Free Repairman Jack [09]-Infernal by F. Paul Wilson

sorry.”
    “Yeah.”
    Joey’s features hardened. “You know that story going ‘round about cyanide bullets? True.”
    Jack felt his gut tighten. “How do you know?”
    “Got a connection who got a little look-see at some reports and says it was cyanide-filled hollow-points.” His features tightened, his lips drew into a tight line. “Frankie got clipped in the shoulder, Jack. That’s all. He might’ve lived through that whole mess he hadn’t been poisoned too.” Joey bared his teeth. “Wrath of Allah can kiss my ass. Like to show them where they can stick their—”
    “Whoa. Wrath of Allah? What’s that?”
    “Didn’t you hear? Some group of stronzos called the Times and the three networks this morning saying they did it and that’s only the beginning. They’re gonna keep it up till the enemies of God and helpers of Satan are cleansed from the face of the earth. Or some such shit.”
    Jack hadn’t turned on the TV this morning. He’d figured they’d only be talking about today being a national day of mourning and he’d heard all he wanted to about that.
    He squeezed his eyes shut. So it was an Arab thing after all…
    “Jeez.”
    He felt a bloom of rage, but Joey was way ahead of him.
    “Dirty, rat-fucking—”
    “Hey, Jack?” Tom’s voice behind him.
    Jack turned and saw his brother, face whiter than ever, lips almost blue, motioning him over.
    “They’re bringing him out and I don’t want to do this alone.”
    As Jack stepped away, Joey gave his upper arm a squeeze. “Hang in there, Jack. And don’t take off right away. Got a little something I want to talk to you about.”
    Jack nodded and moved toward Tom, thinking about cyanide bullets. Dad had caught one in his thigh, a flesh wound that under normal circumstances would—
    Listen to me… “normal circumstances”… shit, what was normal about being shot while waiting for your baggage?
    He had little doubt that Dad, like Frankie Castles, would have survived a wound like that from a normal bullet.
    Jack’s jaw muscles ached from clenching his teeth as he stood next to Tom and watched them wheel out a body bag on a gurney. The attendant, a black guy with short spiky dreads, looked bored. Jack wanted to punch him.
    He steeled himself as the guy grabbed the zipper tab and pulled. When he’d opened an eighteen-inch gap, he spread the sides to reveal someone’s head.
    For an awful instant Jack thought it might not be Dad, that somehow his body had been misidentified or gone missing or been spirited away. But no, there he was. He looked better than yesterday, his eyes closed, his mouth shut, his features more composed.
    But still very dead.
    Jack heard the air whoosh out of Tom.
    “Oh, shit,” he croaked. “Oh, shit, it’s him. It’s really him.”
    Jack said nothing. He couldn’t.

2

    When they stepped outside, the sky was as clear and blue as Gia’s eyes, but the wind flowing down First Avenue had developed a cold, sharp edge.
    “What next?” Tom said.
    “I have to call the Knight Funeral Home. Soon as I confirm the body’s been released, they’ll send a car to pick him up and take him back to Johnson.”
    Tom sighed. “I guess that’s the best course. Bury him next to Mom.”
    Jack looked at him. “Was there ever a question in your mind?”
    “Until now there’s never been a reason for the question to be in my mind.”
    “Yeah. I hear you.”
    He looked around and saw Joey Castles waiting down on the sidewalk. Despite the wind he looked comfortable inside a full-length black leather coat.
    Jack turned to Tom as they reached the bottom of the steps. “Wait here. I need to talk to someone.”
    Tom made a face. “Can’t it wait? It’s cold out here.”
    Jack pointed across the sidewalk to a pushcart by the curb. A plastic banner proclaiming HOT COFFEE & BAGLES waved in the breeze.
    “Maybe his coffee is better than his spelling. Give it a try while I see what this guy wants.”
    “Jack,” Joey said when he came