Fatal Error rj-13

by F. Paul Wilson

  "They do for me." Weezy pressed the ON button. "Especially now."

  "-appears that preventive measures are failing," said the channel seven newsreader.

  "Too little too late," Weezy muttered.

  "Servers and routers all over the world are failing as they are inundated with a tsunami of video feeds that is overwhelming the bandwidth of the entire Internet. Here in the city…"

  Weezy heard a groan behind her and turned to find the Lady slumped forward on the table. She dropped the remote and hurried over to her.

  "Are you all right?"

  Another stupid question-of course she wasn't all right. She looked anything but all right.

  "So weak." Her voice was thin, husky, fragile, as if it might dissolve to dust if she spoke too loud.

  Weezy's heart clenched. This was it. They were losing her.

  "You need to lie down. Which way's your bedroom?"

  "I don't have a bedroom."

  "You don't-?"

  "I don't sleep."

  "Okay. Fair enough. We'll find you a bed."

  Glaeken had given her a furnished apartment. One of the rooms down the hall had to have a bed.

  She put one of the Lady's arms over her shoulder and one of her own around her back, then lifted. She'd expected near dead weight, but the Lady came right off the chair.

  So light… too light… much too light.

  Was this how she was going to go? Lose her substance bit by bit and fade away?

  She walked her down the hall. The first room on the right had a queen-size bed. Weezy stretched her out on it.

  "Should I get you a blanket?"

  "I don't feel cold. Or warmth. Temperature doesn't affect me. But I do feel terribly weak." She raised an arm and let it fall. "Weaker and weaker by the moment… as if the life is draining out of me."

  Weezy felt her throat constrict. "Don't leave us."

  "I will not go willingly. I will fight this." She waved a hand. "Let me lie here alone. I need to conserve my strength."

  Weezy left her and returned to the front room. She sat before the TV and stared at the screen. It was running feeds from street cams, showing massive traffic jams.

  How was Jack ever going to reach LaGuardia?

  13

  "Don't know what's taking him so long," Julio said. "He's only coming from Harlem."

  Jack glanced at the St. Pauli Girl clock over the bar. Almost ten after ten.

  Damn. Forty minutes till they landed.

  He'd remembered that Julio's younger brother Juan was into motorcycles. Julio had called him and prevailed upon him to drive down to the bar and lend one of his bikes to Jack.

  "If he's dealing with this traffic, it's going to take him a while-even weaving through it."

  With all the arteries out of the city clogged, the only solution was something with the ability to slip between the clots. A motorcycle seemed perfect.

  One problem, though. Jack hadn't ridden one in a while. He'd used two wheels pedaling around Burlington County as a kid, so when he was old enough for motorvating, he'd seen no reason to move up to four. His folks had hated his Harley, and his sister Kate, the doctor, repeatedly warned him about the motorcycle drivers she'd seen wheeled into the ER, brain dead from a dust-up with a car or truck. She'd called his Harley a "donorcycle."

  Jack wouldn't listen, and owned a succession of Harleys through college. He loved motorcycles-he'd used Arlo Guthrie's pronunciation, rhyming with pickle-reveling in the anarchic freedom they offered. Plus, the helmet conferred anonymity.

  Of course, he'd felt immortal then.

  He'd brought one with him when he'd disappeared into the city, and rode it until a potentially fatal crash drove home how vulnerable he was on two wheels-like a turtle living outside its shell, roadkill waiting to happen at the hands of anyone who was fiddling with the radio or cell phone when traffic was coming to a sudden stop. What might be a simple fender bender in a car-to-car scenario escalated to bug-against-the-windshield potential when a motorcycle was involved. And when being chased by a gang of psychos in cars…

  That was when he'd bought Ralph. And when the Corvair became too conspicuous, he'd graduated to the Crown Vic.

  If he was going to be involved in any vehicle-to-vehicle mishap, Jack wanted to be the one to walk away.

  He looked around the unusually crowded bar.

  "You running a two-for-one special or something?"

  Julio made a face. "Yeah, right." He jerked a thumb toward the street. "They're from out there. Traffic ain't movin' so they come in to kill time."

  "I see you opened up the back tables."

  He looked sheepish. "They need a place to go. Gotta put 'em somewhere."

  This was mucho unJulio. He didn't like random patrons. If he had his way, his bar would be a private club that required a membership card, with him as sole arbiter of the suitability of who could be served.

  "How civicly responsible."

  He grinned. "Community service-my middle name, meng."

  "And that ringing cash register has nothing to do with it."

  "Like Abe says: Ain't nothin' better'n doing well while doing good."

  Then the door banged open and a young Latino who resembled Julio-minus ten years and a lot of muscle-pushed a stripped-down motocross bike into the bar.

  "Ay, Juanito. You can't bring that in here."

  "Ain't leavin' it outside. Be gone in a beat."

