Repairman Jack Author Note

Scanned by Highroller.

Proofed by Highroller.

Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet. Legacies by F. Paul Wilson

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For technical advice, many thanks to Simson Garfinkel, writer, commentator on the wired life, and honest-to-God, real-life building hacker (retired). Jack uses a variation on the Garfinkel Method of elevator surfing.

To my wife and first reader, Mary.

To Joe Bogdan, MD, and Daphne Keshishian, MD, for sharing their experiences with pediatric AIDS. To the WB store managers of District 1: remember September 26, 1996, in Albany? Pages 67-82 are for you.

And for their generous and expert editorial help: Elizabeth Monteleone's sharp eye for character detail, Steven Spruill's psychological insights, Deidre Lonza's copyediting skills and candy savvy, and Al Zuckerman, the maestro.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Jack is back.

Of all my seventeen novels, none has generated more mail than The Tomb . It's been in print since 1984, and I still get a steady stream of letters asking the same question: When are you bringing back Repairman Jack?

The truth is, I've brought him back half a dozen times in short stories and novelettes, and as a supporting character in Nighiworld . But never in another novel of his own. Why no Repairman Jack novel since The Tomb ? Lots of reasons. Prime among them is that Jack is very special to me. I didn't want to abuse him, so I held him back, letting him loose for a quick hit, then tucking him away again, waiting for the right set of circumstances where he could range free for an entire novel.

Legacies is that novel.

And the nicest thing is, I found I still like working with Jack. We're going to do this again sometime. But Page 1

I promise not to wait another decade and a half before I get down to it. (Neither of us is getting any younger, you know.)

NB: There is no Center for Children with AIDS on Seventh Avenue near St. Vincent's. I made it up. Tragically, I did not have to make up the kids who need such a facility.http://www.repairmanjack.com FRIDAY

1.

"It's okay!" Alicia shouted as the cab jerked to the left to swing around a NYNEX truck plodding up Madison Avenue. "I'm not in a rush!"

The drivercurly dark hair, a Saddam Hussein mustache, and swarthy skindidn't seem to hear. He jogged his machine two lanes left, then three lanes right, hitting the brakes and gunning the engine, hitting and gunning, jerking Alicia back and forth, left and right in the rear seat, then swerving to avoid another yellow maniacmobile trying a similar move through the morning traffic. Her cab's net gain: one car length. Maybe.

Alicia rapped on the smudged, scratched surface of the plastic divider. "Slow down, dammit! I want to arrive in one piece."

But the driver ignored her. If anything, he upped his speed. He seemed to be engaged in a private war against every other car in Manhattan. And God help you if you were a pedestrian. Alicia should have been used to this. She'd grown up in Manhattan. She hadn't been here for a while, though. She'd moved away at eighteen for college and had stayed away for medical school and her residencies in pediatrics and infectious diseases. She hadn't wanted to come backwhat with that man and her half brother Thomas still living herebut St. Vincent's had made her the proverbial offer she couldn't refuse.

So now, after a little over a year, she was still getting used to the city's changes. Who'd have believed they'd be able to scour off the grim sleaziness that she'd assumed to be permanently etched on Times Square?

Cabbies too. What had happened to them? They'd always been pushy, brazen driversyou had to be to get around in this citybut this new crop were maniacs. Finally they hit the Forties.

Almost there, Alicia thought. Maybe I'll live to see another sunset after all. But as they neared Forty-eighth she noticed her cab was still in the center lane, accelerating. At first she thought he was going to miss her turn off, then she saw the opening: two lanes to the right, behind a graffiti-coated delivery truck and just ahead of a bus pulling away from the curb. Page 2

"You're not!" Alicia cried. "Please tell me you're not going to try to" He did. And he made itjust barelybut not without forcing the bus to slam on its brakes and give him a deafening blast from its horn.

The cabbie floored it along the open stretch of Forty-eighth, then swerved violently rightward toward the curb. The cab jerked to a halt at the address Alicia had given him when she'd slid into its rear seat down in Greenwich Village.

"Six-seventy-five," he said.

Alicia sat there fuming, wishing she were strong enough to break through the partition and throttle him. She wasn't. But she could give him a taste of his own medicinein reverse. Slowly, she inched toward the curbside door, opened it with the greatest of care, and edged herself out. Then she took out her wallet and began to count her change carefully. She had about two dollars' worth. She picked out a dollar-seventy-five in dimes and nickels.

