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?

6

If the damn book weren’t so valuable, Jack would have tossed it out the window months ago. But the Compendium of Srem was one of a kind and priceless.

And frustrating. Because all its pages were out of order. He’d been searching for references to the Lilitongue of Gefreda and had come across another of the so-called “Infernals”—an odd-shaped contraption called “the Cleaner.” He reached for a bookmark but by the time he turned back, the page had changed.

He slammed the cover shut and shoved it across the round top of the oak table, then rose and stalked around his apartment. Not much stalking room with all the old furniture, so he sat back down and opened the book again.

“I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

He turned to take in the slim blonde standing in the doorway to the bedroom. She wore beige panties and was fastening her bra behind her. He loved her sleek thighs and the swell of her hips.

He added a swagger to his tone. “Well, Miss Gia, I guess I must’ve worn you out.”

“I guess you did. But still . . .”

Sex had been especially hot tonight, and Gia had dozed off afterward, something she rarely did. She was almost back to normal after the hit and run. Her fine motor skills had returned and she was doing commercial art—mostly book covers—full-time and eking out some time for her own paintings. She’d even let Jack see some of her new stuff.

After she finished with the bra she padded over to the wingback chair where she’d left her sundress, a crazy turquoise pattern that did amazing things to her blue eyes. She slipped it over her head and was fully dressed again.

“Well, after being lifted to countless peaks of almost unendurable pleasure that shattered worlds and turned whole universes inside out—”

She laughed. “And turned your prose purple.”

“—and clove the earth beneath you—”

“Clove?”

“Past tense of cleave, right? But anyway, after countless peaks of—”

“I don’t know about countless.”

She stepped closer and slipped into the pair of sandals she’d left by the table.

“You were counting?”

She smiled. “I always count.”

“You do?”

She stood next to him and ran her fingers through his hair. It felt delicious.

“Well, sometimes I lose track.”

He glanced back at the Compendium. “Not like I lose track of these pages.”

“Still shuffling?”

He nodded. “I found something on the Infernals, but before I could dig in . . .” He shrugged.

“I’m glad it wasn’t doing that when we were looking up the Stain.” She caressed his nape, sending tingles down his back. “Still wondering about Tom?”

“Yeah.”

His missing older brother . . . where in the world was he? Jack had a feeling he was gone from this world. Gone for good.

“Me too.” Her fingertips moved to his beard. “I think I’m getting used to this.”

That was good news. She’d hated it at first.

He slipped his hand under her dress and ran his fingers up her silky inner thigh.

“You know . . .”

She stepped away. “It’s late.”

“I could be quick.”

She laughed. “Now there’s an offer.”

“Come on. Or we could just sit and talk. We didn’t get much chance earlier with you in Siestaville.”

Jack still hadn’t told her the truth about the hit and run—that it had been no accident. Maybe tonight . . .

“Wish I could, but I’m trying out Courtney Love as a babysitter and I’m not sure how she’ll work out.”

“Yeah, well, she can’t turn out worse than that Iggy Pop guy.”

“Seriously, I’ve left Vicky with this girl after school a few times and they get along beautifully. This is her first night gig and I don’t want to get on her mother’s bad side by getting her home late.”

He slapped his thighs and rose. “I know when I’m beaten.”

Some other time for the truth.

Yeah, right.

Coward.

7

After finding her a cab on Columbus Avenue, Jack returned and seated himself before his computer instead of the Compendium. He accessed the Web mail from his site. After sifting through the Cialis and penis-enlarger offers, he found an e-mail that had come through the site’s Contact function.

The subject line read: my sister is missing.

A missing person. Swell. The last missing person he’d looked for had been Timmy O’Brien’s teenage niece and that had led him into the worst days of his life.

No thanks.

But he opened it anyway. Just for a look.

Dear Jack—

I left you voice mail, now I’m trying this. My sister disappeared today. She left a note saying not to call the police but to get in touch with you instead. She said “Our Jack can find me.” I have no idea what she means by that but I’m honoring her wish. Please contact me ASAP.

EPC

He’d left a phone number at the bottom of the message.

Jack reread it with a growing sense of déjà vu. The words sounded chillingly familiar. And then he remembered . . .

About a year and a half ago a guy named Lewis Ehler had contacted him about his missing wife. Melanie had told her hubby not to call the cops but to call Jack and only Jack because he was the only one who would “understand.”

That hadn’t ended too well either. In fact, that had started the souring of almost everything in his life.

He checked the date on the message: less than an hour ago. That meant this guy’s sister had been gone less than twenty-four hours. Too soon to call the cops anyway.

Our Jack can find me . . .

He had no idea what that meant either, and didn’t particularly want to find out. Question was: Should he contact the guy and blow him off, or simply ignore him?

His instincts urged the latter course, but the “our Jack” thing would follow him around until he found out a little more.

He logged off and checked his voice mail. He had three accounts and found the guy’s message on the second, saying basically the same thing.

Oh, hell. Nothing better to do . . .

He dialed the number. Voice mail picked up on the fourth.

Swell. Voice-mail tag.

“This is Jack. You left me a message. Now I’m leaving you one: Be on the southwest corner of Columbus Avenue and Eightieth Street at noon tomorrow and we’ll maybe talk about your sister.”