Fatal Error
( Repairman Jack - 13 )
F Paul Wilson
F.Paul Wilson
Fatal Error
MONDAY
1
Munir stood on the curb, facing Fifth Avenue with Central Park behind him. He unzipped his fly and tugged himself free. His reluctant member shriveled at the cold slap of the winter wind, as if shrinking from the sight of all these passing strangers.
At least he hoped they were strangers.
Please let no one who knows me pass by. Or, Allah forbid, a policeman.
He stretched its flabby length and urged his bladder to empty. That was what the madman had demanded of him, so that was what he had to do. He'd drunk two quarts of Gatorade in the past hour to ensure he'd be full to bursting, but he couldn't go. His sphincter was clamped shut as tightly as his jaw.
Off to his right the light at the corner turned red and the traffic slowed to a stop. A woman in a cab glanced at him through her window and started when she saw how he was exposing himself. Her lips tightened and she shook her head in disgust as she turned away. He could almost read her mind: A guy in a suit exposing himself on Fifth Avenue-the world's going to hell even faster than they say.
But it has become hell for me, Munir thought.
He saw her pull out a cell phone and punch in three numbers. That could only mean she was calling 911. But he had to stay and do this.
He closed his eyes to shut out the line of cars idling before him, tried to block out the tapping, scuffing footsteps of the shoppers and strollers on the sidewalk behind him as they hurried to and fro. But a child's voice broke through.
"Look, Mommy. What's that man-?"
"Don't look, honey," said a woman's voice. "It's just someone who's not right in the head."
Tears became a pressure behind Munir's sealed eyelids. He bit back a sob of humiliation and tried to imagine himself in a private place, in his own bathroom, standing over the toilet. He forced himself to relax, and soon it came. As the warm liquid streamed out of him, the waiting sob burst free, propelled equally by shame and relief.
He did not have to shut off the flow. When he opened his eyes and saw the glistening, steaming puddle before him on the asphalt, saw the drivers and passengers and passersby staring, the stream dried up on its own.
I hope that is enough, he thought. Please let that be enough.
But he was not dealing with a sane man, and he had to please him. Please him or else…
He looked up and saw a young blond woman staring down at him from a third-floor window in a building across the street. Her repulsed expression mirrored his own feelings. Averting his eyes, he zipped up and fled down the sidewalk, all but tripping over his own feet as he ran.
2
"Gross," Dawn said, turning away from the window to pace the consultation room. "What is it with people?"
"Pardon?" Dr. Landsman looked up from where he sat behind his desk, scribbling in her chart. "Did you say something?"
Dawn Pickering didn't want to talk about some creep peeing in the street, she wanted to talk about herself and her baby. She ran her hands over her swollen belly, bulging like a watermelon beneath her maternity top.
"Can't you… like… induce me or something?"
She'd been reading up on labor and delivery lately, and was so not looking forward to it. A cesarean would be totally better-knock her out and cut her open. She wouldn't feel a thing, but then she'd have a scar. Well, a scar was a small price to pay for simply waking up and having it all over.
Dr. Landsman shook his head. "The baby's not ready yet."
A balding, fiftyish guy, he'd just done a pelvic exam, followed by her umpteenth ultrasound. Then he'd left her and waited here in his office for her to dress and join him.
"Isn't the ultrasound supposed to give you a clue?"
"It is, and it says he's not ready yet. But it won't be long. Your cervix is soft. Your body's getting ready to deliver."
"But I was totally due in January and here it is February." She rubbed her cold hands together. "Something's wrong. You can tell me."
"Ten months is unusual, yes, but nothing's wrong."
"Then why won't you ever let me see the ultrasounds?"
He did the scans himself instead of his tech, and never allowed anyone else in the room except Mr. Osala, her self-appointed guardian. The doctor had started giving her appointments on Mondays and Thursdays. Why? He had no office hours and no staff at all those days. Was that what he wanted? And during the ultrasounds, he always kept the monitor screen turned away from her. For some reason, he never seemed to tire of looking at her baby.