"Come on, lady," the cabbie said, leaning over the passenger seat and looking up at her through the window. "I haven't got all day."

Alicia made no sign she'd heard him as she slowly pulled five singles from her wallet, one at a time. Finally, when she had exactly six-seventy-five in her hand, she handed it through the window. And waited.

It didn't take longthree seconds, topsbefore the driver popped out his door and glared at her over the roof of his cab.

"Ay! Where is tip?" He pronounced it teep .

"Pardon me?" Alicia said sweetly. "I can't hear you."

"My tip, lady! Where is it?"

"I'm sorry," she said, holding a hand to her ear. "Your lips appear to be moving, but I can't hear a word you're saying. Something about my slip?"

"My tip, goddammit! My tip! My tip! My fucking tip !"

"Did I enjoy my trip?" she said, then let her voice go icy. "On a scale of one to ten, I enjoyed it zero exactly the amount of your tip."

He made a move to come around the cab, probably figuring he could intimidate this slight, pale woman with the fine features and the glossy black hair, but Alicia held her ground. He gave her a venomous look and slipped back into his seat.

As she turned away, she heard the cabbie shout an inarticulate curse, slam his door, and burn rubber as he tore off.

We're even, she thought, her anger fading. But what an awful way to start a beautiful fall day. Page 3

She put it behind her. She'd been looking forward to this meeting with Leo Weinstein, and she wasn't going to let some crazy cabbie upset her.

At last she'd found an attorney who wasn't afraid to tackle a big law firm. All of the others she'd triedthose in her limited price rangehad reacted with a little too much awe when they'd heard the name Hinchberger, Rainey & Guran. Not Weinstein. Hadn't fazed him in the least. He'd read through the will and within a day came up with half a dozen suggestions he seemed to believe would put the big boys on the defensive.

"Your father left you that house," he'd said. "No way they can keep it from you. Just leave it to me." And so she'd done just that. Now she was going to see what he'd accomplished with the blizzard of paper he'd fired at Hinchberger, Rainey & Guran.

She heard a honk behind her and stiffened. If it was that cab She turned and relaxed as she saw Leo Weinstein waving through the open window of a silver Lexus. He was saying something she couldn't catch. She stepped closer.

"Good morning," she said.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "The LIE was jammed. Just let me pull into the garage down there and I'll be right with you."

"No problem."

She was almost to the front door of the building where Cutter and Weinstein had their offices when she was staggered by a thunderous noise. The shock wave slammed against her back like a giant hand and almost knocked her off her feet.

Turning she saw a ball of flame racing skyward from the middle of the block, and flaming pieces of metal crashing to the ground all about her. Cars were screeching to a halt as pedestrians dove for the pavement amid glittering shards of glass tumbling from windows up and down the block. Alicia jumped back as a blackened, smoking chunk of a car trunk lid landed in front of her and rolled to her feet. An icy coil of horror tightened around her throat as she recognized the Lexus insignia. She craned her neck to look for Leo's car, but it was gone.

"Oh, no!" she cried. "Oh, my God, no !"

She hurried forward a few steps on wobbly knees to see if there was anything she could do, but the car nothing was left where it had been just burning asphalt.

"Oh, God, Leo!" she gasped. "Oh, I'm so sorry!"

She couldn't breathe. What had happened to all the air? She had to get away from here. She forced her stricken body to turn and blunder back up the sidewalk, away from the smoke, the flames, the wreckage. She stopped when she reached Madison Avenue. She leaned against a traffic light Page 4

post and gulped air. When she'd caught her breath, she looked back. Already the vultures were gathering, streaming toward the flames, wondering what happened. And not too far away, sirens.

She couldn't stay here. She couldn't help Weinstein and she didn't want to be listed as a witness. The police might get it into their heads that she was hiding something, and they might start looking into her background, her family. She couldn't allow that. Couldn't stand it. Alicia didn't look for a taxithe thought of being confined was unbearable. She needed space, light, air. She turned downtown.

Poor Leo!

She sobbed as she started walking, moving as fast as her low-heeled shoes would allow. But even if she'd worn her sneakers she would not have been able to outrun the guilt, the terrible suspicion that she was somehow responsible for Leo Weinstein's death. 2.

"Thank God you're here!" Raymond said as Alicia walked though the Center's employee entrance. "I've been beeping you since eight o'clock. Why didn't?" His voice trailed off as he looked at her. "Christ, Alicia, you look like absolute shit."