  Julio stepped forward and shot his hand toward Juan's face. For a second Jack thought he was going to hit him, but instead he grabbed his chin and turned his head.

  "What happen to you?"

  Jack could see it now-a good-size bruise on his chin, bleeding a little.

  "Guy tried to steal my bike. It's getting crazy out there."

  So soon?

  Jack had figured it would take longer for the idea to filter to the synapses of the wolves that the shepherds had lost some of their eyes and ears and the sheeple were largely unguarded.

  "Hey, I'm sorry about that," Jack said. "I owe you."

  Juan shrugged. "S'okay. You don't owe this family nothing."

  Jack looked at Julio. "What's he talking about?"

  "Rosa." Julio gave Jack a backhand slap across an arm. "What? You forget?"

  It took Jack a couple of seconds to realize he was talking about his sister. Rosa had been having some nasty trouble with her ex-husband. Jack had fixed it. And yeah, he'd kind of forgotten about it.

  "Long time ago."

  "This family, we got long memories. You know that."

  "And nobody else was supposed to know."

  Julio's deprecatory shrug could not quite hide his pride in his younger brother. "Juanito figured it out."

  "Good for him." Jack held the door and nodded toward the street. "Back her out onto the sidewalk and you can show me how it works."

  Juan rolled his eyes. "Aw, you ain't gonna tell me you never been on a bike before."

  "Course I have. Just been a while is all. Be with you in a minute." As the door closed behind Juan and the bike, Jack turned to Julio. "Got anything I can use if I run into trouble?"

  Julio's eyebrows lifted. "You ain't carrying?"

  Jack cocked his head and gave him a stare.

  "Silly me," Julio said with a twisted grin.

  "Silence would be golden."

  Julio ducked behind the bar and returned with something held tight against his outer thigh, shielding it from the room. When he reached Jack he slipped him a leather slapper. Jack gave it a surreptitious heft.

  "Isn't this-?"

  "Yeah, the one you got me."

  Jack had bought it years ago from Abe as a gift for Julio. Basically a foot-long blackjack-fourteen ounces of lead in a flattened leather sleeve with a wrist strap. A fight ender.

  "What if you need it?"

  "I still got the bat and my little fren."

  Little fren… Julio's borrowed name for the double-ought, sawed-off ten-gauge he kept under the bar.


  Jack pocketed the sap and headed for the door.

  Out on the sidewalk, the night had quieted some. Only an occasional echoing blare. Drivers seemed to have realized the futility of leaning on the horn. In fact some of the cars were empty, temporarily abandoned while their owners found something better to do-like hang out in Julio's.

  Jack turned his attention to the bike. It looked like it had seen better days.

  "Kind of old."

  Juan puffed his chest. "Vintage Yamaha, man. Custom seat, titanium-"

  "Great. I need a quick tour so I can get on the road."

  "What you use to ride?"

  "Harleys."

  "Cool. But these ride different."

  Juan quickly ran through the gearshift, the clutch, and the throttle. Pretty standard, except Jack hadn't driven anything with a clutch in ages.

  Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Get into an accident and break something major or, worse, wind up dead-what good would he be to Gia and Vicky then?

  But it was the only idea left.

  He thought of them landing and walking into an airport in chaos. Could they rent a car? Maybe, maybe not. Depended on whether the rental companies' computers were up and running. And then where could they drive? Not into the city. Maybe just catch a shuttle to an airport hotel. Yeah, that might work, but Jack wanted to be with them when they did it.

  So it was Easy Rider time.

  "Remember, this ain't no Harley. You gotta keep your weight forward on these models. The front wheel comes up easy if you don't. Keep your feet on the pegs and hug that gas tank with your knees."

  "Got it."

  "Yeah?" Juanito looked a little uncertain. "Let's see you ride."

  Jack looked at the dead-still traffic on the street. "Where?"

  "Yeah. You gotta point."

  "I'll take her over to the museum," Jack said. "Run her around the lot to get used to her."

  "Good idea. Want me to come?"

  "Nah. You stay here and hang with your brother. Don't wait for me though. I don't know when I'll be able to return this thing."

  Truth was, he wasn't sure what he was going to do with the bike once he got to the airport. No way he could ride Gia and Vicky back on it. If anything happened to it, he'd buy Juan a new one-the bike of his choice.

  "You leave it anywhere, you chain it good." He touched the pouch behind the seat. "Chain and lock's in here. Key's with the ignition."

  "Got it."

  He swung his leg over and revved the engine as he got comfortable on the seat. He could half walk, half ride to the museum, only a few blocks from here. Use the sidewalks if he had to.

  "Take this," Juan said, holding out the helmet.

  Jack looked at his bruised, cut chin. "You say it's rough out there?"

  "Guy tried to jump me when I slowed down."

  Jack waved off the helmet. "You hang on to it."

