He hated them all and wanted to be rid of them. The carving knives on the table beckoned to him, but no… too crude. Surely someone with his brain could think of a way to dispose of the three of them without drawing suspicion. Perhaps—
A shout interrupted his thoughts. Brad was on his feet, leaning over the table, jabbing his finger at Kent's face.
"Stop sweating! I can hear you sweating and it makes me sick!"
"I make you sick?" Kent said, leaping to his feet. "Listen, Twinkle-toes, if anybody around here makes people sick it's you and your pretty-boy clothes and incessant whining."
Brad's jaw dropped. "What? What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying a goddamn thing! I'm telling you you're—"
"Here!" Dragovic shouted.
He'd grabbed two of the knives and now he slid them down the table. They rotated lazily along their course and stopped between Brad and Kent.
Brad stopped, eyes wide.
"Look at him!" Kent laughed. "What a pussy!"
"Pussy?" Brad's face contorted with rage. His hand flashed out and snatched up one of the knives. "I'll show you who's a pussy!"
He leaped at Kent and they both went down beyond the far end of the table, out of Luc's line of sight. He heard thumping and thrashing and grunts and cries, saw Kent's bloody hand appear, watched it feel around, find the other knife, then disappear again.
Luc didn't stand, didn't move beyond turning his head toward Dragovic. It sounded as if Brad and Kent were killing each other, and he prayed that was the case. That would leave only Dragovic.
The Serb's eyes were on the battle playing out on the floor in front of him. He watched it avidly, grinning like a shark who smells blood and is waiting to feed on both the victor and the vanquished.
Then the thrashing stopped and a gasping and very bloody Kent Garrison struggled to his feet. Luc saw Dragovic pick up one of the two remaining knives and palm the handle upside down, rising and approaching Kent with the blade hidden against the underside of his forearm.
"Are you all right?"
Kent grinned. "Better than you'll be!"
Without warning, he slashed at Dragovic. But the Serb seemed to have expected it. He ducked back, then whipped his own blade across Kent's throat. Blood sprayed across the table as Kent dropped from view with a bubbling groan.
Luc's mind raced at light speed. Perfect! Kent gets blamed for killing Brad, Dragovic gets blamed for killing Kent, and I kill Dragovic in self-defense. He made no conscious decision: he was suddenly up on the table with a knife in his hand and in full charge toward Dragovic as the Serb turned toward him…
21
Between the traffic jam at the Midtown Tunnel and the overturned tractor-trailer at the Springfield Boulevard overpass on the LIE, Jack felt almost lucky to reach Monroe in two hours.
His tentative plan was to drive across the grass in the darkness and pull right up to the tent, duck under the flap, splash Scar-lip with gas, light a match, and send it back to hell. Then, during the ensuing panic and confusion, look for Nadia.
But as he took the narrow road out to the marsh, he began to feel a crawling sensation in his gut.
Where were the tents?
Slewed his car to a halt on the muddy meadow and stared in disbelief at the empty space before his headlights. Jumped out and looked around. Gone. Hadn't passed them on the road. Where—?
Heard a sound and whirled to find a gnarled figure standing on the far side of his car. In the backwash from the headlights he could make out that the man was old and grizzled and unshaven, but not much more.
"If you're looking for the show," the man said, "you're a little late. But don't worry. They'll be back next year."
"Did you see them go?"
"Course," he said. "But not before I collected my rent."
"Do you know where—?"
"M'name's Haskins. I own this land, y'know, and you're on it."
Jack's patience was fraying. "I'll be glad to get off it; just tell me—"
"I rent it out every year to that show. They really seem to like Monroe. But I—"
"I need to know where they went."
"You're a little old to be wantin' to run off with the circus, ain't you?" he said with a wheezy laugh.
That did it. "Where did they go?"
'Take it easy," the old guy said. "No need for shouting. They're makin' the jump to Jersey. They open in Cape May tomorrow night."