Actually, that was a generous assessment of how she felt, but she didn't want to talk about it.

"Thank you, Raymond. You don't know the half of it." She didn't head for her office, but toward the front reception area instead. Raymond paced her.

"Where are you going?"

"Just give me a minute, will you, Raymond?" she snapped. "I'll be right back." She regretted being so short with him, but she felt stretched to the breaking point. One more tug in the wrong direction

She was vaguely aware of Tiffany saying hello as she hurried past the reception desk on her way to the front door. Stepping aside to allow a middle-aged woman and her two grandchildren to enter, Alicia peered through the glass at the street outside, looking for the gray car. She was sure it had followed her back from Forty-eighth Street. At least she thought it had. A gray carwhat would you call it? A sedan? She didn't know a damn thing about cars. Couldn't tell a Ford from a Chevy. But whatever it was, she'd kept catching sight of this gray car passing her as she walked. It would turn a block or two ahead of her, and disappear for a few minutes, then cruise by again. Never too close. Never too slow. Never a definite sign of interest in her. But always there . She scanned Seventh Avenue outside, half expecting to see it roll by. Across the street and slightly downtown, she checked the curb in front of her least favorite part of the St. Vincent's complex. The Page 5

O'Toole Building squatted at the corner of Twelfth. Its white-tiled, windowless, monolithic facade did not fit here in the Village. It looked as if a clumsy giant had accidentally dropped the modernistic monstrosity on his way to someplace like Minneapolis.

No gray car, though. But with all the gray cars in Manhattan, how could she be sure? Her nerves were getting to her. She was becoming paranoid. But who could blame her after this morning?

She headed back to her office. Raymond picked her up in the hall.

" Now can we talk?"

"Sorry I snapped at you."

"Don't be silly, honey. Nobody snaps at me. Nobody dares ." Alicia managed a smile.

Raymondnever "Ray," always "Raymond"Denson, NP had been one of the original caregivers at the Center for Children with AIDS. The Center had MDs who were called "director" and "assistant director," but it was this particular nurse practitioner who ran the place. Alicia doubted the Center would survive if he left. Raymond knew all the ins and outs of the day-to-day functions, all the soft touches for requisitions, knew where all the bodies were buried, so to speak. He clocked in at around fifty, she was sureGod help you if you asked his agebut he kept himself young-looking: close cropped air, neat mustache, trim, athletic body.

"And about my beeper," she said, "I turned it off. Dr. Collings was covering for me. You knew that." He paced her down the narrow hallway to her office. All the walls in the Center had been hurriedly erected and the haste showed. Slap-dash taping and spackling, and a quick coat of bright yellow paint that was already wearing through in places. Well, the decor was the least important thing here.

"I know," he said, "but this wasn't medical. This wasn't even administrative. This was fucking criminal." Something in Raymond's voice his eyes. He was furious. But not at her. But then, what? A premonition chilled her. Were her personal troubles going to spill over into the Center now? As she continued walking she noted knots of staffnurses, secretaries, volunteersall with their heads together, all talking animatedly.

All furious.

An icy gale blew through her.

"All right, Raymond. Lay it on me."

"The toys," he said. "Some rat bastard motherfucker stole the toys." Page 6

Astonished, disbelieving, Alicia stopped and stared at him. No way. This had to be some cruel, nasty joke. But Raymond was anything but cruel.

And were those tears in the corners of his eyes?

"The donations? Don't tell me"

But he was nodding and biting his upper lip.

"Aw, no."

"Every last one."

Alicia felt her throat tighten. Strangely enoughand she damned herself for itthis was hitting her harder than Leo Weinstein's death.

A man she knew, a man with a wife and family was dead, and yet and yet this felt so much worse. She'd met Weinstein only a couple of times. But these toys she and Raymondespecially Raymondhad been collecting them for months, sending staff and volunteers to forage all through the city for donorscompanies, stores, individuals, anybody. The response had been slow at firstwho was thinking about Christmas gifts in October? But once Thanksgiving was past, the giving had picked up. Last night they'd had a storeroom full of dolls, trucks, rockets, coloring books, action figures the works. This morning

"How?"

"Pried open the outer door and took them away through the alley'. Must have had some sort of panel truck to hold everything."

