F. Paul Wilson: Infernal

As Jack left, he hoped he'd be able to keep that promise.

10

Jack sat in the cluttered front room of his apartment. Still numb, he hadn't tuned on the lights. He sat in the dark with the glowing touchpad of his phone providing the only illumination. He started his calls.

The one-hundred-and-fifteenth precinct came first. A woman there told him they didn't have any information yet on how relatives could claim the bodies of the deceased. The victims were being IDed and examined, and then they'd be released.

"Was your loved one with the Hasidic group?" she said.

"No. Why?"

"Well, there's a lot of religious concerns on their part."

"Like what?"

"Like burying the body before sundown and—"

"That's long past."

"I know, but there are issues about icing the bodies down and—well, it's been very trying to say the least."

"I'll bet."

"We've got assemblymen and congressmen and city council members calling, pushing to expedite matters and—"

"What? Their dead are more important than my father?" Jack could feel a quick burn accelerating. His rage wanted a target—any target. "Like hell!"

"I'm sorry, sir. Please call tomorrow morning. The post mortems should be completed and we'll have a procedure in place by then. Thank you. Good-bye."

Jack found himself holding a dead phone.

After taking a few moments to cool, he called Kate's ex, praying Ron would answer instead of one of the kids. Jack had never met his niece and nephew, never even spoken to them, and didn't want to start now. Kevin and Lizzie had lost their mother earlier this year; he hated being the one to tell them their grandfather was gone too.

Jack freely copped to cowardice in this.

Ron answered. It took Jack's ex-brother-in-law a moment to figure out who he was. He took it hard, asking over and over how he was going to tell Lizzie. Jack promised to get back to him with the funeral arrangements.

"Oh?" his brother-in-law said in an acid-etched tone. "You're going to show up this time?"

Jack hadn't been able to attend his sister Kate's funeral. Forced to stay away for reasons he couldn't explain to them.

"Ron," Jack said, feeling a lead weight in his chest, "you don't know me, so I'll let that pass. But if you had any idea of how much I loved Kate, you'd know that I would have been there if at all possible. Talk to you soon."

And then he'd hung up.

God. Two tough calls. And now the last and possibly least: big brother Tom.

After half a dozen rings and no pickup or answering machine, Jack was about to hang up when a slurred voice came on.

"Tom?"

"Yeah. Who's this?"

"Your brother Jack."

"Oh-ho! Jackie, the prodigal brother. And to what do I owe this honor?"

"You been drinking?"

"What business of it is yours?"

Yep, he'd been drinking. Probably not a bad thing, considering what he was about to hear.

"None. You sitting down?"

"I'm lying down—you woke me up. I hope this is fucking important."

"Dad's dead."

A good ten, fifteen seconds of silence, then, "You're not bullshitting me?"

"You know better than to ask that."

"Jesus, when? What? Heart attack? Hit by another car? What ?"

When Jack told him, the ensuing silence stretched even longer.

"Holy Christ. I knew he was swinging by to see you but I didn't know when… never dreamed he was on that flight. This is unbelievable!"

"Tell me about it. I was there and I still don't believe it. When can you get here? We need to claim the body."

"Can't you do that?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

Because I can't even prove I'm related, let alone his son.

"Can't explain. Just get here. I don't want him on a slab in the morgue any longer than necessary."

"Shit-shit-shit! Goddamn it! All right, I'll come up. But the earliest I can get there is tomorrow afternoon, if then."

"Christ, Tom—"

His voice jumped in volume. "That's it, okay? I've got things coming at me from all sides here, and it's going to take me a while to cut myself free. Tomorrow afternoon's the best I can do. And since you, for God knows whatever reason, can't seem to handle this on your own, you're just going to have to wait!"

He was nearly shouting by the time he finished.

"Fine," Jack said softly. "I'll give you my number. Call me before you get here and I'll meet you."

He gave Tom his Tracfone number and hung up.

He leaned back and rubbed his eyes.

What was up with Tom? His brother had always been self-centered. No matter what happened, good or bad, his first reaction had always been, How does this affect me? But this seemed to go beyond that.

Jack sensed it was more than just the pressure of being a judge in a city like Philly. Another divorce? That would make three. Or was it something more serious?

Whatever it was, this was more important. He had to put everything else aside for a few days and tend to this.

Jack so wished he could handle this, but that was impossible. He needed Tom.

And he hated needing Tom.

11

"Don't wait up for me," he told Gia.

"You're not coming back?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh, Jack…"

The hurt and worry in her voice scalded him.

"I'm sorry. It's just—"

"But we discussed this. You shouldn't be alone tonight."

"Yeah, I should."

"Jack—"

"Really, Gia, I'm okay. I'm just better off alone with this. I'm edgy and the truth is, I don't think I can sit still. I need to be up and about… need to move around."

"Move around how?"

"Take a walk, maybe a jog. Something to burn off this…"

He didn't have a name for it.

"Don't shut me out, Jack."

"I'm not. I swear I'm not. I'll be there early tomorrow. I'll spend the whole day with you. But tonight… I need to move."

"All right. I don't think it's a good idea, but I can tell I'm not going to change your mind. Be careful. Please?"

"I will. I promise."

"I love you, Jack."

"Love you too, Gi."

12

Jack ambled in a slow jog along the most poorly lit paths in Central Park. He made a point of cutting through dark groves of naked trees as he moved between paths, hoping— praying —someone would make a move on him.

God, he needed to let loose on somebody. It would feel sooo good to fire his rage laser and crisp some asshole.

But something about him must have sent out warning signals, because no one bothered him. No one even spoke to him.

Figured. You could never find a dirtbag when you needed one.

TUESDAY

1

As Jack pushed through the front door of the Isher Sports Shop he realized he was arriving empty-handed. He always brought something to eat. Today he'd forgotten.

So be it. Abe would survive.

He walked toward the rear.

If Set, the Egyptian God of Chaos, had been a sports nut, his temples would have resembled Abe's shop. Every size and shape ball imaginable plus the various instruments used to strike them, every wheeled contraption that could be sat or stood upon, plus a wide array of cocooning safety gear necessary to protect the users from grievous bodily harm during their pursuit of "fun," all tossed with utter disregard for coherence or continuity onto rows of eight-foot shelves teetering over narrow winding aisles laid out in a pattern to rival the Wiltshire hedge maze.

The man responsible, Jack's best and oldest friend, sat in his usual spot behind the scarred wooden counter near the rear. A few years shy of sixty, Abe Grossman had a Humpty-Dumpty shape and a balding crown. He was dressed in the Abe uniform of white—except for the food stains—half-sleeve shirt and black pants. And as usual, the morning editions of every daily newspaper in the city lay spread out on his counter.