F. Paul Wilson - Bloodline

Bloodline

A Repairman Jack Novel

F. Paul Wilson

Once again,

to Mary

Thanks to the usual crew for theirefforts: my wife, Mary; my editor, David Hartwell; Elizabeth Monteleone; StevenSpruill; and my agent, Albert Zuckerman.

It was happening again

In the drivers seat, hands onthe steering wheel, gunning the panel truck across Second Avenue toward theblond woman and her little girl

gaining speed

seeing their shocked,terrified expressions as he floors the gas

feeling the impacts as heplows into them

watching their limp, brokenbodies flying as he races past, never slowing, never hesitating, never evenlooking back.

Jack awoke with his jaw locked andhis fists clenched. He forced himself to relax, to reach out and lay a hand onthe reassuring curve of Gias hip where she slumbered next to him.

The dream again. Easy enough tointerpret: He blamed himself for the hit-and-run, so his mind put him behindthe wheel. Obvious.

What wasnt obvious was the timing.The dream occurred only under a certain condition: It meant the watcher wasback.

Jack slipped from her bed to thewindow. The blinds were drawn against the glow from the streetlights. He peekedaround the edge and

There he was.

As usual he stood at the corner,facing Gias townhouse, wearing his customary homburg and overcoat; his righthand rested on the head of a walking stick. His position silhouetted himagainst the lights of the traffic passing on Sutton Place and caused the brimof his hat to shadow his face.

A big man and, if the slight stoopof his shoulders was any clue, elderly. Jack had first seen him outside his ownapartment back in January just days before the hit-and-run. And lately hedbeen showing up outside Gias.

Jack had never been able to catchthe guy. Not for lack of trying. Hed gone after him dozens of times, but theold guy seemed to know when Jack was coming.

Somehow the watcher always managedto stay one step ahead. If Jack waited inside the front door, dressed and readyto give chase, or sat in his car or hid in a doorway, watching the corner, theguy didnt show. Last month Jack had waited ten nights in a rowinside andoutside, from uptown, downtown, and crosstown vantage points.

Nothing.

On the eleventh night he called itquits and went to bed. That night he had the dream again and, sure enough, apeek through the blinds confirmed the watchers presence.

Deciding to give it another shot,Jack grabbed his jeans and hopped into them as he headed for the hall. Hehurried down to the first floor and jammed his bare feet into his sneakerswhere they waited in the front foyer. Then out the door in a headlong dashacross the street to the corner.

The empty corner.

But Jack didnt break his stride.This had happened every timein the half minute or less it took him to reachthe street the guy in the homburg disappeared. All it took was a few steps toput him around the corner and out of sight, but there was more to it.

Jack reached the corner and keptgoing, racing along Sutton Place for a full block, peering into every nook andcranny along the way. Tonights attempt ended the same as all the others: nada.

His breath steaming in the nightair, Jack stood on the deserted sidewalk, turning in a slow circle. Where didthe son of a bitch go? Maybe a sleek Olympic-class sprinter could race out ofsight in that short time. But some big old guy with a cane?

Didnt make sense.

But then, why should it? Nothingelse did.

Check that: Events of the past yeardid make sense, but not in the usual way. Not the sort of sense that theaverage person could understandor want to.

Jack rubbed his bare arms. It mightbe springmid-Aprilbut the temperature was in the low forties. A bit cool forjust a T-shirt.

He took one last look around, thenhurried back to Gias warm bed.

Someone said you might be ableto help me. I need to keep my daughter from making a terrible mistake. ChristyP.

Jack stared at the last of themessages forwarded from his Web site, repairmanjack.com. None would have beenof much interest even if he were working now. Hed blow them off later.

Hed looked into starting a site onMySpace because its sheer size provided an anonymity of sorts, but hed almostbailed when he discovered that domains repairmanjack, repairman-jack, andrepairman_jack were already taken. What the hell? Hed finally had to settlefor www.myspace.com/fix_its.

But after setting it up he realizedonly other MySpace members could contact him there, so hed kept his originalas well.

Jack? Can I bother you for a minute?

Though he was in the study and Giaupstairs, Jack could hear the distress in her voice. He had a pretty good ideawhat was wrong.

Be right there.

He took a quick sip of coffee andglanced at the computers time display. Vicky was going to miss her bus if theydidnt hustle.

He took the stairs two at a time tothe second floor.

Where are you?

Vickys room.

Figured that.

He walked in and found the twoloves of his life sitting on the bed, Vicky facing away, Gia behind her,holding on to her long dark hair.

I cant do it, Gia said, lookingup at him with American-flag eyes: blue on white with red rims. I still cantdo it.

Gia looked too thin. Her weight wasstill down since the accident. Shed lost a lot during the coma and the earlyrecovery period, but wasnt regaining it now that she was almost back tonormal. Though not exactly sunken, her cheeks werent as full, giving her ahaggard look. She still cried now and then but, despite her therapists advice,resisted taking an antidepressant.

Shed let her blond hair grow tothe point where it was now longer than hed ever seen it, covering her ears andthe nape of her neck.

But at the moment Vickys hair wasthe problem: Gia had started weaving the back into a French braid but hadbotched it badly. Not as badly as she had in preceding weeks, but still sheused to be able to do this in thirty secondswith her eyes closed. Now

Look at this mess.

Jack crouched beside her and kissedher cheek.

Youre getting better every day.Just keep at it. You know what Doctor Kline said.

Practice, practice, practice.She sighed. But its so frustrating sometimes I want to scream.

And sometimes she did. But neverwhen Vicky was around. Jack would hear her in another room, from another floor.He wondered how often she screamed when she was here alone.

Vicky half-turned her head. Am Igoing to be late for school, Mommy?

Youll be fine, honey.

Some things had improved in thethree months since the accident, but by no means had life returned to normal.Jack doubted it ever would. The broken bones had healed, but scars remained, onthe body, the brain, the psyche.

Vicky had the best chance ofleaving it all behind. The unborn sister shed been waiting for would notarrive, and shed accepted that. Emma had been no more than a bulge in hermothers belly and an image on an ultrasound monitor, not a little person shecould see and touch.

Not so Gia. Three months ago shedstepped off a curb as a mother-to-be and awakened days later to learn shedlost the baby. Emma had been very real to Gia, a little person whod turned andkicked inside her. More real to Gia than to her father, Jack.

Gias scars ran deep.

And not being able to care fullyfor Vicky slowed their healing.

Her motor skills hadnt returned tonormal yet, though they were worlds better than when shed come out of hercoma. With physical and occupational therapy shed recovered about ninetypercent of her manual dexterity, but it was the missing ten percent that waskilling her.

She couldnt braid Vickys hair.