7
-42:17
Jack stood in his bedroom before the floating
Lilitongue and shoved a magazine into the grip of the Glock.
Why bedrooms? he wondered. Maybe because your
scent was strongest there.
He pointed the Glock at the thing.
First he’d tried an ax. N-G. Did no more
damage than the baseball bat. Not even a dent.
Next he’d fitted an electric drill with a
diamond-tipped bit. Might as well have been trying to puncture
steel with a pretzel stick. The drill whined and wailed as the tip
slipped and slid all over the surface without leaving so much as a
scratch.
How could something that felt like rough skin
or old leather be so tough?
Well, he’d see how it stood up to his third
and last tool: a bullet. Would have loved to hit it with a monster
.454 Casull round from his Super Redhawk, but was afraid of killing
someone with a ricochet. Hell, the slug might end up in
Queens.
Instead he’d taken his Glock .40 out of
storage—the highest caliber he had a suppressor for—and stuck a few
hardball rounds in the magazine.
He had to admit he felt calmer knowing that
Vicky and Gia and the baby were safe. He was in the stew now, but
better he than they—He’d found himself in bad situations before.
Not this bad, maybe, but hardly walks in the park. And somehow he’d
always managed to find a way out. That was
why he was still here.
But for how long?
He could almost feel the black ends of the
Stain creeping toward each other, millimeter by millimeter.
He faced the Lilitongue and took a step back.
He raised the pistol in a two-handed grip, positioning the muzzle
about two feet from the Lilitongue. Worried that a direct,
straight-on hit might bounce back at him, he aimed right of center
and counted on a ricochet hitting the wall.
What he was really counting on was making a
hole in the damn thing.
Although what he’d do with that hole once
made was another question.
He took a breath and pulled the trigger. The
pistol made a phut! and bucked in his
hands. A wisp of powdered plaster puffed from a sudden ricochet
hole in the wall on his right.
And the Lilitongue? Nada.
In a blind rage Jack dropped the pistol,
picked up the ax, and started hacking at the Lilitongue like some
sort of berserker.
Goddamn the thing!
If it were a person, or if it were alive and
being controlled by someone, he could find a handle, have a chance.
He could track down whoever it was and rearrange the guy’s features
and sundry other body parts until he gave it up. A person, no
matter how sick or depraved, he could deal with, he could
understand.
But this… this implacable, imperturbable,
invulnerable, inexorably ticking bomb was indifferent, immune,
just… there.
He swung at it until his arms gave out. Then,
panting, sweating, he stopped, seething at his impotence.
His cell phone rang. His first impulse was to
ignore it, but he answered and recognized Joey’s voice.
“Jack? I got your message but was waiting to
see if something panned out.”
“And?”
“I think we got something. You free?”
Jack thought about that. Free? Hardly.
Obviously Joey was looking to meet, but Jack was in anything but a
meeting mood. Too much going on right here. But this had to do with
Dad’s killers. Joey wouldn’t be calling about anything else.
“Depends. What’ve you got?”
“Got a face and a name and an address.”
Jack hesitated and glanced at his watch. So
little time left. And yet, if this led to Dad’s killers…
Joey said, “Hey, if you’re not
interested…”
No way he could be not interested. If he had
a chance to get his hands on the guys who murdered his father and
settle that score before zero hour, he had to take it.
“Oh, I’m interested. When do you want to get
together?”
“I’ve got my car. Where are you now?”
Jack didn’t give out his address. He’d meet
him in a busy public place.
“How about picking me up in front of the UN
in twenty minutes?”
“UN? You ain’t gonna tell me you’re some
kinda diplomat, are you?”
“It’s my secret shame.”