F. Paul Wilson: Bloodline

"Nowhere else to go."

"And on me you chose to bestow your presence."

"I figured you'd be lonely."

"So this is charity?"

"It is." He emptied the bag onto the counter. "And so's this."

Abe picked up the package of bagels and stared. His raised eyebrows furrowed his largely naked scalp—his hairline had started retreating with the glaciers.

"What's this? Low-cal bagels you bring me? What's a low-cal bagel? And whipped low-fat cream cheese? Why do you torture me?"

Jack ignored the question because Abe already knew the answer: His ever-expanding waistline concerned Jack. Not for aesthetic reasons—a skinny Abe would be a frightening sight—but he worried it would shorten his best friend's life.

"Have you weighed yourself recently?"

"I was on the scale just yesterday."

"And? What did it say?"

"1 couldn't see it. My belly was in the way. They should design these things so people like me can read them."

"Come on, Abe. If it could speak it would have screamed in pain."

Abe sighed. "I did see the number. Very high."

"As much as one of the moons of Jupiter, I'll bet."

"When I read it, I had to face an inescapable fact."

"That you need to diet, right?"

"No. That I need a new scale. My old one is obviously broken."

Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. "You sucked me right into that one, didn't you."

"What can I say? I'm shameless."

"Why do I even try? Next time I'll stop at Muller's on the way."

Abe grinned. "An elephant ear you'll bring me, right?"

"Right. Maybe we're due for some comfort food."

"'We'?"

"Had that dream again last night."

"Oh." Abe opened the bagel package, adding, "It could be maybe you'll keep on having it until you tell her."

That startled Jack. Could it be? No…

"Doesn't explain the watcher and how he seems to trigger the dream. But I fully intend to tell her the whole story. I just need the right moment, the right circumstance."

He'd been searching for that moment and circumstance for months now. Was it simply cowardice?

"You're afraid of her reaction?"

"You think I should be?"

"I don't know. A terrible thing was done to her—to both of you, and Vicky as well. You're not to blame, but…"

Yeah… but. His only blame was loving her, but would she see it that way?

"She's lost her baby and almost robbed of her livelihood. She's having a hard enough time accepting those losses—and that's while believing herself the victim of a terrible accident. So how the hell is she going to handle know-ing…?"

Abe stared at him. "The truth?"

"Yeah. The truth: That the hit-and-run was intentional, and not simply to hurt her, but to kill her and the baby simply because of their connection to me, because they mean something to me." Something, hell—everything. "What's that going to accomplish besides causing more pain, and more fear?"

"II truth she wants, truth she should have. The longer you wait, the harder it will be when this right moment you mention comes—if it ever does. Maybe it's come and gone already."

Maybe it had.

"She's improving, getting closer and closer to where she'll be able to paint and illustrate again. Once she can do that she'll feel she's able to exert a little more control over her life."

"Why? She should be different from everybody else?"

"I hear that."

Jack polished off his bagel and grabbed Abe's copy of the Post . He flipped through it in silence while Abe studied Newsday .

"Here's something," Abe said. "A fellow named Walter Erskine died in Monroe Hospital the other night."

Jack frowned. "So?"

"Says he's survived by his sister, Evelyn Bainbridge, of Johnson, New Jersey. Your hometown already."

It hit with a flash. "Crazy Walt! He lasted this long? I thought he would've boozed himself to death long before now." He shook his head. "Harmless guy, but nutty as a Payday."

"Says he's going to be buried in Arlington."

"Yeah, he was a vet. Medic in Nam, if I remember."

Too bad. He had fond memories of Crazy Walt, and unaccountably warm feelings for him… a vague recollection of Walt saving his life as a kid. Or maybe not. Kind of a blur. So many things from back then were blurred.

Rest in peace, Walt. You sure didn't have much when you were alive.

After a while Abe said, "Oh, I got a call last night from Doc Buhmann."

"Who?"

The name rang a bell but Jack couldn't place it.

"My old professor. I sent you to him when that Lilitongue thing was causing all that trouble."

"Right, right. The guy from the museum."

Peter Buhmann, Ph.D., associate conservator of languages in the division of anthropology at the Museum of Natural History, professor emeritus at the Columbia University Department of Archaeology. Blah-blah-blah. They'd met only once, briefly, at his office in the museum.

"How's he doing?"

"Well enough. Getting ready to retire to Florida come the end of the year. He was asking about you."

"Me? Why?"

"Since he met you he can't stop thinking about the Compendium ofSrem ."

"Oh?" Jack felt a prickle of unease across his nape. "Why is that?"

"Something about you intrigued him, he says. A scholar you weren't, yet you were asking about legends only scholars—and damn few of them—have even heard of."

"I guess I neglected to mention that my interest was personal and my knowledge firsthand."

"Yeah, but he sensed something, a feeling that you were speaking from experience. He wants to know if you ever found the Lilitongue or the Compendium ."

Jack knew Abe was the soul of discretion, but Buhmann was one of his revered professors from college. He might have said more than he should have.

"What did you tell him?"

Abe shrugged. "What else? I said I'd ask."

Jack's small lift of relief annoyed him. Should have known better. But the last thing he needed was a bunch of academics sniffing around, looking for him and whatever he might have found.

"Tell him I've got zorch."

"Lie to that old man? He hasn't got long to live, you know."

"What's wrong with him?"

"I should ask? But he told me he didn't have too long left, and how he'd go to his grave happy if he could see the Lilitongue of Gefreda or the Compendium ofSrem before he died."

"Well, I can't help him with the Lilitongue—no one can—and as for the Compendium …" Jack shook his head. "Probably best if I keep that under wraps."

"From an old and fading man you're hiding it? Isn't he the one who put you on to the Compendium ? As I recall, if you hadn't found it, you never would have known how to—"

Jack held up his hand. "Point taken." He scratched his jaw. "You think he can keep his mouth shut?"

"Like a clam, he'll be. Like a stone. He just wants to see it, touch it maybe. This is for him, not for posterity."

Jack considered. He did owe the old man…

"All right then. Maybe I'll drop in on him this afternoon and let him have a peek."

Abe clapped his pudgy hands and grinned.

"Excellent. This is a mitzvah you do. You won't regret it."

Jack hated when people said that.

4

Jack stepped into his apartment and sniffed. The air carried a musty tang. Not all that unusual after being closed up for a while. The old wood and old varnish on his Victorian wavy oak furniture gave off subtle but pleasant odors. The must came from the other junk arrayed on the walls—treasure in his eyes, though most other people would consider it junk. Or maybe junque .

He jammed his finger into the soil in the pink Shmoo planter as he passed. Nothing stuck. The little ivy plant was thirsty. Had to remember to add water before he left. He glanced at the framed official membership certificates in The Shadow and Doc Savage fan clubs and straightened the Don Winslow Creed on his way to the oak secretary.