Bloodline

  “I don’t think I’m your man.”

  “If nothing else, maybe you can get my retainer back from the investigator I hired.” Out of the blue she sobbed. Once. The sound took Jack by surprise. He hadn’t seen it coming. “Please? I’m really, really worried about my little girl.”

  Her little girl…she might be eighteen, but he guessed your little girl was your little girl forever.

  Like Emma would have been.

  “Okay. We’ll meet. I’ll listen. But I’m not promising anything.”

  A sniff. “Thank you. Where? No offense, but I’ll feel safer if it’s a public place.”

  Jack laughed. “So will I. Where are you located?”

  “Queens. Forest Hills.”

  Fairly ritzy neighborhood.

  “That means it’s no big deal to get into the city.”

  “I’m in all the time.”

  He doubted he could help her, but he could hear her out and maybe point her in the right direction.

  “Can you make it in this afternoon?”

  He was testing. If she wouldn’t meet this afternoon, he’d know it wasn’t as important as she’d made it seem.

  “Sure. Tell me when and where.”

  Well, that settled that.

  “There’s this bar I know in the West Eighties…”

  5

  Jack stepped into the open door and knocked on the frame.

  “Doctor Buhmann?”

  He’d called ahead to make sure the professor would be in. The man glanced up from his desk.

  “Oh, yes. Mister…I must confess I’ve forgotten your surname.”

  Wrong. Jack had never told him.

  “Just Jack’ll do fine. How’re you doing?”

  Not well, if his appearance meant anything. He looked even thinner and sallower than on Jack’s December visit. And his office seemed even more cramped and claustrophobic. What courses had Abe taken from him in his Columbia days? How to Cram Amazing Amounts of Junk onto Shelves 101?

  The old man waggled his hand. “So-so. No use complaining.” His wrinkle-caged gaze was fixed on the plastic shopping bag dangling from Jack’s hand. “You said you had something to show me?”

  “Remember that mythical book you told me about?”

  He licked his lips. “The Compendium of Srem. Don’t tell me…”

  “Before we go any further, we need to agree on some ground rules.”

  “Conditions? Yes-yes. Anything, anything.” He reached toward the bag. “Just let me—”

  “First condition: Not a word of this to anyone.”

  “You want to keep your ownership a secret? Yes, of course. I can understand that. The means by which antiquities change hands can at times be—how shall I say it?—controversial. I assure you, your name—which I don’t even know—will not be connected with it.”

  He thinks I stole it, Jack thought.

  Well, in a way he had.

  “No. When I say not a word, I mean just that: You speak to no one about this. No one is to know the book exists. It remains a myth.”

  The professor looked shocked. “That is much to ask. I cannot even speak of what I’ve seen?”

  “I’m doing this as a favor to Abe because of his high regard for you, and as payback for your giving me a little guidance when I needed it.”

  The Compendium had helped save Vicky from…what? He still didn’t know exactly. But he did know that if not for this book she’d be gone now.

  “Then surely you can allow me to lord it over my colleagues that I’ve touched something they’ve denied existed, seen something they haven’t and most likely never will.”

  “And when you can’t produce it, they’ll think you’re either going senile or you’ve lost your mind.”

  “Yes, I suppose they will.”

  “And then, to defend your reputation, you’ll tell them about the guy who brought it to your office. And maybe someone will believe you. And maybe I’m on a security tape entering and leaving the building. And maybe someone will start looking for me.”

  Jack had honed his skills at spotting security cameras. When he couldn’t avoid them, he’d wear a baseball cap—today’s was emblazoned with the Mets’ orange NY—and kept the peak low over his face.

  But no tactic worked one hundred percent. If one of Buhmann’s younger, aggressive colleagues knew Jack’s face and went looking for the Compendium…

  Jack lived not far from here. What if the guy got lucky and spotted him on the street and followed him home?

  No thanks.

  “You’re a very cautious young man. I might hazard to say overly cautious.”

