Point of Contact

Up ahead, Jack saw police emergency lights flashing on the side of the road. The right lane was closed. Bright red flares burned. Between wiper blade swipes, Jack made out two cars crunched together. Traffic tried to merge left, including Daniel.

“Stupid drivers make a big wreck! Lah.”

“Any chance that cyclone will reach Singapore?” Jack asked.

“Here? No way. A cyclone can’t reach here. We’re on the equator. There isn’t a Coriolis effect. That’s what makes the winds spin like a funnel. Typhoons and cyclones can’t form below five degrees north or south latitude. Singapore is one-point-three-five latitude north. No problem.”

“That’s good to know.”

Daniel rolled down his window, and flapped an arm and cursed at a Lexus that wouldn’t let him in. His face and his arm got soaking wet. The Lexus finally let him in. He merged over. He wiped his face with one hand.

“You know a lot about weather,” Jack said, still trying to be friendly — and calm the kid down. But he did seem to know a lot for an Uber driver.

“I have a minor in meteorology. Fascinating subject.”

“That’s cool.”

“Cool, sure. But no jobs in weather. That’s why I study logistics.”

The traffic stopped again. A Singapore policewoman blocked their lane while she waved a tow truck up. Daniel turned around, frowning.

“Vamei. I forgot about Vamei.”

“What’s ‘Vamei’?”

“In 2001, Typhoon Vamei formed at one-point-four degrees latitude north. Came crashing into Singapore. Very bad.”

“I thought you said cyclones couldn’t form below five degrees north.”

“They can’t. But Vamei did! Lah.”

Jack frowned.

“No worries! Java Sea is south, not north. No typhoons. You’ll see. Just a little rain!”

“You’re the meteorologist.” It suddenly struck Jack that he hadn’t stayed in touch with Paul. He was probably worried. He hit Paul’s contact number.

“Hullo?”

“Paul, it’s me, Jack. Sorry if I woke you.”

“No problem. What time is it?”

“Late.”

“Where are you?”

“On the way home. Don’t wait up.”

“Everything okay?”

Jack thought about telling him everything, but what would be the purpose? He’d just killed four men and for all that blood didn’t find anything. And nearly getting killed in a stolen vehicle? All telling Paul everything would do is blow his cover with him — a clear and useless violation of his status with The Campus. So he lied.

“Yeah, everything’s okay. We’ll talk later.” Jack hung up.

* * *

By the time they slowed to a stop on the street behind Jack’s guesthouse, the traffic had disappeared and the rain had let up quite a bit.

“See? No cyclone!” Daniel said, as Jack tapped on his Uber app, adding a tip that doubled Daniel’s fare.

“Maybe you should be a meteorologist after all.”

“No way. No jobs.” Daniel checked the tip. “Hey, thanks for that. It helps a lot. School ain’t cheap.”

“My pleasure. Thanks for the ride.”

“You need another ride, you send for me, okay?”

“A ride or a weather report, I’ll be calling you.”

Daniel beamed. “Okay!”

Jack hobbled toward the neighbor’s backyard fence as Daniel sped away, his tires hissing on the wet asphalt.

* * *

Jack heard Paul before he saw him. His bedroom door was cracked open. Paul was snoring again. Jack shuffled down the hall just to make sure. Paul was on top of his bed, arms splayed wide, mouth agape, a rivulet of drool sliding down his cheek.

Jack shook his head, smiling, and headed for his bedroom. He was wet, sore, and filthy. Time for a hot shower.

Except he was too damned tired.

He barely managed to strip off his wet clothes before crawling into bed. He passed out as soon as his throbbing head hit the pillow.

52

Paul didn’t feel good.

In fact, he felt like hell. His head throbbed and his stomach was queasy. He’d been in bed when Jack called before. Now the alarm was screaming at him.

Feeling this bad, Paul thought he’d caught pneumonia. But he quickly realized it was the Bushmills that had put his head in a vise and his stomach on a merry-go-round.

He closed his eyes. The whirlies began again. He got dizzy in just a couple seconds and his knotted stomach turned from queasy to pre-projectile. He forced his eyes open and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

Better.

But still not good.

Tea. That would be good.

Coffee. Black coffee.

Better.

He scratched his ample gut and stood on his wobbly legs, wiggled his feet into his slippers, and headed downstairs for the kitchen.

He leaned heavily on the handrail as he made his way down the staircase, his mind a welter of confusion. Where had Jack been all night? At the warehouse? Or somewhere else? But this was just the latest thing. What about the other day when he came home from his night out with Lian Fairchild? He’d obviously been in some kind of a fight. Jack definitely carried himself like a guy who was used to that sort of thing, even if he never bragged about it.