Jack ran back to his car. South Jersey. Only a couple of possible routes for a caravan of trucks and trailers: the Cross Bronx Expressway to the George Washington Bridge would take them too far north; the Beltway to the Verrazano and across Staten Island would drop them into Central Jersey. That was the logical route. But even if he was wrong, the only way to Cape May was via the Garden State Parkway. Jack gunned for the Parkway, figuring sooner or later he'd catch up to them.
WEDNESDAY
1
Took Jack another two frustrating hours just to reach Jersey. Midnight had come and gone and Cape May was still better than a hundred miles away. The limit on the parkway along here was sixty-five. Jack set the cruise control on seventy and kept his foot off the gas pedal. If he had his way he'd be doing ninety, but that would put a cop on his tail and he'd had enough cops already for one day.
Some day. When was it going to end? He was pretty sure the Berzerk had cleared his system, but his aches and pains seemed to be getting worse instead of better. Especially his head. He'd had the radio on earlier and some station had played "You Keep Me Hanging On." Now it kept droning through his frazzled brain, Diana Ross's voice like a power saw hitting a nail.
And worst of all, he saw a good chance this whole trip might be for nothing. Had no idea how often or how much a rakosh ate, but if it had fed on Bondy first, then Gleason, he might still have a chance of finding Nadia alive. A slim one, but he had to give it a shot. Might have a hard time living with himself if he didn't.
He'd figured a train of freak show trucks and trailers would be next to impossible to miss, but he damn near did. He was too intent on an all-news station's big breaking story as he flashed by the New Gretna rest area…
"… mass murder in midtown: gangland figure Milos Dragovic, known in many quarters as 'the Slippery Serb,' is dead, apparently of stab wounds, along with three top executives of a pharmaceutical firm. The four were found locked in a conference room in the GEM Pharma offices in midtown by a cleaning crew a short while ago. This is not Dragovic's first appearance in the news today. He was—"
Jack was a good hundred yards past the rest stop, congratulating himself on how well that stunt had worked, when something familiar about the motley assortment of vehicles clustered in the southern end of the parking lot registered in his consciousness.
He slowed, found an official use only cutoff, and made an illegal U-turn across the median onto the northbound lanes. Half a minute later he pulled into the rest area and found a parking spot near the Burger King/ Nathan's/TCBY sign where he had a good view of the freak show vehicles.
At this hour on a Wednesday morning in May, the rest area was fairly deserted. Except for a few couples straggling back from Atlantic City, Oz's folk had the lot pretty much to themselves. But why this rest area of all places? This was the only one Jack knew of that had a State Police barracks for a neighbor.
He slumped in the seat. Bad thought: if Oz was traveling with someone he'd abducted, this would be the last place he'd stop. Sick foreboding settled on Jack like a wet tarp.
But he'd come this far…
He scanned the area. No way to sneak up on them, so he settled for a direct approach. Of course the smart thing to do was to dime Oz out to the New Jersey State cops a couple hundred yards away, but that didn't sit right. Never would. And besides, if Nadia had become rakoshi chow, the state cops would find nothing. And the Scar-lip problem would remain.
Jack opened the trunk and stared at the gasoline can. His plan had been Scar-lip first, then Nadia. He'd have to reverse
that now. Find Nadia if possible, then go for the rakosh. He pulled the silenced .22 from where he'd hidden it beneath the spare, stuck it in the waistband under his warm-up, walked toward the Oddity Emporium vehicles.
Counted two 18-wheelers and twenty or so trailers and motor homes of various shapes and sizes and states of repair. As he neared he heard hammering sounds; seemed to come from one of the semi trailers. Two of the dog-faced roustabouts stepped from behind a motor home as Jack reached the perimeter of the cluster. They growled a warning and pointed back toward the food court.
"I want to see Oz," Jack said.
More growls and more emphatic pointing.
"Look, he either gets a visit from me or I walk over to the State Police barracks there and have them pay him a visit."
The roustabouts didn't seem to feature that idea. Looked at each other, then one hurried away. A moment later he was back. Motioned Jack to follow him. Jack lowered the zipper on his warm-up top to give him quicker access to the P-98, then started moving.