The ground floor of this building had been a business supply store before being converted to the Center for Children with AIDS. The former owners probably had loaded their delivery trucks the same way the thieves had stolen the gifts.

"Isn't that door alarmed? Aren't all the doors alarmed?" Raymond nodded. "Supposed to be. But the alarm didn't go off." Poor Raymond. He'd put his whole heart into this effort. Alicia reached her office, tossed her bag onto her desk, and dropped into her chair. She was still shaken. And her feet were killing her. She closed her eyes. Only halfway through the morning and she felt exhausted.

"Did anything like this ever happen to Dr. Landis?" Raymond shook his head. "Never."

"Great. They wait until she's gone, then they strike." Page 7

"I think that's all for the best, don't you think? I mean, considering her condition." Alicia had to agree. "Yeah, I guess you're right." Dr. Rebecca Landis was the director of the Centerat least she had the title. But she was in her third trimester and developing preeclamptic symptoms. Her OB had ordered her to stay home in bed. This only a week after the assistant director had left to take a position at Beth Israel, leaving the place to be "directed" by Alicia and the other pediatric infectious disease specialist, Ted Collings. Ted had begged off any directing duties, claiming a wife and a new baby. And so the burden of administrative duties had fallen on the Center's newbie: Alicia Clayton, M.D.

"Any chance it was an inside job?"

"The police are looking into it," Raymond said.

"The police?"

"Yes. Been here and gone. I made out the report."

"Thank you, Raymond." Good old Raymond. She couldn't imagine how he could be more efficient.

"What do they think about our chances of getting those toys back?"

"They're going to 'work on it.' But just to make sure they do, I want to call the papers. That okay with you?"

"Yeah, good idea. Make this a high-profile crime. Maybe that'll put extra pressure on the cops."

"Great. I've already spoken to the Post . The News and the Times will have people here later this morning."

"Oh. Well good. You'll see them, okay?"

"If you wish."

"I wish. Tell them it's not just stealing, and it's not just stealing from little kidsit's stealing from kids who've already got less than nothing, who're carrying a death sentence in their bloodstreams and may not even be here next Christmas."

"That's beautiful. Maybe you should"

"No, please, Raymond. I can't."

Feeling utterly miserable, she tuned out for a moment.

"What else can happen today?" she muttered. Bad news always comes in threes, doesn't it? Raymond still hovered beyond her desk. "Something with that 'family matter' you've been dealing with?" he said, then addedpointedly: "All by yourself?"

He knew she'd been seeing lawyers and had been preoccupied lately, and he seemed to take it Page 8

personally that she wouldn't discuss it with him. She felt sorry for him. He freely discussed his personal life with hershe knew more about it than she really cared tobut she couldn't reciprocate. Her own personal life was pretty much a void, and the toxic disaster area that posed as her family was not something Alicia wanted to share, even with someone as sympathetic and nonjudgmental as Raymond.

"Yes," she said. "That 'family matter.' But that's not as important as getting those toys back. We had a super Christmas set up for those kids, and I. don't want it going down the tubes. I want those toys back, Raymond, and dammitget me the police commissioner's number. I'm going to call him myself. I'm going to call him every day until those toys are back."

"I'll look it up right now," he said, and was gone, closing the door behind him. Alicia folded her arms on the scarred top of her beat-up old desk and dropped her forehead onto them. Everything seemed to be spinning out of control. She felt so helpless, so damn impotent . Systems always these huge, complex, lumbering systems to deal with. The Center's toys were gone. She'd have to depend on the police to get them back. But they had their own agenda, their own higher priorities, and so she'd have to wait until they got around to hers, if they ever did. She could call the commissioner until she wore out the buttons on her phone, but he'd probably never take the call.

And the will had said the house was hers, but Thomas was using the system's labyrinth to keep it from her. On her own, Alicia would have been swallowed up by his legal pit bulls, so she'd been forced to hire someone to fend them off.

Leo oh, God, poor Leo. She could still hear the blast, see the flames. Nothing had been left of him after that explosion.

A cold sick dread seeped through her. When's my turn? If I keep pushing Thomas and whoever's backing him, will I be next? She pounded her fist on the desk. Damn them !

She wanted one of those big samurai bladesa dai-katanato cut right to the heart of

"Excuse me."

Alicia looked up. One of the volunteers, a pretty blonde in her early thirties, stood halfway through the doorway, looking at her.

"I knocked but I guess you didn't hear me."

