Conspircaies

phantoms. But a bad guy who was a fellow conspiracy nut, maybe working alone or with one or two of his brother kooks—that sounded real. Jack could handle real.

'This Roma you mentioned—could he be a player in this?'

Lew shook his head. 'I can't see how. He's been very supportive of Mel's research, and she's often credited him publicly for his help.'

That still doesn't rule him out, Jack thought.

'Okay, then,' Jack said. 'If someone's got her, how did she call you?'

Lew looked away. 'She didn't exactly call.'

The guy looked positively embarrassed.

'Well then, how did she 'exactly' contact you?'

'Through the TV.'

'Oh, hell.'

'Listen to me,' Lew said hurriedly, looking at Jack now. 'Please, I'm not crazy. She spoke to me from my TV—I swear!'

'Right. And what were you watching—The X-Files?

'No. The Weather Channel.'

Jack laughed. 'Okay, who put you up to this? Abe? Julio? Whoever it is, you're good. You're very good.'

'No, listen to me,' he said, sounding frantic now. 'I know how it sounds, but this is no joke and I am completely sane. I was sitting there with The Weather Channel on, not paying it much attention—when I'm alone I use it like Muzak, you know? Just to have something on. And I'm sitting there having my after-dinner coffee when suddenly I hear Melanie's voice. I jump up and look around but she's not there. Then I realize it's coming from the TV. The weather maps are running but the sound is gone and Melanie is talking to me, but she's talking like she's on a one-way line and only has a short time to speak.'

'What did she say? Exactly.'

Lew put his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. 'Let me see if I can get this right. She said, 'Lew? Lew? Can you hear me? Listen carefully. I'm okay now, but I need help. I'm not where you can find me. Only Repairman Jack can find me. Only he will understand. You can find him on the Internet. Remember: only Repairman Jack and no one else. Hurry, Lew. Please hurry.' And then the weatherman's voice came back on and Mel was gone.'

Jack hesitated. Every so often he ran into a potential customer who was missing a few buttons on his remote. The best thing was to let them down easy and not return any future calls.

'Well, Lew, I wish I could help you but—'

'Look, I'm not crazy. For a while I had my doubts, and I'm sure I was staring at that TV screen just the way you're staring at me now. I waited for the voice to return but it never came. So I did what she'd told me: I looked for you on the Internet. I've never heard of you, yet when I did a search for your name in Yahoo, 'repairmanjack.com' popped right up. That got me thinking that maybe I didn't imagine her voice.'

'Well, you could have—' Jack began, but suddenly Lew was leaning over the table, reaching across it with pleading hands, his Adam's apple bobbing like a piston.

'Please—she says you're the only one who can do it. Don't turn me away. If you want to think I'm crazy, fine, but humor me, okay? Something has happened to Melanie and I'll pay you anything you want to get her back.'

Tears rimmed Lew's eyes as he finished.

Jack didn't know what to say. The guy didn't seem crazy, and didn't strike him as a put-on artist, and he did appear to be genuinely hurting. And if his wife was truly missing, whether through her own doing or taken against her will…well, maybe Jack could fix it for him.

And beyond that was the nagging question: If Lew's wife had indeed contacted him—though Jack would never buy the through-the-TV story—why had she stipulated Repairman Jack and no one else?

Jack knew the question would go on biting at his ankles indefinitely if he didn't look into this.

'Okay, Lew,' he said. 'I'll probably regret this, but I'll see what I can do for you. I'll—'

'Oh, thank you! Thank you!'

'Just hear me out first. I'll give it a week, max. Five thousand cash up front, non-negotiable, non-returnable. If I find her, it's another five thou, cash, on the spot.'

Jack was hoping the price might put him off, but Lew didn't bat an eye.

'Okay,' he said without an instant's hesitation. 'Fine. Done. When do you want it?'

Must be good money in the paper cylinder business.

'Today. And I also want to go through any papers Melanie might have left around your place. Where do you live?'

'Out on the Island. Shoreham.'

Jeez, that was a haul—almost out to the fork—but Jack didn't have much else on the slate for the day, so…

'All right. Give me the address and I'll see you out there in a couple of hours. Have the down payment with you.'

Lew glanced at his watch. 'Okay. I've got to move if I'm going to make it to the bank.' He pulled out a card and wrote on the back. 'There's my home address. Take the LIE—'

'I'll find it. Let's make it five o'clock. I want to beat the rush.'

'Fine. Five o'clock.' He reached across the table and grabbed Jack's right hand in both of his. 'And thank you —thanks a million. You don't know what this means to me.'

I'm sure I don't, Jack thought. But I got a feeling I'm going to find out.

Only Repairman Jack can find me. Only he will understand.

Why me?

4

'So why should you call them nuts?' Abe said. 'We are surrounded by conspiracies.'

Jack had swung by the Isher Sports Shop to say hello to Abe Grossman, a graying Humpty Dumpty of a man in his late fifties with a forehead that went on almost forever, and Jack's oldest friend in the city. In the world. They sat in their usual positions: Jack leaning on the customer side of the scarred wooden counter, Abe perched on his stool behind it, and around them, a gallimaufry of sporting goods tossed carelessly onto sagging shelves lining narrow aisles or hung from ceiling hooks, all in perpetual, undusted disarray. A Sports Authority outlet designed and maintained by Oscar Madison. One of the reasons Jack liked coming here was that it made his apartment look neat and roomy.

'You know the root of the word?' Abe said. 'Conspire: it means to breathe together. The world is rife with all sorts of people and institutions breathing together. Just take a look—' He broke off and cocked his head toward the pale blue parakeet perched on his stained left shoulder. 'What's that, Parabellum? No, we can't do that. Jack is a friend.'

Parabellum tilted his beak toward Abe's ear and looked as if he were whispering into it.

'Well, most of the time he is,' Abe said, then straightened his head and looked at Jack. 'See? Conspiracies everywhere. Just now, right in front of you, Parabellum tried to engage me in a conspiracy against you for not bringing him a snack. I should be worried if I were you.'

Usually Jack brought something edible, but he'd neglected to this time.

'You mean I can't drop in without bringing an offering?' Jack said. 'This was a spur of the moment thing.'

Abe looked offended. 'For me—feh!—I shouldn't care. It's for Parabellum. He gets hungry this time of the day.'

Jack pointed to the Technicolor droppings that festooned the shoulders of Abe's half-sleeve white shirt.

'Looks like Parabellum's had plenty to eat already. You sure he doesn't have colitis or something?'

'He's a fine healthy bird. It's just that he gets upset by strangers—and by so-called friends who don't bring him an afternoon snack.'

Jack glanced pointedly at Abe's bulging shirt front. 'I've seen where the bird's snacks usually end up.'

'If you're going to start on my weight again, you should save your breath.'

'Wasn't going to say a word.'