"You wouldn't understand what you were seeing."
She resented that. She might be only eighteen-turning nineteen next month-but she was no dummy. She'd been accepted to Colgate and would be there right now if she hadn't screwed up her life.
"You could point things out to me."
"The baby is fine. You feel him moving, don't you?"
"Like crazy."
Some days she felt like she had a soccer camp inside her.
"Well then, I've told you he's a boy and you know he's healthy. What more do you need?"
"I need to see him."
"I'm not sure I understand your eagerness to see a baby you're giving up for adoption upon delivery. A baby you tried to abort, if I remember correctly."
She had nothing to say to that. She'd totally changed her mind about the abortion, but she was so not ready to raise a child-especially this child, considering who the father was. Someone else would give him a good home and raise him better than she ever could. No way she was ready for motherhood.
He pulled out an old-fashioned pocket watch and popped the lid.
"Your friend, Mister Osala, should be calling soon."
"He's not my friend."
"Well, he's very concerned about you and your baby."
Maybe too concerned.
The design on the lid of his watch caught her eye. Following the lines made her eyes cross.
"That looks old."
He smiled. "It's been in the family for almost two hundred years."
"What's that design? It's weird."
"Hmm?" He glanced at it, then quickly pocketed it. "Oh, that. Just a geometric curiosity."
A phone rang. He dug out his cell and checked the display, then glanced up at her. "It's him. Excuse me."
"Sure." She knew who it was. "Don't forget to ask him how high."
He gave her a puzzled look, like he didn't get it.
"Jump," she said. "How high you should jump."
He still didn't get it. For such a supposedly top-notch OB man, he could be so dense at times.
Osala hadn't been around much lately. He used to come to all her appointments but now he was involved in some project down south that kept him away a lot. But he stayed in close touch with Dr. Landsman.
She felt the baby kick and shook her head. Sure felt like he wanted out. And she wanted him out. Not like she had back in the summer, when she'd tried to end the pregnancy. She'd been determined to get an abortion, and then Mr. Osala had told her, You want this child… You will do anything to assure its well-being, and everything changed, just like that. She couldn't believe now that she'd wanted to kill her baby.
But that was totally different from wanting the pregnancy over and done with. She simply wanted to be back to normal size. She'd never been skinny, but this was ridiculous. She couldn't seem to find a comfortable position anywhere, even in bed. She'd give anything for a full night's sleep.
And once her pregnancy was over and the baby born, maybe Mr. Osala would let her leave his home. She'd been a virtual prisoner there since last spring-almost her entire pregnancy. Could she complain about
a Fifth Avenue duplex penthouse where she wanted for nothing? Yeah, she could, because although she could have anything material, she couldn't have what she wanted most: contact with the outside world. Because Mr. Osala feared that might lead the baby's father to her. That was the last thing she wanted, too, but it seemed to her Mr. Osala had taken precautions to the extreme.
She wanted a life.
"Yes, I know it's overdue," she heard Dr. Landsman say. "I was just discussing that with Dawn when you called. But the baby's healthy and, frankly, how do we know this isn't perfectly normal? It's not as if we have any precedents to follow."
Those kinds of comments popped out every so often and never failed to sour her stomach. She'd learned not to ask about them, because Dr. Landsman only stonewalled her.
But she was convinced something was wrong with her baby. Dr. Landsman could tell her it was healthy till he was blue in the face, but that look in his eyes when he watched the ultrasound screen said he was looking at something he didn't see every day.
And then there was the thing about the ultrasound images-Mr. Osala made the doctor delete them after every session. And when he wasn't here, his driver Georges made sure they were history. Georges was almost as scary as his boss.
What was so different about her baby that no one else could know?
3
The phone was ringing when Munir opened the door to his apartment. He hit the RECORD button on his answering machine as he snatched up the receiver and jammed it against his ear.
