The Haunted Air by F. Paul Wilson Read Free Book Online

need: a bottomless pit under our house.”
    â€œWhat we do?” Charlie stared at him, obviously expecting an answer from big brother.
    Lyle didn’t have one. He definitely didn’t want the city to know about this. They might condemn the place and boot him out. He hadn’t come all the way from Michigan to get kicked out of the first home he’d ever owned.
    No, he needed someone discreet who knew his way around construction and could tell him what was wrong and how to fix it. But he’d only been in town ten months and—
    â€œDear Lord!” Charlie cried, jamming a hand over his nose and mouth. “What that!”
    Lyle didn’t have to ask. He gagged as the odor hit him. It lifted him to his feet and sent him staggering toward the stairs. Charlie was right behind him as he pelted up to the first floor and shut the door.
    Lyle stood in the kitchen, gasping as he stared at his brother. “We must be sitting over a sewer line or something.”
    Charlie stared back. “One that run through a graveyard. You ever smell anything stink so bad? Even close?”
    Lyle shook his head. “Never.” He’d never imagined anything could smell that foul. “What next? A meteor through the roof?”

    â€œTellin’ you, Lyle, the Lord’s puttin’ us on notice.”
    â€œWith a stink bomb? I don’t think so.”
    Although the odor hadn’t reached the kitchen, Lyle didn’t want to take any chances. He and Charlie stuffed wet paper towels into the spaces between the door and its molding.
    When they’d finished, Lyle went to the fridge and pulled out a Heinie keg can. He could have done with a double deuce of Schlitz M-L right now, but that was way too street.
    â€œYou not gettin’ bent, are you?” Charlie said.
    He handed Charlie another Pepsi. “When was the last time I got bent?”
    â€œWhen was the last time you had an earthquake open a bottomless pit under your house?”
    â€œGood point.” He took a long cold gulp from the can and changed the subject. “By the way, one of the guys with Moonie tried to pull a fast one tonight, and I don’t mean Mr. Square Root.”
    â€œThe bama-looking Joe?” Charlie said, resuming his pacing.
    â€œBama-looking Jack, if we’re to believe the name he wrote. I knew he was trouble right from the start. Heard me calling you by your real name when we were evacuating and wanted to know why I yelled ‘bomb’ when the quake hit. I kept an eye on him after that. He didn’t miss a trick. He watched your every move, then mine. Good thing I was onto him, otherwise I might have missed seeing him tear a corner off his billet.”
    â€œSo that’s why you was holding them by the top corner. You always hold them bottom center.” Charlie frowned. “You think he here to make trouble?”
    Lyle shook his head. “No. I got the impression he didn’t even want to be here. I think he was bored and having a little fun with me. He knew exactly what I was doing but he was cool with it. Just sat there and let the show roll.”
    Lyle wandered into the waiting room; Charlie followed, saying, “Maybe he in the game.”
    â€œNot ours. Another game, but don’t ask me what.” Lyle
had sensed something going on behind that white guy’s mild brown eyes; something that said, Don’t mess . “Some game of his own.”
    Lyle prided himself on his ability to read people. Nothing psychic about it, no spirits involved, just something he’d been able to do as long as he could remember. A talent he’d honed to a fine edge.
    That talent had found the visitor named Jack a hard read. Bland-looking guy: nothing-special clothes, brown hair, mild brown eyes, not handsome, not ugly, just … there. But he’d moved with a secret grace inside a damn near impenetrable shield. The only thing Lyle had sensed about him besides the