Repairman Jack [09]-Infernal Read Free Page A

knew with a sudden burst of hope that the shooter’s magazine had run dry. Bolts of agony shot through his leg when he tried to move it, but he’d been hurt worse than this. All that mattered was the pistol. He had a tiny window of opportunity here and had to make the most of it.
    His fingers were closing around the grip when he began to shake. Not just his hand and arms, his whole body. He tried again for the pistol but his arm seized up. He couldn’t breathe. He felt his body begin to flop around like a beached fish. His pulse pounded in his ears, slowing.
    What was happening? He’d only been hit in the leg. Had he taken another slug somewhere else? What…?
    Tom’s light, his air, his questions, his time… faded to nothingness.

4

    Jack had to take a circular route to reach the pickup area, a reluctant mini-tour of the airport. La Guardia was small as major airports went, and appeared to be the victim of some weird temporal dislocation. The dingy, Quonset hut-style hangars looked to be of 1930s vintage, while the green-glassed terminal itself was strictly fifties in design. The massive, six-story, bare concrete parking garage could have been built yesterday.
    As he nosed his Crown Vic along the pickup lane outside the Central Terminal, he saw people running—not toward the doors, like late travelers, but from them. Screaming people, faces masks of terror, fleeing for their lives.
    Jack’s heart double-clutched. They were pouring from the baggage area… fleeing the far section… the section where he’d left Dad.
    No… it can’t…
    He gunned the engine and sped toward the far section, narrowly missing a panicked man and a screaming woman. He jerked to a halt when he saw the shattered doors and broken glass glittering on the sidewalk, the bullet holes in the still-intact panes.
    Oh, Christ… oh no-no-no!
    He jumped out and dashed across the sidewalk, almost slipping on the shards of glass, and skidded to a halt inside the baggage area.
    Blood… blood everywhere… lakes of red on the floor… even the carousel was red… a man’s feet and legs hung out of the baggage chute… the bloody rag-doll body of a baby girl sprawled among the endlessly circling luggage.
    No other movement, no crying, no screams or wails of the wounded. Just silence. Not one of the victims so much as stirred.
    Jack stood frozen and stared, numb, paralyzed…
    Dad…?
    Where was his father? He’d left him standing right over there by the—
    There! Shit! A body, a gray-haired man in a green and white coat.
    No-no-no-no!
    As Jack forced himself forward a voice shouted from somewhere to his left.
    “Freeze!”
    Jack heard the word but it didn’t register. Stiff and slow, he kept moving, a living zombie.
    “Freeze, goddammit, or I’ll drop you where you stand!”
    Jack kept moving, forcing himself forward a few more steps until he reached the corpse. He dropped to his knees in a pool of still-warm blood, grabbed one of the shoulders, and rolled him over.
    The face—his lips were pulled back in a horrific, agonized grimace, but his glazed eyes left no doubt about it.
    Dad.
    Dead.
    Jack felt as if his chest might explode. He let out a sound that was equal parts moan and sob.
    He shook his father. It couldn’t be. They’d been talking just a few minutes ago. He couldn’t be dead!
    “Dad! Dad, it’s me, Jack! Can you hear me?”
    The voice said, “Are you fuckin’ deaf? I told you to freeze!”
    Jack looked up into the muzzle of a pistol held by a mustached security guard.
    “This… this is my father.”
    “I don’t give a fuck, I told you to—”
    “That will be enough!”
    An older man had come up behind the guard. He looked to be about fifty and wore a blue NYPD uniform with sergeant stripes. His nameplate read DRISCOLL.
    The guard backed off a step. “I found this guy wandering around. He could be—”
    Sergeant Driscoll’s voice dripped scorn. “He wasn’t wandering around. I saw him come in. He was looking for