Alicia straightened and shook back her hair. She put on her professional face.

"Sorry. I was a million miles away, dreaming about chasing down the rats who stole those presents." The woman slipped her svelte body the rest of the way through and shut the door behind her. Alicia wished she had a body like that.

She'd seen her around a lot. Sometimes she brought her daughter with hercute little girl, maybe seven or Page 9

eight. What were their names?

"You won't have to go a million miles to find them," the woman said. "One or two should cover it."

"You're probably right," Alicia said.

Her name her name what was her name?

Got it . "Gia, isn't it?"

She smiled. "Gia DiLauro."

A dazzling smile. Alicia wished she had a smile like that. And Gia ... what a great name. Alicia wished Enough.

"Yes, you and your daughter"

"Vicky."

"Right. Vicky. You donate a lot of time here."

Gia shrugged. "Can't think of a place that needs it more."

"You've got that right."

The Center was a black hole of need.

"Can I talk to you a minute?"

She looked at Gia more closely and saw that her eyes were red. Had she been crying?

"Sure." She had no time, but this woman donated so much of hers to the Center, the least Alicia could do was give her a few minutes. "Sit down. Are you okay?"

"No," she said, gliding into the chair. Her eyes got redder. "I'm so angry I could I don't like thinking about what I'd like to do to the scum that stole those toys."

"It's okay," Alicia said. "The police are working on it."

"But you're not holding your breath, right?"

Alicia shrugged and sighed. "No. I guess not. But they're all we've got."

"Not necessarily," Gia said.

"What do you mean?"

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I know someone" Page 10

3.

Jack kept an eye out for Dwight Frye on the TV screen as he scrolled through the messages left on the Repairman Jack Web site.

He was celebrating his discovery of the 1931 version of the Maltese Falcon with a Dwight Frye film festival. He had the Maltese Falcon running in the front room of his apartment. Frye played the role of Wilmer Cook in this one, and for Jack's money, he out-psychoed Elisha Cook's portrayal in the later John Huston version. But Ricardo Cortez was on the screen now, and he wasn't such a hot Sam Spade. Back to the World Wide Web.

Most of the questions on Jack's home page were about refrigerators and microwaves, which he didn't mind. Web wanderers who stumbled onto his page thought he was some sort of appliance answer man. Fine. After no replies to their questions, they'd delete his URL from their bookmarks. But this one from a guy named "Jorge."

I BEEN RIPPED OFF. CAN'T GET MONEY OWED TO ME FOR WORK I DO. CAN'T GO ANYWHERE ELSE. CAN YOU FIX?

Yeah. That sounded like business.

Jack typed in a reply to Jorge's E-mail address:

SEND ME YOUR PHONE #. I'LL BE IN TOUCH.

RJ

He'd call the guy and see what this was about. If he was having trouble with his bookie, tough. But he'd said it was money for "work." So maybe Jorge was a potential customer. The phone rang but Jack let the machine pick up. He heard his outgoing message " Pinocchio Productions I'm out at the moment. Leave a message after the beep" then:

" Jack, this is Dad. Are you there ?" A pause as he waited for Jack to pick up. Jack closed his eyes and didn't move. He felt bad about leaving his father hanging, but he wasn't up to another conversation with him right now. " All right when you get in, give me a call. I came across another great opportunity for you down here ."

Jack exhaled when he heard the click of the connection breaking.

"Dad," he said softly, "you're making me crazy."

His father had moved down to Florida a few months ago and Jack had thought it was a good idea at the time. Better to be a retired widower down there than in Burlington County, New Jersey. But as soon as Dad had settled in, he began seeing all sorts of opportunities for Jack. His older brother and sister were both professionals, pillars of their respective communities. They were set. But Jack Dad still saw his younger son as unfinished business.

Page 11

His brother and sister had given up on him long ago. The annual Christmas card was the extent of their contact. But not Dad. He never gave up. He didn't want to go to his grave thinking his prodigal dropout son was living hand to mouth in New York as an appliance repairman. I've probably got more socked away than you do, Dad. He winced as he remembered their last conversation. You've got to see this place, Jack. It's growing like crazy a gold mine for someone like you. You establish yourself here as a reliable repair service, and in no time you'll have a fleet of trucks all over the county

Be still my heart, he thought. A fleet of trucks, and maybe, if I play my cards right, the cover of Entrepreneur magazine.

