F. Paul Wilson - Infernal

"As for watching over Gia and Vicky, I'll do what I can while you're away. But the type of woman who wants or needs watching over, Gia isn't."

"I know. She's a self-starter and self-sufficient, but she isn't quite as tough as she thinks or likes people to think. So look in on them for me, okay?"

"Of course. But who's going to look in on me? Who's going to tshepe me about my diet and my waistline while at the very same time bringing me Krispy Kremes? Who am I going to eat breakfast with? Who's going to worry about me…?"

Abe's voice trailed off.

Jack heard a sniff and turned toward him. The glow from a street lamp reflected off the moisture puddled on his lower eyelids.

"Abe?"

Nu , this is why you were always utzing me to worry about my heart? This is why you said I should take better care of it? Just so you could break it?"

The words choked off.

Jack felt his own throat constrict. This man had helped him become what he was. It tore Jack up to see Abe this way. He grabbed a pudgy hand and squeezed.

"I'll be back. I promise."

Abe shook his head and spoke, his voice thick. "So you say, but I have a feeling this is something even Repairman Jack can't fix."

Jack didn't admit that he had the same feeling.

Abe let out a shaky sigh.

"So, you want I should drop you off at Gia's?"

"Thanks, no. I've got a little something I have to take care of here first." He squeezed Abe's hand again. "See you soon. And work on that waistline while I'm gone."

"Who can eat?"

Feeling like he'd just cut off an arm, Jack grabbed his backpack and jumped out. He slammed the door and slapped the side panel. The truck lurched into motion. He watched it move off and disappear around a corner.

Jack turned and headed up the steps.

11

-13:06

The sound of the door roused Tom from semislumber. He'd been slumped before the TV, watching the end of the six o'clock news on some local channel and just beginning to nod off when a reporter broke in and started yammering about a bunch of Islamics blown away in New Jersey—as if anyone gave a damn.

Jack walked in with a backpack over one shoulder. He looked like Tom felt.

Tom rose and stepped into the front room.

"Hey, bro. Anything new on the Lilitongue front?"

Jack shook his head and stared at him. "I haven't been able to turn up a thing. As you can see…"

He undid a few buttons on his plaid shirt and spread the edges. Tom repressed a gasp when he saw how close the Stain's edges had grown.

"Oh, shit."

"How about you, bro? Jack said, putting an edge on the word as he redid the buttons. "Been pounding the pavement and scouring the Internet to see how you might undo this?"

Tom knew he hadn't done shit. But then, what could he do? What could anyone do against a faceless, mindless… thing ?

He pointed to the closed door to Jack's bedroom. "It's still in there. Hasn't budged." He spread his hands. "I'm as helpless as everybody else."

After a long stare Jack said, "Want to make yourself useful?"

"Sure. Anything."

"Then follow me."

First stop was the kitchen where Jack pulled a pistol and a Tupperware container from the backpack and laid them on the counter.

Tom pointed to the container. "Is that the—?"

"Stain remover? Yeah."

Feeling his brother's eyes boring into him, Tom kept his head down.

Jack knew neither Tom nor anyone else could trade places with him. So why the look?

Besides, Jack was where he was by choice.

Or was he? Maybe he'd seen no choice, been unable to imagine any other course of action when the Stain moved to Gia. Just as Gia had had no choice when she'd learned she could remove the Stain from her daughter.

And Vicky had acquired the Stain because he'd brought the Lilitongue into her world.

He heard Gia's voice…

Why couldn't you have left that thing where you found it?

All his fault…

He wished he could undo it all, but what was done was done. And he'd been relieved to hear that the Stain could be taken only twice. If not, Jack would think it only right that Tom complete the circle.

Not fair. No one had the right to ask that of him or anybody else.

Jack handed him the empty backpack and a flashlight and said, "Follow me."

Tom did—straight to the closet next to the bathroom.

Taking orders, following a few feet behind… somewhere along the way he'd become Little Brother and Jack Big Brother. How had that happened?

When Jack opened the door a faint odor of cedar wafted out. He watched Jack kneel on the closet floor and pop a piece of molding loose from the base of its left side wall. He slid this back along the floor, then pulled on the cedar plank directly above it. When this came free he slid it back beside the molding.

"Shine that light in here."

Tom aimed the flashlight over Jack's shoulder and into the opening. He saw insulated pipes—most likely to the bathroom—but what strange insulation. It looked… decorated. Each pipe was festooned with little cardboard squares.

What the…?

He watched Jack reach in and start plucking them from the pipes like a man picking fruit from a tree. When he'd gathered a fistful he backhanded them to Tom.

"Stick these in the front compartment of the pack."

Tom inspected them first. The paper squares had round Mylar windows front and back. And inside the windows—

Tom repressed a gasp. Coins. Gold coins.

He squinted at the top one. A new-looking 1925 twenty-dollar gold eagle. Next, a bright twenty-dollar Liberty head from 1907. And then a 1901 ten-dollar gold piece.

"Hey, the light," Jack said.

"Oh, yeah."

He'd been so distracted he'd let the beam drift.

Jack handed back more. Tom dropped the first batch into the pack and took the next. He knew nothing about coins but all these were old and gold and beautiful.

"Jack, are these things worth what I think they are?"

"Probably more. I've made a point of buying only top-grade stuff—MS-sixty-one or better."

"I didn't know you were a collector."

"I'm not. I'm an investor."

"But how much—?"

Jack handed back another batch.

"Are they worth? More than I paid for them, but that's all I can tell you. I don't keep a list and I don't keep up on values."

More rare coins flowing from the closet. The total value must have passed six figures already.

"How many do you have?"

Another handful came back.

"Don't really know. Like I said, I don't keep a list."

"But isn't it dangerous keeping it here in your apartment?"

"Fire's my big worry. But it's worth the risk. This way I can always get to them. Unlike your Bermuda safe-deposit box."

"Touche."

After handing back a total of a hundred or more coins, Jack said, "Okay, that's it for the numismatics. Bullion next. Put them in the rear section."

"What are you going to do with all this?"

Did he think he could take it with him?

"Giving it to Gia and Vicky. They'll need it."

"That's hard to believe, considering where she lives."

"That townhouse isn't hers. It belongs to Vicky's aunts. But they've gone away and aren't coming back. When they're finally declared dead—the waiting period's got about five and a half years to go, I believe—the place will go to Vicky."

"Where are the aunts?"

"Long story."

He began handing back deceptively heavy little cloth bags that clinked when Tom dropped them into the backpack.

"And these are…?"

"Krugers."

"Kruggerrands?"

Tom knew about those: one ounce of gold each. But each little bag must have held about twenty or so, and Jack was handing him bag after bag. With gold hovering around four hundred dollars an ounce…