  Jack smiled. “You wouldn’t be the first to say that.”

  Buhmann sighed. “Very well. I will go to my grave without uttering a word about what you’re going to show me.”

  Jack thrust out his right hand. “I have your word on that?”

  The professor gripped it. His skin was dry and papery.

  “My word as a gentleman and a scholar.” He blinked at Jack. “Now, may I please see what’s in that sack?”

  Jack pulled the thick volume from the bag and, despite the care he took, its weight made a thunk as it settled on the desktop.

  “Here you go. A real, live myth.”

  Buhmann sat and stared, saying nothing. Jack stared too, watching as the doodles embossed on the metallic cover blurred and shifted into the word Compendium in large ornate letters; below that, smaller, the word Srem.

  Buhmann looked up at him as if to say, Did you see that?

  Jack nodded. “It gets better. Open it.”

  The old man’s gnarled fingers trembled as he lifted the cover. He froze, blinking as the squiggles on the first page morphed into words.

  “Incredible.”

  “Yeah. I know. You don’t expect something this old to be in modern-day English.”

  “If this is truly the Compendium of Srem, English wasn’t even a language when it was written.”

  Back in December the prof had given him a crash course in the legends surrounding the ancient book: Written in the First Age, filled with the lore of a civilization predating known history, and virtually indestructible. Legend had it that Grand Inquisitor Torquemada had consigned it to the flames as heretical and blasphemous. And when it wouldn’t burn he ordered it hacked to pieces. And when axes and swords failed to get the job done, he buried it in a deep pit in Avila and built the Monastery of St. Thomas over the spot and lived there until his death.

  Jack had found all that pretty hard to swallow. Even harder had been the legend that its text conformed to the native language of the reader.

  The Compendium hadn’t stayed buried. Somehow it fell into the hands of a globe-spanning cult. And from there, into Jack’s.

  He’d soon learned that all the tales were true.

  Buhmann stared at Jack; tears rimmed his eyes. “It’s in German! I…I was born in Vienna and came here when I was ten. English has been my language for over seventy years, but I grew up speaking German. What language do you see?”

  Jack knew the answer but took a look, just to be sure.

  “English.”

  The prof turned back to the book and began leafing through it.

  “Does it list, as I told you, the Seven Infernals?”

  “It do.”

  “And the Lilitongue of Gefreda? Did you find it?”

  “I did.”

  His head shot up. “No! You did? Where is it? I must see—”

  “Gone. And don’t ask where because I don’t know.” He pointed to the book. “You’ll even find an animated page in there.”

  Jack hadn’t been through the whole book. It seemed to have far more pages than even its size would account for, and little of what he’d read made much sense. At least not to him.

  The prof fixed his gaze on Jack. “Can we try a little experiment?”

  Wary, Jack said, “Like what?”

  “I want to see what happens when I photocopy a page. We have a copier just do
wn the hall.”

  Though not crazy about the possibility of someone in the hall spotting the book and asking about it, Jack decided he’d like to see that too.

  “Okay. But let’s not make a production out of it. Down the hall and back, lickety-split.”

  Buhmann rose and, with the book clutched against his chest like a child’s teddy bear, led the way into the hall. He nodded and smiled and said hello to a Maggie and a Ronnie, who looked like secretaries, and to a Marty whose mop identified him as a janitor.

  When they reached the copier, the prof looked all around to make sure no one was near—in the process making himself look either sneaky or guilty or both—then opened the Compendium to a random page, pressed it against the glass, and hit the button. As the light bar made its transit, Buhmann did another three-sixty scan of his surroundings. Jack looked at the ceiling to keep from laughing.

  The prof pulled the copy from the tray. After giving it a quick once-over he pumped his fist in the air.

  “Yes! Yes!”

  A few seconds later they were back in his office. Buhmann’s hand shook like he had Parkinson’s.

  “Look! The translating property—it doesn’t work with a machine. What you’re seeing here is the handwriting of the original author.”