Jack had been begging off, hoping Dad would get the message, but obviously he hadn't. When Jack called back, he was going to have to tell his father point-blank: No way was he leaving New York. The Jets would be wearing new Super Bowl rings before he moved to Florida. Then again, if things didn't pick up, maybe he'd have to rethink that. He'd just checked the answering machine in the drop on Tenth Avenue. Nothing there. Business had been kind of slow lately. He was getting bored.

And when he got bored, he bought things. He'd picked up his latest treasure from the post office just this morning.

He rose and rubbed his eyes. The computer screen tended to bother them. He stood about five-eleven, maybe six foot if he stretched. He had a tight wiry build, dark brown hair, lips on the thin side, and mild brown eyes. Jack worked very hard at looking average. He removed the clock from its packing to admire it again. A genuine Shmoo pendulette alarm clock. In beautiful condition. He ran his fingers over its smooth, white, un-marred ceramic surface, touching the eyes and whiskers on the creature's smiling face. It had come in its original box and looked brand-new.

Now was as good a time as any to hang it on the wall. But where? His walls were already crowded with framed official membership certificates in the Shadow and Doc Savage fan clubs, Captain America's Sentinels of Liberty, the Junior Justice Society of America, the David Harding CounterSpy Junior Agents Club, and the Don Winslow Creed.

What can I say? he thought I'm a joiner.

His apartment was crowded with wavy-grained Victorian golden oak furniture. The wall shelves sagged under the weight of the neat stuff he'd accumulated over the years, and every horizontal surface on the hutch, the secretary, the claw-and-ball-footed end tables were cluttered as well. And then he saw where the clock could go: right above the pink Shmoo planter which still didn't have anything planted in it.

Page 12

He was just about to look for his hammer when the phone rang again. Dad, give me a break, will you? But it wasn't his father.

"Jack? It's Gia. You there?"

Something in her voice Jack snatched up the handset.

"Always here for you. What's up?"

"I'm waiting for a cab. Just wanted to make sure you were in."

"Something wrong?"

"I'll tell you when I get there."

And then a click.

Slowly, Jack replaced the handset. Definitely upset. He wondered what was wrong. Nothing with Vicky, he hoped. But she would have told him that. Well, he'd find out soon enough. The West Village to the Upper West Side wasn't too bad a trip this time of day. No matter what the circumstance, an unexpected visit from Gia was a treat. He thought back on their stormy, off-again, on-again relationship. He'd been crushed and thought it was off forever when she'd found out how he earned his livingor thought she had. She'd concluded that he was some sort of hit man, which was as wrong as could be, but even after she'd learned what he really did, even after he'd used those skills to save her daughter Vicky's life, she still didn't approve. But at least she'd come back to him. Jack didn't know where he'd be without Gia and Vicky. A short while later he heard her footsteps on the stairs leading to his third-floor apartment. Jack turned the knob that retracted the four-way bolt system, and opened the door. The sight of Gia standing on the landing started that warm funny twitch he got deep inside every time he saw her. Her short blond hair, her perfect skin, her blue eyesJack felt he could stand and stare at her face for hours.

But right now her features were strained, her usual tight composure seemed to be slipping, her normally flawless complexion looked blotchy.

"Gia," Jack said, wincing at the pain in her eyes as he pulled her inside. "What is it?" And then she was clinging to him, loosing a torrent about Christmas toys being stolen from the AIDS kids. She was sobbing by the time she finished.

"Hey, hey," Jack said, tightening his arms around her. "It'll be all right." He knew Gia wasn't much for emotional displays. Yeah, she was Italian, but northern Italianthe blood running in her veins was probably more Swiss than anything else. For her to be sobbing like this she had Page 13

to be hurting something fierce.

"It's just the heartlessness of it," she said, sniffing. "How could somebody do such a thing? And how can you be so damn calm about it!"

Uh-oh.

"I hear anger looking for a target. I know this has really cut you deep, Gia, but I'm not the bad guy here."

"Oh, I know, I know. It's justyou've never been down there. Never seen these kids. Never held them. Jack, they've got nothing. Not even a parent who cares, let alone a future. We were collecting those toys so they'd have a nice Christmas, a great Christmasthe last Christmas for a lot of them. And now" Another sob.

Jeez, this was awful. He had to say something, do something, anything so she wouldn't feel like this.

"Do you know what the presents were? I mean, do you have some sort of a list.

Contact this candidate