"Yes!"
"Pretty disappointing, Mooo-neeer," said the now familiar electronically distorted voice. "Are all you Ay-rabs such mosquito dicks?"
"I did as you asked! Just as you asked!"
"That wasn't much of a pee, Mooo-neeer."
"It was all I could do! Please let them go now."
He glanced down at the caller ID. A number had formed in the LCD window. A 212 area code, just like all the previous calls. But the seven digits following were a new combination, unlike any of the others. And when Munir called it back, he was sure it would be a public phone. Just like all the rest.
"Are they all right? Let me speak to my wife."
Munir didn't know why he said that. He knew the caller couldn't drag Barbara and Robby to a pay phone.
"She can't come to the phone right now. She's, uh… all tied up at the moment."
Munir ground his teeth as the horse laugh brayed through the phone.
"Please. I must know if she is all right."
"You'll have to take my word for it, Mooo-neeer."
"She may be dead." Allah forbid! "You may have killed her and Robby already."
"Hey. Ain't I been sendin' you pichers? Don't you like my pretty pichers?"
"No!" Munir cried, fighting a wave of nausea… those pictures-those horrible, sickening photos. "They aren't enough. You could have taken all of them at once and then killed them."
The voice on the other end lowered to a sinister, nasty growl.
"You callin' me a liar, you lousy, greasy, two-bit Ay-rab? Don't you ever doubt a word I tell you. Don't even think about doubtin' me. Or I'll show you who's alive. I'll prove your white bitch and mongrel brat are alive by sending you a new piece of them every so often. A little bit of each, every day, by Express Mail, so it's nice and fresh. You keep on doubtin' me, Mooo-neeer, and pretty soon you'll get your wife and kid back, all of them. But you'll have to figure out which part goes where. Like the model kits say: Some assembly required."
Munir bit back a scream as the caller brayed again.
"No-no. Please don't hurt them anymore. I'll do anything you want. What do you want me to do?"
"There. That's more like it. I'll let your little faux pas pass this time. A lot more generous than you'd ever be-ain't that right, Mooo-neeer. And sure as shit more generous than your Ay-rab buddies were when they killed my sister on nine/eleven."
"Yes. Yes, whatever you say. What else do you want me to do? Just tell me."
"I ain't decided yet, Mooo-neeer. I'm gonna have to think on that one. But in the meantime, I'm gonna look kindly on you and bestow your request. Yessir, I'm gonna send you proof positive that your wife and kid are still alive."
Munir's stomach plummeted. The man was insane, a monster. This couldn't be good.
"No! Please! I believe you! I believe!"
"I reckon you do, Mooo-neeer. But believin' just ain't enough sometimes, is it? I mean, you believe in Allah, don't you? Don't you?"
"Yes. Yes, of course I believe in Allah."
"And look at what you did on Friday. Just think back and meditate on what you did."
Munir hung his head in shame and said nothing.
"So you can see where I'm comin' from when I say believin' ain't enough. 'Cause if you believe, you can also have doubt. And I don't want you havin' no doubts, Mooo-neeer. I don't want you havin' the slightest twinge of doubt about how important it is for you to do exactly what I tell you. 'Cause if you start thinking it really don't matter to your bitch and little rat-faced kid, that they're probably dead already and you can tell me to shove it, that's not gonna be good for them. So I'm gonna have to prove to you just how alive and well they are."
"No!" He was going to be sick. "Please don't!"
"Just remember. You asked for proof."
Munir's voice edged toward a scream. "PLEASE!"
The line clicked and went dead.
Munir dropped the phone and buried his face in his hands. The caller was mad, crazy, brutally insane, and for some reason he hated Munir with a depth and breadth Munir found incomprehensible and profoundly horrifying. Whoever he was, he seemed capable of anything, and he had Barbara and Robby hidden away somewhere in the city.