  Jack stared at the vaguely glyphic squiggles.

  “Srem?”

  The prof shrugged. “We don’t know anything about Srem—does the word refer to a man, a group, a location? Who knows? But what we’re looking at here is a language of the First Age.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve studied languages all my adult life. There is no known human language that even approximates this.” He looked at Jack. “And I can’t tell a soul?”

  Jack took the sheet and ripped it in half, then in quarters, then stuffed the pieces in a pocket.

  “Not a soul. Eyes only, remember?”

  The prof heaved a sigh. “Very well. How long do I have to study it?”

  Jack glanced at his watch. He’d arranged to meet Christy P. at two. He could get that done, then be back here by four.

  “I can give you a couple-three hours.”

  Doc Buhmann’s eyes widened. “Hours? I was talking weeks!”

  Should have known. No good deed goes unpunished.

  “Hey, prof, the idea was just to let you have a peek. According to Abe, all you wanted was one look before you passed on to meet the Great Curator in the sky. Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes…yes, I suppose I did. But this is the find of a lifetime.”

  “We’re not going to argue, are we?” Jack reached for the book. “Because in that case—”

  The prof’s hands hovered protectively over the book.

  “All right, all right! A few hours it is. Which means I haven’t a moment to waste.”

  He sat, turned his back to Jack, and began flipping pages.

  “Remember,” Jack said. “The book stays right here. No sharing, no photocopying. Agreed?”

  The prof fluttered a hand at him without looking up. “Yes-yes. Agreed. Now allow me some peace and quiet, please. I must make every minute count.”

  Jack stepped to the door, then hesitated. He looked back. Was he going to regret this? He did owe the guy, but would this little kindness come back to haunt him?

  Or was he being too much of a tight ass? How much could it hurt to lend him the damn book for a week or two? Jack wasn’t doing anything with it. It was just taking up space in his apartment.

  He shook his head. Too risky. He didn’t know what was in the weird book, and someone might find something they could put to use in a bad way.

  A couple of hours…he’d give the old man a couple of hours, but that was it.

  6

  Like Abe’s shop, Julio’s bar was another constant star in the chaotic firmament of Jack’s life. The dead potted ferns and such still hung in the window; Lou and Barney still stood at the short curved bar, keeping it from tipping over; the dim interior carried the familiar tang of tobacco smoke and spilled beer; and the FREE BEER TOMORROW…sign still hung over the stacked liquor bottles.

  Lou looked up, ready to stamp out his cigarette if he saw a stranger.

  “It’s okay,” he announced to the other smokers. “Just Jack.”

  Julio let the regulars smoke when only other regulars were around. The anti-smoking laws pissed him off: If people didn’t like a smoky atmosphere they could go to one of the bars down the street. But he wasn’t stupid—all it took for a big fine and maybe license problems was one phone call from a stranger who’d stopped in for a taste and encountered fog.

  “‘Just Jack’? That’s a helluva welcome.”

  Lou wore dusty work pants and a denim jacket. He flashed a gap-toothed smile and raised a pinky.

  “For a second there I mistook you for some panty-wearing yuppie dropping by for a glahss of shah-doe-nay.”

  Jack raised a menacing fist. “You’re cruisin’, Louie.”

  Lou laughed and turned back to the bar. Jack continued on to his usual table against the rear wall. From behind the bar Julio raised his hands: a coffeepot in one, a green bottle in the other. Jack pointed to the Yuengling lager. Used to be Julio would hold up a Rolling Rock but Jack had abandoned the brand after Anheuser-Busch bought it and closed the old Latrobe brewery. The American beer wars: If a smaller competitor is making a better beer, don’t try to outdo them, just buy them and shut them down.

  Up yours, Budweiser.

  As Jack was settling himself with his back against the wall, Julio arrived with the Yuengling. A short man whose bulging muscles filled out his white Flying Spaghetti Monster T-shirt, Julio sported a pencil-line mustache and another of his awful colognes.

