F. Paul Wilson - Infernal

He felt as if fate—or something—was plotting against him. Was this all part of a plan? He tried to repress the paranoia that this whole situation was a setup. His father's death, Tom's intrusion into his life, the Lilitongue, the Stain… had they all been part of some elaborate plan to take him out of the picture?

Was the Otherness after him?

If not, then who? Or what?

He finished his war dance of kicking the car, kicking stones, kicking at the underbrush, then stood panting, his breath streaming in the cold air. He was bare to the waist but didn't care. Being cold was the least of his worries.

What now? What was he going to do with Joey?

And how was he going to get home? Couldn't drive—after the Center shootout every cop in North Jersey would be on the lookout for an old Grand Am. Especially at the bridges and tunnels. Sure as hell couldn't walk. Couldn't even hitchhike—sure way to get stopped and asked a lot of questions he couldn't answer.

He had to get home. Every minute here was a minute subtracted from his time with Gia and Vicky.

Have to do what he'd done at La Guardia: Call Abe.

He looked up at the rumbling roadway overhead. But first he'd have to find out where he was.

He stripped off the bloody coverall and replaced it with the flannel shirt and jeans. He popped the trunk, removed his leather jacket, shrugged into it.

Then he began the steep climb up to the highway, fighting his way through the brush and a thicket of ailanthus trunks.

At the top he crouched behind the guardrail and looked around. Ten feet away he spotted a big red 80 on a blue background.

Okay. He'd figured that. Now… where on 80?

Traffic wasn't heavy so he risked standing during a gap and looking around. About a quarter mile ahead he saw a green-and-white sign for Exit 60.

Okay.

He crouched again, pulled out his Tracfone, and punched Abe's number.

"Isher Sports," said a bored voice.

"Abe, it's me and I need a ride."

"Another ride you need? What happened this time?"

"I'll explain it all when you get here."

"And this 'here' is where?"

"Jersey."

" Gevalt ! You want I should leave civilization and venture into the hinterlands just because your car breaks down?"

With effort Jack stifled a shout and kept his voice even. "Look, Abe. I need your help and I need it now. I haven't much time left."

"Oy, you're right. Where do I find you?"

"Go over the GW and get on Route Eighty west. When you come to exit sixty, take it and wait for me near the bottom of the ramp."

"Eighty, sixty, got it. How long this should take?"

"Thirty minutes to an hour. All depends on traffic. Call me when you hit the highway."

"The keys I'm grabbing as we speak."

"Thanks."

Jack cut the connection and started back down the slope toward the river. From the look of the traffic, at least here in Jersey, Abe would probably make good time. Which meant Jack had to hurry.

He had some things that needed doing before he fled the scene, as it were.

9

-13:59

"I know you can't hear me, Joey, but I'm going to say this anyway." Jack had carried Joey's body from the car and laid it gently on the ground in an open area maybe twenty feet away. Nobody finding the car could miss Joey. Jack had straightened the body, positioning it perpendicular to the river, feet toward the water.

He felt a gnawing guilt about leaving a fellow combatant here like this, but what could he do?

He folded Joey's arms across his chest in the classic casket pose "Wish I could take you back with me. You know I would if I could, but it's not in the cards. So I'm leaving you here with as much dignity as I can. You always liked to look good, and this way you'll look good in the crime scene photos. Almost classy."

Except for the bloodstains, of course.

"I have to leave you here but you won't be alone for long. Don't worry about becoming a buffet for whatever animals are around. None of them will have a chance to get near you, let alone chew on you. I'll see to that."

He adjusted Joey's bloody jacket, straightened his pant legs so that the cuffs reached his ankles, then squatted next to him.

"You weren't a model citizen, Joey, but you were a good guy. The marks couldn't believe a word you said but you were always square with your friends. Brave too, risking everything to do right by your brother. You have my respect. If you hadn't been standing between me and the shooter, our places might be reversed right now."

An unbidden thought: And if you'd planned this better and been more careful searching the back rooms, we'd both be having a drink at Julio's right now. Jack pushed it away.

"I need just one thing from you."

He reached into Joey's jacket pocket and removed his butane lighter, then he rose to his feet.

"Someone will be coming for you soon."

He walked back to the Grand Am and picked up his coverall from where he'd dropped it. He used his knife to cut a three-foot strip from the leg, then tossed the rest into the car. He opened the gas tank door, unscrewed the cap, and snaked the cloth down as far as it would go. Then he pulled it out, reversed it, and snaked the other end inside. He left three or four inches of gas-soaked twill hanging from the port.

Firing the car would serve two purposes. First—destroy a lot of evidence. Jack hadn't taken his gloves off since he'd left his apartment, so he wasn't worried about prints. But trace evidence was tricky. Couldn't hurt to incinerate it.

The second was to bring the cops running so they could find Joey's body before any dogs got to it. No way Joey wouldn't be tied to the attack on the Center—Jack could already see the Post's MUSLIM MASSACRE!, headline—but this way his body would be returned to his family intact.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket: Abe.

"I'm at exit sixty-seven."

"How's the traffic?"

"I'm doing sixty-five."

"Okay. Bottom of the sixty off ramp."

"You should look for the usual vehicle."

That meant Abe's van.

"Will do. See you soon."

Jack grabbed his backpack, then pulled Joey's lighter from a pocket.

He flicked it and touched the flame to the free end of the coverall strip. As fire danced up its length and into the port, Jack trotted for the incline to the highway. He was about halfway up when the tank blew. He didn't look back. He reached the top and, keeping low, followed the guardrail toward the exit ramp.

10

-13:14

"Keep an eye on them for me?"

Abe shook his head. "I can't—I won't believe this is happening. A joke you're pulling, right? You should be honest with your old friend who's known you since you were a yungatsh and tell him that you've made all this up. Listen to that old friend tell you that if this should be a joke then it's a terrible one and he'll never speak to you again."

They sat in Abe's van where he'd double-parked outside Jack's place. After a couple of fitful, abortive attempts at their usual banter, talk had died. Jack found the silence awkward. He and Abe always had something to say to each other.

"No joke, Abe."

"Must be. Has to be. A world without Repairman Jack? Feh!"

How many years since Abe had given him that name? Jack didn't bother counting. Whatever the number, it wasn't enough.

"But you will look after my ladies while I'm gone, right?"

"While you're gone—that I like. It means you're coming back."

"Count on it."

"I will. I won't sit shiva then."

Although he didn't know where he'd be going, even if it was to an alternate reality, Jack had this unreasonable conviction that he'd be able to find his way home. Of course if the Lilitongue dumped him in outer space, that would be a different story: He'd be a flash-frozen fleshsicle in a heartbeat.