I can hardly wait." Jack glanced at his watch. "Look, I've got to be heading out to the Island. Can I borrow your truck?"

  "What's the matter with Ralph?"

  "Sold him."

  "No!" Abe seemed genuinely shocked. "But you loved that car."

  "I know." Jack had hated parting with his 1963 white Corvair convertible. "But I didn't have much choice. Ralph's become a real collector's item. Everywhere I took him people stopped and asked me about him, wanted to buy him. Don't need that kind of attention."

  "Too bad. All right, since you're in mourning, take the truck, but remember: she only likes high test."

  "That old V6?"

  Abe shrugged. "I shouldn't spoil my women?" He extracted the truck keys from his pocket and handed them to Jack as the bell on the shop's front jangled. A customer entered: a tanned, muscular guy with short blond hair.

  "Looks like a weekend warrior," Jack said.

  Abe returned Parabellum to his cage. "I'll get rid of him."

  "Don't bother. I've got to go."

  With obvious reluctance, Abe slid off the stool and left his sanctum behind the counter. He sounded bored as he approached the customer.

  "What overpriced recreational nonsense can I sell you today?"

  Jack headed for the door, holding up the truck keys as he passed Abe.

  Abe waved, then turned back to his customer. "Water skis? You want to spend your free time sliding on top of water? What on earth for? It's dangerous. And besides, you could hit a fish. Imagine the headache you'd cause the poor thing. A migraine should be half so bad ... "

  5

  The Incorporated Village of Shoreham sits on the north shore of Long Island a bit west of Rocky Point. All Jack knew about Shoreham was that it was the home of a multibillion-dollar nuclear power plant that had never ignited its reactor—one of the greatest boondoggles in the state's long history of boondoggles.

  And no doubt the subject of a number of conspiracy theories, Jack figured.

  After asking at a 7-Eleven along 25A, he found Lewis Ehler's street. Briarwood Road led north, twisting and turning into the hills bordering the Long Island Sound. Poorly paved and bouncy, but he guessed the residents liked it that way because the houses were big and well kept. All the lots were wooded, and the homes to his right perched on a rise overlooking the water. Between the houses and through the trees, Jack caught glimpses of the Sound. Connecticut was a darker line atop the horizon.

  He found the Ehler place and pulled into the gravel drive of an oversized ranch. The dark cedar shake siding and white trim and shutters blended with the budding oaks, maples, and birches surrounding the house. The landscaper had gone for a low-maintenance yard, substituting mulch and wood chips for grass. Perfectly trimmed rhodos and azaleas hugged the foundation; nothing ostentatious, but Jack knew from his teenage days as a landscaper's helper that everything here was first quality. A lot of money had been invested into this yard's "natural" look.

  Lew met him at the door and scanned the road running past the house.

  "Did you see anyone following you?"

  "No." Jack hadn't been looking, but he hadn't noticed anyone. "How about you?"

  "I thought I saw a black sedan a few times but ... " He shrugged and ushered Jack inside where he gave him an envelope stuffed with cash. Jack didn't count it.

  The interior had a lot of nautical touches—hurricane lamps, a big brass compass, fishnets and floats on the walls, all looking very staged.

  "I didn't particularly want to live way out here," Lew said as he showed Jack through the house. "It means a longer commute for me, but Mel said this was the place she really wanted to live, so ... this is where we live."

  The only non-decorator touches about the house were the paintings—dark, brooding abstractions on all the walls.

  "Really something, aren't they," Lew said.

  Jack nodded. "Who's the artist?"

  "Mel. She did them when she was a teenager."

  She must have been a real fun date, he thought, but said: "Impressive."

  "Aren't they? She's been getting back into it again, when she can steal time from her research."

  "And where does she do that?"

  "In her study. I'll show you," he said, leading Jack toward a spiral staircase. "She used the second bedroom for a while but all her reference materials pretty quickly outgrew that, so we converted the attic for her."