One of the roustabouts stayed behind. As Jack followed the other on a winding course through the haphazardly parked vehicles, he saw a crew of workers trying to patch a hole in the flank of one of the semi trailers. He pulled up short when he saw the size of the hole: five or six feet high, a couple of feet wide. The edges of the metal skin were flared outward, as if a giant fist had punched through from within. And Jack was pretty sure that fist had belonged to something cobalt blue with yellow eyes.
Shit! He closed his eyes and slammed his fists against his thighs. He wanted to break something. What else could go wrong today?
But his spirits suddenly lifted as he realized Oz hadn't wanted to park his troupe near the police barracks—he'd had no choice. Maybe Nadia was still alive.
The roustabout had stopped ahead and was motioning him to hurry up. Jack did just that and soon came to the trailer he recognized as Oz's. The man himself was standing before it, watching the repair work on the truck.
"It got loose, didn't it?" Jack said as he came up beside him.
The taller man rotated the upper half of his body and looked at Jack. His expression was anything but welcoming.
"Oh, it's you. You do get around."
Took most of Jack's dwindling self-control to keep from taking a swing at Oz right then and there. He was bursting to ask about Nadia but forced himself to stick to the rakosh. That was old news between them; he'd cover that, then press on.
"Had to feed it, didn't you? Had to bring it up to full strength. Damn it, you knew the risk you were taking."
"It was caged with iron bars. I thought—"
"You thought wrong. I warned you. I've seen that thing at full strength. Iron or not, that cage wasn't going to hold it."
"I admire your talent for stating the obvious."
"Where is it?"
For the first time Jack detected a trace of fear in Oz's eyes.
"I don't know."
"Swell." He glanced around. "Where's that guy Hank?"
"Hank? What could you want with that imbecile?"
"Just wondering if he was bothering it again."
The boss slammed a bony fist into a palm. "I thought he'd learned his lesson. Well, he'll learn it now." He turned and called into the night. "Everyone—find Hank! Find him and bring him to me at once!"
They waited but no one brought Hank. Hank was nowhere to be found.
"It appears he's run off," Prather said.
"Or got carried off."
"We found no blood near the truck, so perhaps the young idiot is still alive."
"He is alive," said a woman's voice.
Jack turned and recognized the three-eyed fortuneteller from the show.
"What do you see, Carmella?" Oz said.
"He is in the woods. He stole one of the guns and he carries a spear. He is full of wine and hate. He is going to kill it."
"Oh, I doubt that," Oz said. "Going to get himself killed is more likely."
Jack understood taking a gun, but not the spear; then he remembered the pointed iron rod Hank and Bondy had used to torture it. Neither would do the job. If Hank ever caught up with the rakosh, he wouldn't last long.
He stared at the mass of trees rising on the far side of the parkway. "We've got to find it."
"Yes," Oz said. "Poor thing, alone out there in a strange environment, disoriented, lost, afraid."
Jack couldn't imagine Scar-lip afraid of anything, especially anything it might run across around here.
"On the subject of lost, alone, and afraid," Jack said, motioning Oz toward his trailer, "I need to ask you something."
Oz followed him until they were all but leaning on the battered wall of the old Airstream, out of earshot of the others.
"What?"
"Where's Nadia Radzminsky?"
Oz's eyes told him nothing, but the way his body tensed spoke volumes.
"Nadia… who?"
"The one Dr. Monnet paid you to eliminate. Where is she?"
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're—" Oz spotted the pistol Jack had pulled from his waistband.
"I have it straight from Dr. Monnet and his partners," Jack said softly as he began unscrewing the silencer. "They say they hired you to 'remove' Douglas Gleason and Nadia Radzminsky, so playing dumb won't cut it." He lowered the barrel, pointing it at Oz's right knee. "Now, I'm going to ask you again, and if you give me any more bullshit, I'm going to shoot you. Nothing immediately fatal, but it's going to hurt like hell. And then I'm going to ask you again. And if I don't get the truth, I'll shoot you again, and so it will go."
Jack had to hand it to Oz—he was cool. He glanced at a pair of his doggie roustabouts—how many did he have?—who had noticed the pistol. Low growls rumbled in their throats as they edged closer.
