8

Joey didn’t make it.

After racing toward Interstate 80, Jack turned just before the on ramp and cruised local streets at the speed limit. He wound through neighborhoods of clapboard two-family homes and rundown apartment houses, heading generally east, talking nonstop to Joey as he looked for a hospital, or at least one of those blue signs with the white H.

Finally he found one, pointing left. As he stopped at a red light, he leaned over and grabbed Joey’s shoulder.

“Almost there, buddy.”

Joey made no reply, but then he’d done little more than grunt now and then during the ride.

He was too badly hurt for Doc Hargus, so Jack’s plan was to carry him into the first ER he found and give a story about finding him on the street. As soon as Joey was under medical care, Jack would disappear.

But Joey looked awfully still right now.

He shook him. “Joey?”

“We fucked up, Jack,” he said in a voice like a mouse scratching a wall.

Yeah, we did.

“It’s okay, Joey.”

Jack saw his lips moving and leaned closer to hear.

“Ain’t okay, Jack. We didn’t get them.”

“We did. The only survivor is in the backseat.”

“No. I been stunad. It wasn’t them.”

Jack felt his gut go cold.

“What’re you saying?”

“It’s bigger than them. Something else going on.”

“How can you know that? What makes you think—?”

“You know stuff when you’re dead.”

And then he fell silent.

Jack shook him again.

“Joey?”

Joey slumped further in his seat, then slid off. His head banged the dashboard.

“Oh, shit!”

Jack rotated Joey’s face toward him. His skin felt cold. And even in this faint light the slack features and staring eyes left no doubt. Now old Frank Castellano had no sons.

“Aw, Joey,” Jack said. “Dammit, I knew this was a bad idea.”

An aching, stifling melancholy enveloped him. Such a waste… the airport, the Arabs, Joey… senseless. The futility of it all hammered at him, and he felt himself bend beneath the blows.

If only circumstances had been different… with just a little more time he could have reined Joey in and come up with a good plan. But there’d been no time. Because of the Lilitongue. And the Lilitongue was here because Tom had tricked him into looking for it, had pulled it from its resting place, had brought it into Jack’s home.

Joey’s death… one more thing to park on his brother. That and—

Al-Kabeer! Christ, had he kicked too?

Jack leaned over the back rest and poked Allah’s courageous warrior. He stirred and moaned.

A horn blared behind him. He looked up and saw the light had changed. He ditched the left turn and kept heading east.

Eventually he came to a river. He didn’t know its name. The Hacken-sack? The Passaic? Wasn’t sure what town or even what county he was in. To the south he could see a highway arching high over the water. Probably Route 80.

With his lights out he eased down to the littered bank and bounced through the thick underbrush until he found a clear spot under the span. He parked, turned off the engine, and sat.

Here it was: the do-or-die moment. Somehow he had to smooth-talk the murdering oxygen waster in the backseat into wanting the Stain, into taking the Stain.

If that was possible.

Worry about that later. First he had to snow Al-Kabeer. He wished he had Joey’s gift. Joey would have had people lined up and paying for a chance to grab the Stain for themselves.

Jack took a breath, let it out, then pulled the backpack from under Joey’s limp legs. He got out and opened the rear door. The overhead courtesy light revealed a very bloody Al-Kabeer curled into the fetal position, clutching his bleeding throat.

Besides calling the papers, he wondered, what was your part in this? He wanted to scream it, but held back. What were you? Were you the man who shot my father with lead and cyanide? Or were you a planner? Or maybe a money man?

Al-Kabeer groaned in a hoarse voice, “Take me to a hospital.”

Fat chance.

Jack noticed the blood flecking his lips and dribbling onto his beard. Not much time left. Better move this along.

Jack kept his voice soft, sympathetic, almost friendly. Not easy.

“All in good time, my friend.”

“Allaabu Akbar.”

“If you say so. Listen, Hamad. Here’s the situation: The doctors may be able to save you, but even if they do, what then? You’re still going to be hurting for days. And after that you’re going to have to answer all sorts of questions, and if you haven’t got good answers, you’re going to land in the pokey.”

He looked up at Jack, a plea in his eyes. “You won’t… you won’t sever my manhood and feed it to a pig? Please, no.”

“I won’t.” Truth. Jack wanted no part of that. It had been Joey’s riff, to put a little fear of Allah in them. At least Jack assumed it was. “But that other man—”

“No! Please!”

“He’s not here now. But if he comes back I may not be able to stop him.”

Hamad closed his eyes and whispered, “Allaabu Akbar.”

Jack unzipped the backpack and removed the Tupperware container. Then he unbuttoned his coverall and slipped out down to his waist. An icy gust clawed his back.

Christ, it was cold. Another reason to hurry this along.

“But there is a way for you to escape—not just him, but also escape your pain, and escape the police and the federal agents who will be hounding you.”

He pointed to the black band all but encircling his chest. The ends of the Stain were less than two inches apart. He tried not to think about that.

“See this, Hamad? This is the mark of Allah—”

“Allaabu Akbar.”

“—and it has special powers. It will help you escape all enemies. Forever.”

Jack opened the container and grabbed one of Hamad’s bloody hands. He dipped it into the Stain remover, then pressed the dripping fingers against the blackened band on his chest. The hand felt cold.

“All you’ve got to do now is wish, Hamad. Wish to take the Mark of Allah for yourself.”

His voice was a scrape, a rustle. “You are not of Islam.”

“I’m a secret special agent of Islam. Undercover. I pretend to be an infidel, but I’m really on Allah’s side.”

“No…”

“It’s true. The Mark of Allah was given to me many years ago by the Ayatollah Khomeini himself, to save me in an hour of direst need, and now I’m giving it to you. All you have to do is wish for it, Hamad. You want to be safe from your enemies, don’t you. Sure you do. This is guaranteed to work. Trust me on this, Hamad. I’m telling you the truth. All you need do is wish.”

Al-Kabeer squinted up at him, as if trying to focus.

“This is true?”

“The truest. Go ahead. Wish. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Just say it: I wish the mark for myself.”

The Arab coughed, spraying Jack with blood. He swallowed, then whispered, “I wish the mark for myself.”

Jack closed his eyes, took a breath, then looked down at his chest.

No change. The Stain was still there.

Shit.

“Try it again, Hamad. Maybe you didn’t wish hard e—”

Jack sensed a sudden loss of muscle tone in the hand. It had been slack all along, but this was different.

“Hamad?” He shook him. “Come on, Hamad. Stay with me. Don’t crap out on me now.”

Jack grabbed his beard and lifted his head.

Dead dark eyes stared back at him.

“No!” Jack shook him. Hamad moved like an oversized rag doll. “No-no-no!”

He threw him back, jumped up, and kicked the Grand Am’s fender.

“Goddamn it to hell! Shit!”

He kicked the Grand Am again, then stumbled around in a circle wanting to scream his anger and frustration at the night. This had been his last chance. The book was right. He was stuck with the Stain.

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.