  Lew's short leg made for slow progress on the narrow treads, but finally they reached the top. Jack found himself in a long, low-ceilinged room running the length of the house; a beige computer desk near the staircase, a window at each end—an easel by the far window—four filing cabinets clustered in the center, and all the rest an enormous collection of paper—a Strandesque array of books, magazines, pamphlets, article excerpts and reprints, tear sheets, and flyers. The shelves lining every spare inch of wall space were crammed full; the tops of the filing cabinets were stacked at least a foot deep, and the rest was scattered in piles on the carpeted floor.

  "Her reference materials," Jack said softly, awed.

  He sniffed the air, heavy with the scent of aging paper. He loved that smell.

  "Yeah." Lew walked past one of the shelves, running a finger along the book spines. "Everything you could ever want to know about UFOs, alien abductions, the Bermuda Triangle, Satanism, telepathy, remote viewing, mind control, the CIA, the NSA, HAARP, the Illuminati, astral projection, channeling, levitation, clairvoyance, séances, tarot, reincarnation, astrology, the Loch Ness monster, the Bible, Kaballah, Velikovsky, crop circles, Tunguska—"

  "I get the picture," Jack said when Lew stopped for a breath. "All for her Grand Unification Theory."

  "Yes. You might say she's obsessed."

  Jack noted Lew's use of the present tense when he referred to his wife. A good sign.

  "I guess so. I was going to ask you what else she did with her time, but I guess we can skip that."

  "She was also into real estate for a while. Not that we needed the money, but she got her license and did a few deals."

  "I doubt that has anything to do with her disappearance."

  "Well, it might. She didn't do real estate the way most people do. She never gave me the details, but she did tell me her activities were related to her research."

  "Such as?"

  "Well, she'd buy a place herself—always in the developments along Randall Road on the south side of the highway. Then she'd hire some men to dig here and there around the yard, then resell it."

  "Did she tell you what she was loo
king for?"

  "She just said it was part of her research. And I couldn't complain much, because she usually resold the properties at a profit."

  One weird lady, Jack thought, looking around. And part pack rat, to boot. I'm supposed to find a clue to her whereabouts in this Library of Congress of the weird? Fat chance.

  Jack wandered down toward the far window. The Sound was visible through the bare branches of the trees. As he turned he caught a glimpse of the canvas on the easel, and it stopped him cold. This one made the grim paintings downstairs seem bright and cheery. He couldn't say why the seemingly random swirls of black and deep purple bothered him. The longer he stared at it, the more heightened the feeling that things were watching him from within the turbulent shadows. He gave into a sudden urge to touch its glistening surface. Cold and ...

  He pulled back. "It feels wet."

  "Yes," Lew said. "Some new paint Mel started using. Supposedly it never dries."

  "Never?" He checked his fingertips—no pigment on them, even though they still felt wet. "Never's an awful long time."

  He touched the surface again, in a different spot. Yes ... cold, wet, and—

  "Damn!" he said, jerking his hand away.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Must be something sharp in there," Jack said as he stared at the tips of his index and middle fingers.

  He didn't want to say that he'd felt sharp little points digging into them, like tiny teeth snapping at his flesh. But the skin was unbroken. Still felt wet, though.

  "Let me show you something on her computer," Lew said, heading for the desk.

  With a final glance into the hungry depths of the painting, Jack shook off a chill and followed Lew, still rubbing his moist fingertips.

  At the deck, Jack noticed a green and blue image of the earth spinning on the monitor screen; and as it spun, chunks began disappearing from its surface, as if some invisible being were gnawing at it. After the globe was completely devoured, the sequence looped back to the beginning.

  "Cheerful screen saver," Jack said.

  Mel programmed that herself."

  "Imagine that."

  "But here's what I wanted to show you," Lew said, fiddling with the mouse. The apple-core shaped remnant of the earth disappeared, replaced by a word processor directory. Lew opened a directory labeled GUT.