5

His sister didn’t answer his knocks, so he tried his keys. He heard the latch snap back as he twisted it in the last of the three locks on her door, but he didn’t push it open right away. He was afraid of what he might find.

She called every day at six P.M. sharp. But not today. He didn’t always answer the six P.M. call. She didn’t expect him to. All he had to do was recognize her number on the caller ID and he’d know she was okay. Any other call he’d answer, but the sixer was just her way of checking in.

No call today.

His older sister—older by less than two years—was a loony bird but a punctual one. Her looniness had a compulsive component. She wouldn’t skip the call. Something was wrong.

Earlier he’d been overcome by an uneasy feeling. He hadn’t had a clue as to why, but he’d felt as if something awful were about to happen. Then he’d glanced at his watch and seen that it read 6:07.

She was late. And she was never late.

So he’d called her home and heard only her voice-mail message. He’d called her cell and heard the same.

Something was most definitely wrong.

So here he was, outside her door, fearing what he’d find on the other side. Not violence. The door showed no sign of damage or tampering. Not that he expected to find any—ever. His sister’s fears that someone might come after her for what she knew were as unfounded as her wild conspiracy theories.

His concern was more for her health. She didn’t take care of herself.

Strange how time had changed them. As kids she’d been the slim, picky eater and he’d wolf down anything that didn’t wolf him down first. Now he carefully watched what he ate while she lived on takeout.

She wasn’t forty yet, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a heart attack. Or a ruptured aneurysm. She could be lying on the floor in a coma. Or worse.

Taking a breath, he turned the knob and pushed against the door.

It opened.

He didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. She had a steel bar she kept across it when she was home. No bar meant she might not be in.

He entered, calling her name.

No answer.

He wove among the piles of junk—what she called “research”—and walked through every room, searching. He hadn’t been here in a long time. The place hadn’t changed much except that the junk piles had grown.

Nothing. An empty house.

Where could she be? She’d been off her meds for years. Was she finally off the deep end and wandering the city in some sort of fugue state? The possibility terrified him. Anything could happen to her.

He headed back to the door but stopped short when he saw the paper taped to the inner surface. He’d missed it on his way in.

If I’m missing
Don’t call the police
They can’t help
Get in touch with Jack
Please honor me on this
Our Jack can find me

Then she’d written a phone number and the URL of a Web site called repairmanjack.com.

Jack? Our Jack?

Who the hell was she talking about?