"They'll tear you to pieces before you get off that second shot. Perhaps before you get off the first."
"Don't count on it." Jack leveled the barrel at Oz's midsection. "I can pull this trigger lots of times before I go down. Any idea what a hollowpoint round, even a twenty-two, can do once it breaks up inside you?"
Jack's pistol was loaded with FMJs, but no need to tell Oz that.
"And don't think the shots will go unnoticed over there." Jack cocked his head toward the State Police barracks. "So not only will you be dead, but a bunch of troopers will be treating this whole area as a crime scene. They'll go through it with a fine comb. What'll they find?"
Oz's expression fluctuated between fear and rage. Jack pressed on, heading for home.
"You've gathered a nice little family around you, Oz. What will happen to them when you're gone and they've been broken up and scattered because of certain crimes you've committed? All because you wouldn't answer a simple question."
Jack hoped the bluff would work. He knew he'd be beaten to a bloody pulp if he pulled the trigger, and even if he survived, he feared police scrutiny as much as Oz. More. But Oz couldn't know that.
"Let's suppose, just suppose," Oz said, "that they were here. What happens?"
They? Jack fought to keep from showing the relief surging within him.
"They leave with me and that's that."
"How do I know you won't stop at the first phone and report us?"
"You've got my word," Jack said. "I've got nothing against you, Oz. I have a business relationship with Nadia. If I get her out of this, you and me are even. I'm happy never to see or hear of you again, and I'm sure it's mutual."
"But what about them?"
"I think I can square it with them. Let's go ask."
Oz held back. "There's still the matter of Dr. Monnet. He—"
"He's dead."
The eyes narrowed. Oz wasn't buying. "Really." He drew out the word.
"Just turn on the radio. It's on all the news stations."
"You?"
"Never laid a finger on him. Dragovic, I'd guess."
"I see," Oz said, nodding. A small smile played about his lips. That obviously made sense to him.
"Monnet paid you to off them," Jack said, "but I assume you had other plans. Sushi for the rakosh, right?"
"The creature's eating habits appear to be similar to those of a big snake," Oz said, neither confirming nor denying. "It gorges itself, then doesn't eat again for days. I haven't had time yet to learn its cycle."
"And now that it's gone, you've got no use for the food you've stockpiled for it. Am I right?"
He nodded and sighed. "I suppose that settles it, then."
He led Jack toward the center of the vehicle cluster. Playing it safe, Jack followed close behind, his pistol trained on Oz's back. The roustabouts—three now—followed. Oz stopped before an exceptionally run-down red trailer.
Jack heard something thumping against the inner walls and faint cries for help. Oz pointed to the padlock on the door and one of the roustabouts unlocked it.
As the door swung open, Jack slid his pistol behind his thigh. An idea of how to make this a smooth extraction was forming, but it might not work with artillery on display.
The cries and pounding ceased. For a moment nothing happened; then a sandy-haired man poked his head out. He looked pale, haggard, uncertain, but Jack recognized him as Douglas Gleason from the photo Nadia had shown him. Then Nadia appeared beside him.
All right, Jack thought. All right. Now to get them out of here.
"Good evening, Dr. Radzminsky," he said.
Her head pivoted toward him and her eyes widened in recognition and relief.
"Jack!" she cried, her voice harsh and ragged from shouting for who knew how long. "Oh, Jack, it's you!"
"Jack? Who's Jack?" Gleason was saying, but Nadia shushed him.
"It's all right. He's a friend. Jack, how did you get here? How did you manage—?"
"Long story. Suffice for now that Monnet and his partners arranged for Mr. Prather here to kill you and your fiance."
"Oh, no!" she said with more despair than shock.
"Knew it!" Gleason said. "Had to be him!"
"But why?"
"He and Dragovic were making Berzerk, and you knew it. But Mr. Prather is not a murderer," Jack said, nodding toward Oz, whose eyes widened in surprise. "So he merely kept you out of sight and out of harm's way until he could find a solution for your, um, predicament."