Helplessness overwhelmed him and he broke down. Only a few sobs had escaped when he heard a pounding on his door.
"Hey. What's going on in there? Munir, you okay?"
Munir stiffened as he recognized Russ's voice. He straightened in his chair but said nothing. Monday. He'd forgotten about Russ coming over for their weekly brainstorming session. He should have called and canceled, but Russ had been the last thing on his mind. He couldn't let him know anything was wrong.
"Hey!" Russ said, banging on the door again. "I know someone's in there. You don't open up I'm gonna assume something's wrong and call the emergency squad."
The last thing Munir needed was a bunch of EMTs swarming around his apartment. The police would be with them and only Allah knew what that crazy man would do if he saw them.
He cleared his throat. "I'm all right, Russ."
"The hell you are." He rattled the doorknob. "You didn't sound all right when you screamed a moment ago and you don't sound all right now. Just open up so I can-"
The door swung open, revealing Russ Tuit-a pear-shaped guy dressed in a beat-up Starter jacket and faded jeans-looking as shocked as Munir felt.
In his haste to answer the phone, Munir had forgotten to latch the door behind him. Quickly, he wiped his eyes and rose.
"Jesus, Munir, you look like hell. What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"Hey, don't shit me. I heard you. Sounded like someone was stepping on your soul."
"I'm okay. Really."
"Yeah, right. You in trouble? Anything I can do? Can't help you much with money, but anything else…"
Munir was touched by the offer. If only he could help. But no one could help him.
"No. It's okay."
"Is it Barbara or Robby? Something happen to-?" Munir realized it must have shown on his face. Russ stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "Hey, what's going on? Are they all right?"
"Please, Russ. I can't talk about it. And you mustn't talk about it either. Just let it be. I'm handling it."
"Is it a police thing?"
"No! Not the police! Please don't say anything to the police. I was warned"-in sickeningly graphic detail-"about going to the police."
Russ leaned back against the door and stared at him.
"Jesus… is this as bad as I think it is?"
Munir could do no more than nod.
Russ jabbed a finger at him. "I know somebody who might be able to help."
"No one can help me."
"This guy's good people. I've done some work for him-he's a real four-oh-four when it comes to computers, but he's got a solid rep when it comes to fixing things."
What was Russ talking about?
"Fixing?"
"Situations. He solves problems, know what I'm saying?"
"I… I can't risk it."
"Yeah, you can. He's a guy you go to when you run out of options. He deals with stuff that nobody wants anybody knowing about. That's his specialty. He's not a detective, he's not a cop-in fact, if the cops are involved, this guy's smoke, because he doesn't get along with cops. He's just a guy. But I'll warn you up front, he's expensive."
No police… that was good. And money? What did money matter where Barbara and Robby were concerned? Maybe a man like this was what he needed, an ally who could deal with the monster that had invaded his life.
"This man… he's fierce?"
Russ nodded. "Never seen it, and you'd never know it to look at him, but I hear when the going gets ugly, he gets uglier."
"How do I contact him?"
"I'll give you a number. Just leave a message. If he doesn't get back to you, let me know. Jack's gotten kind of distracted these days and picky about what he takes on. I'll talk to him for you if necessary."
"Give me the number."
Perhaps this was what he needed: a fierce man.
4
I'm running out of space, Jack thought as he stood in the front room of his apartment and looked for an empty spot to display his latest treasure.
His Sky King Magni-Glow Writing Ring had just arrived from his connection in southeast Missouri. It contained a Mysterious Glo-signaler ("Gives a strange green light! You can send blinker signals with it!"). The plastic ruby unfolded into three sections, revealing a Secret Compartment that contained a Flying Crown Brand ("For sealing messages!"); the middle section was a Detecto-Scope Magnifying Glass ("For detecting fingerprints or decoding messages!"); and the outermost section was a Secret Stratospheric Pen ("Writes at any altitude, or under water, in red ink!").
Fatal Error rj-13 Page 1