  Jack sniffed and made a face. “What is it this time? Perfume de Muerte?”

  “It’s called Aztec God. Great, huh?”

  “Swell. Look, I’m expecting a customer in about ten—”

  “Really?” Julio broke into a grin. “You getting back into business? Tha’s great, meng!”

  Jack realized he shouldn’t have said “customer.” He was pretty sure she wasn’t going to be one.

  “We’re just going to talk.”

  “Yeah, but tha’s how it always starts. Pretty soon you gonna be fixin’ stuff again.”

  Maybe, maybe not.

  Impending fatherhood had placed Jack in a position where he couldn’t see much choice but to ascend from underground and put himself on the world’s radar. Abe had set up a new identity for him and Jack had gone as far as taking the first step toward becoming a citizen when the hit-and-run changed everything.

  With Emma’s death the need for a new identity had lost its urgency and he saw little use in pursuing it. Easier to stay where he was…out of sight and out of his mind.

  “We’ll see.”

  As Julio headed back to the bar, a well-dressed blonde stepped through the door and froze, wrinkling her nose. Jack saw Lou stub out his butt and hide the ashtray under the bar. Julio spotted her and veered in her direction. A few whispered words and then he was leading her back toward Jack.

  “Someone here to see you,” he said as they stopped before the table.

  Jack rose and offered his hand.

  “Christy? Jack.”

  She took his hand gingerly and gave it a squeeze.

  Julio said, “You want beer? Wine? Coffee?”

  She looked the cosmo type, and like she wanted one, but she shook her head.

  “No, thank you.”

  Jack indicated the opposite chair. “Have a seat.”

  She sat—gingerly. She rested her handbag on the table—gingerly. She touched the tabletop—gingerly.

  Jack hid a smile. The furniture did tend to be a little sticky and Miss Priss had probably never been in a workingman’s bar.

  He gave her a quick once-over. He didn’t know much about women’s clothes, but her light blue skirt and jacket looked pricey. So did the semi-sheer white blouse beneath. No question abo
ut the diamond rings and bracelets: the real thing. She wasn’t dressing for success; this was the way success dressed.

  She wore her bobbed, ash-blond hair—not the real thing, like Gia’s—parted in the middle, and had eyes almost as blue as Gia’s. Maybe she had a nice smile, but Jack couldn’t tell. Right now she looked tired and grim.

  “Usually places on the Upper West Side are…” She seemed to be searching for a word.

  “Nicer? Julio’s is a holdover from the times when you came to this neighborhood to save on rent.” He sipped from his Yuengling. “Sure you wouldn’t like a drink?”

  Her expression stayed tight. “I’d love one—I’m a Diet Pepsi addict—but I’m not sure my immunizations are up to date.”

  Oooh, a regular Margaret Cho.

  “Okay. You wanted to talk. The floor is yours.”

  She leaned back, looking even more tired.

  “Where to begin? Dawn’s a good kid. Turned eighteen in March, graduates Benedictine Academy next month with honors.”

  “B-A, huh? Must be smart.”

  “Great academic smarts—though you’d never guess it by the way she speaks—but no common sense, apparently. She’s been accepted to Colgate. She’s got a wonderful future ahead of her, and then this son of a bitch comes along and…” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  Jack shrugged. “Don’t be. Tell me about him. When did he come along?”

  “Right after the first of the year. Started showing up at the Tower Diner where Dawn works.”

  “The Tower Diner?” Jack knew a lot of diners but not the Tower. “Where’s that?”

  “Queens Boulevard in Rego Park. Close to home.”

  “No offense, but you don’t look the diner type.”

  She leaned forward and tapped her index finger on the tabletop.

  “I grew up waitressing in diners and Waffle Houses and IHOPs and God knows where else. Nothing wrong with the Tower, and nothing wrong with waiting tables there. It’s good for a kid to have a job. Teaches them what the real world’s like. Lets them see what kind of hole their government leaves in their check every week. And waiting tables sharpens your people skills.”