Repairman Jack [05]-Hosts by F. Paul Wilson

Sandy felt like saying, I thought you didn't read The Light , but he wanted to keep McCann on his side. He could be a valuable resource.
    "I'm sorry, Detective. I didn't know. I don't know anything about guns."
    "Well, you should start learning."
    "Look, I'm sorry. I'll be more careful in the future."
    "See that you are."
    And then he hung up, but Sandy thought he'd detected the slightest softening of the detective's tone before the connection broke. Good. He couldn't afford to burn any bridges. And McCann hadn't even mentioned the photo.
    The intercom buzzed. Someone calling from the foyer. What now?
    "Yeah," he said, depressing the button.
    "Is this Sandy Palmer?" said a woman's voice. Young, Tentative.
    "That's me. Who's this?"
    "Beth Abrams. From the… the train last night?"
    Oh, wow!
    "Beth! Come on up!"
    He buzzed her in, then surveyed his apartment. What a sty! He scrambled around picking up the dirty clothes and junk mail that littered the place. He tossed everything into the bedroom and closed the door on it. The place still looked a shambles.
    Should've showered, he thought. He gave each armpit a quick sniff. Not great, but not offensive.
    The printouts! Shit, he didn't want her seeing those. He slipped them into a manila envelope just as she knocked. He pulled the door open and she looked awful as she stood on the threshold, her pale face tear-streaked and shadowy half moons under her big dark eyes.
    "Beth," he said. "How in the world—?"
    And then she was tight against him, her arms locked around his back, sobbing her heart out. Oh, man, did that feel good. When had any woman, let alone an attractive one like Beth, thrown her arms around him? He closed the door and held her as she cried, absorbing her shaking sobs.
    It took her a good ten minutes to regain control. He wished she'd taken more time. He could have stood there all day.
    "I'm so sorry," she said, backing up a step and wiping her eyes on her sleeve. She was still all in black, dressed in the clothes she'd worn last night. "I didn't mean to do that, it's just that I'm such a wreck. I mean, I can't sleep, I can't eat, I wanted to go back to Atlanta last night but there were no flights that late and besides no one's home because my folks are touring Scandinavia and are somewhere in fucking Oslo right now and I tried to talk to my boyfriend about it and I thought he understood but after a while he let it slip that he thought it was awesome. Can you believe that? He thinks it would have been so awesome to have been there! So I just walked out and I need to talk to someone who understands what it was like, someone who was there too."
    "That's me," he said. "But how did you find me?"
    "I saw your picture in the paper and remembered you saying you'd graduated from Columbia so I called the alumni office as soon as it opened and they gave me your last address. I hope you don't mind."
    "Mind? Are you kidding? I was trying to figure out how to get in touch with you but I never got your last name."
    "And I realized I never really thanked you for what you did."
    "What I did?"
    "Stop being modest. You shielded me with your own body. I'll never forget that."
    "Oh, that," he said as guilt spiked him. "Let's not make too much of that."
    "How can you be so calm?" she said, staring at him. "How come you're handling this and I'm not?"
    He'd been asking himself that same question. "Maybe because I was able to write about it. I had to confront my terrors; maybe focusing and putting them down on paper was some sort of exorcism."
    Not to mention how my being there is going to make my career.
    "There's another way to look at it," he added—this had just occurred to him and it was pretty good. "You have to figure, with all the millions of people in this city and all the subway lines and trains that run every hour, what are the chances of being caught on a subway car with a gun-toting madman? A zillion to one, right?"
    Beth nodded. "I guess so."
    "So what are the chances of