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Read Online Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers by F. Paul Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: F. Paul Wilson
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She would always be there.
But her point had been nailed home last November when she'd told him how a speeding truck had come within inches of splattering her all over Park Avenue.
Gia's death, as unthinkable as it seemed, and as remote a prospect as he could imagine, was not beyond the realm of possibility. Jack knew losing her would leave him emotionally devastated, but the ripples from her death would have far-reaching effects.
The baby would have no father of record. Jack—using his real surname for the ürst time since he'd gone underground—might be listed in the hospital birth records, but couldn't be listed anywhere else. The guy in question had never filed a 1040, so the IRS would be eager to talk to him. But Homeland Security would be even more interested. A man without an identity, with no official record of his existence… if that didn't start the word "terrorist" flashing red in their heads, nothing would.
He might be able to straighten it out without doing time, but that would take years. And during those years, Vicky—who he considered his adopted child—and his natural child would be living with Gia's folks back in Iowa. Jack had never met them, but he was sure they were good people. And as such they'd want to keep their grandchildren out of the clutches of someone as unsavory as Jack. Vicky would be forever lost to him—with no blood tie, he was out of the picture for her—and he'd have to fight for his own child. A custody battle for the baby would be ugly and inevitably go against him.
The only way to prevent that horror show was to become a real person—be reborn as someone with a clean slate. Someone with no relatives, no legal baggage.
Abe's idea had been brilliant: Assume the identity of someone overseas, a dead someone who wasn't listed as such. A nobody with no family to come looking for him.
Where would one find such a man?
"What did he say? Did he find someone?"
Abe nodded as he slipped behind the counter and fished out a yellow legal pad.
"You're going to be Mirko Abdic."
"Who is?"
"Was. He was a Christian Croatian gofer used by an associate in Bosnia during the war—a street kid he took under his wing. Used him to deliver messages when the communications broke down—a frequent occurrence according to him. Young Mirko was captured and tortured and killed by some Muslim Serb militia. My associate tracked them down and learned his fate. Since no one was asking or even cared, he neglected to report Mirko's death."
"But was his birth recorded? You never know in these Third World countries."
"Recorded. My associate checked."
"Criminal record?"
Abe shook his head. "Never arrested. If he'd lived longer, I'm sure he'd have had a long one. And since he was born and baptized a Christian, he won't be scrutinized like a Muslim."
Jack thought about that. A few minutes ago the plan had been an abstraction, a possibility. Now that it was a reality, Jack wasn't sure how he felt. Relief that a solution had been found, but tinged with a certain inescapable dismay.
"This I know you know," Abe said, studying him, "but you have many changes ahead of you."
"Tell me about it. Everything is going to change."
"Not everything. You'll still be Jack, just with a different name."
"I might still be Jack, but I can't be Repairman Jack."
"And that will be a terrible shame."
Jack shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it's time to hang it up and start a new chapter."
"You're mixing metaphors already."
"Yeah, well, it's simply too dangerous to stay in the fix-it trade."
Not just to him, but to the family he was about to have.
He'd always tried to work his fix-its at arm's length, keeping his head down, never allowing himself to be seen. In the ideal fix, the target never even knew he'd been fixed. Just chalked it up to a run of bad luck and cursed the fates instead of Jack.
But every so often, no matter how carefully he planned, something went wrong. Like that old saying: Want to make God laugh?
But her point had been nailed home last November when she'd told him how a speeding truck had come within inches of splattering her all over Park Avenue.
Gia's death, as unthinkable as it seemed, and as remote a prospect as he could imagine, was not beyond the realm of possibility. Jack knew losing her would leave him emotionally devastated, but the ripples from her death would have far-reaching effects.
The baby would have no father of record. Jack—using his real surname for the ürst time since he'd gone underground—might be listed in the hospital birth records, but couldn't be listed anywhere else. The guy in question had never filed a 1040, so the IRS would be eager to talk to him. But Homeland Security would be even more interested. A man without an identity, with no official record of his existence… if that didn't start the word "terrorist" flashing red in their heads, nothing would.
He might be able to straighten it out without doing time, but that would take years. And during those years, Vicky—who he considered his adopted child—and his natural child would be living with Gia's folks back in Iowa. Jack had never met them, but he was sure they were good people. And as such they'd want to keep their grandchildren out of the clutches of someone as unsavory as Jack. Vicky would be forever lost to him—with no blood tie, he was out of the picture for her—and he'd have to fight for his own child. A custody battle for the baby would be ugly and inevitably go against him.
The only way to prevent that horror show was to become a real person—be reborn as someone with a clean slate. Someone with no relatives, no legal baggage.
Abe's idea had been brilliant: Assume the identity of someone overseas, a dead someone who wasn't listed as such. A nobody with no family to come looking for him.
Where would one find such a man?
"What did he say? Did he find someone?"
Abe nodded as he slipped behind the counter and fished out a yellow legal pad.
"You're going to be Mirko Abdic."
"Who is?"
"Was. He was a Christian Croatian gofer used by an associate in Bosnia during the war—a street kid he took under his wing. Used him to deliver messages when the communications broke down—a frequent occurrence according to him. Young Mirko was captured and tortured and killed by some Muslim Serb militia. My associate tracked them down and learned his fate. Since no one was asking or even cared, he neglected to report Mirko's death."
"But was his birth recorded? You never know in these Third World countries."
"Recorded. My associate checked."
"Criminal record?"
Abe shook his head. "Never arrested. If he'd lived longer, I'm sure he'd have had a long one. And since he was born and baptized a Christian, he won't be scrutinized like a Muslim."
Jack thought about that. A few minutes ago the plan had been an abstraction, a possibility. Now that it was a reality, Jack wasn't sure how he felt. Relief that a solution had been found, but tinged with a certain inescapable dismay.
"This I know you know," Abe said, studying him, "but you have many changes ahead of you."
"Tell me about it. Everything is going to change."
"Not everything. You'll still be Jack, just with a different name."
"I might still be Jack, but I can't be Repairman Jack."
"And that will be a terrible shame."
Jack shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it's time to hang it up and start a new chapter."
"You're mixing metaphors already."
"Yeah, well, it's simply too dangerous to stay in the fix-it trade."
Not just to him, but to the family he was about to have.
He'd always tried to work his fix-its at arm's length, keeping his head down, never allowing himself to be seen. In the ideal fix, the target never even knew he'd been fixed. Just chalked it up to a run of bad luck and cursed the fates instead of Jack.
But every so often, no matter how carefully he planned, something went wrong. Like that old saying: Want to make God laugh?
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