  "It's the law."

  "Somehow I don't think the law's gonna be worrying about biker helmets tonight."

  Besides, if things were heading south out there, he didn't want anything interfering with his peripheral vision.

  14

  The Museum of Natural History's lot was deserted and in just a few minutes Jack felt like he'd never stopped riding. On the way to Julio's earlier he'd picked up an oversize gray Nets hoodie as an extra layer against the cold. He'd slipped it over his jacket. Now he pulled up the hood, tied it tight to give him a full view, and got moving.

  The traffic on Central Park West… could he call it traffic? The word implied movement. No movement here. More like a parking lot. And little or no space between bumpers. People had inched forward until they were all practically touching. A lot of drivers had turned off their engines and sat, huddled lumps of frustration behind their steering wheels, staring out at the tableau, despairing of ever moving again.

  Jack rode uptown on the downtown-bound side until he found a small pod of cars with enough space between their bumpers to let him through to the park side.

  Now at least he was heading in the direction the traffic was pointing. He found narrow riding room on the shoulder. The sidewalk to his right separated him from the park, and was less crowded than those he'd seen farther west. Beyond a low stone-and-concrete wall, the trees loomed large and leafless against the night sky, the closer ones lit by the sodium streetlights, those farther in little more than dark smudges.

  The park tempted him. He was sure the traverses were as jammed as every other street in the city, but he'd have better off-road opportunities there. A no-brainer if the sun was up. But on this night, in the dark… uh-uh. Odds of running into a wolf pack were a little too high. Be a different story in a few months when he'd start the Annual Park-a-Thon to raise money for the local Little League team. Then he'd dress in appropriate tourist gear and wander off the paths, looking to get jumped so he could mug the muggers for donations. But he couldn't afford any trouble tonight. No time for it.

  So he'd have to settle for ten or so miles per hour along the CPW shoulder. He could have gone faster, but limited his speed for fear of someone opening a car door in front of him. Even so, he felt like he was whizzing by.

  He'd reached the Nineties, closer to the uptown end of the park, and was passing the twin-towered mass of the Eldorado-one of his favorite Manhattan buildings-when a man's voice called out behind him.

  "Young man! On the cycle! Wait!"

  If the guy had called out, Ay, yo!, Jack would have kept going, but the cultured tone made him look back. An older gent was standing by the open door of a limo two cars back, waving.

  "Please stop!"

  Jack stopped and waited as the man hurried toward him. He looked maybe sixty, with dyed hair, wearing what looked like a cashmere coat. His jaw barely moved when he spoke.

  "Can you give me a ride? I must get to Columbus and Ninety-sixth. I'll pay you-handsomely, I assure you."

  That was the West Side. Jack was headed east.

  He shook his head. "Out of my way."

  As he started to kick off, the guy grabbed his arm.

  "No, wait! I'll buy the bike from you. The whole bike. How much do you want for it? Name your price."

  "Sorry. Not for sale."

  As he began to move off, the guy grabbed him in a bear hug and tried to pull him off the bike.

  "I've got to meet someone!"

  Jack drove an elbow into his solar plexus-hard. The guy stumbled back and landed against the passenger door of a nearby car. A faint "Hey!" filtered from within. People on the sidewalk had stopped to watch. Slow night on Central Park West.

  "So do I," Jack said.

  "Mister Ausler?"

  Jack looked around and saw a big guy in a black suit get out of the driver seat of the limo and start moving his way.

  "Kevin!" the man who'd been called Ausler shouted, his voice thick with fury. "I need that bike! Get me that bike!"

  Now he was moving his jaw.

  Kevin? Bruno or Jeeves would have been more in keeping with the scene.

  Jack gave Kevin a hard look and shook his head. "You don't want to start something you can't finish." Kevin stopped uncertainly by the front bumper.

  Jack then looked at Ausler. "Didn't your mommy ever say no?"

  "I offered to buy it!"

  Jack twisted the throttle and roared off, passing more limos and junkers and even a pickup truck or two-hedge fund managers, secretaries, laborers, all frozen in position. A traffic jam was an equal-opportunity pain in the ass.

  Riding along the park's western flank, the only cross traffic he'd had to deal with was at the rare traverses. They hadn't been too bad, but the gridlock at the 110th Street circle stopped him dead. So he turned east and ran along the top of the park. He made good time there until he reached the northeast corner at Fifth. Crossing that took some doing. He turned uptown again on Madison but had to stop and thread his way past every cross street until he reached 125th.

  Harlem's main drag was a whole different kind of chaos. Almost a p
arty vibe here. It looked like people had abandoned their cars either to walk to their destination or hit whatever bars or food joints they could find. If you couldn't drive, might as well get comfortable and hoist a few till the jam eased. A bonanza for the street vendors too-people were lined up for shish kebab and falafel and anything else edible. He spotted a couple of places advertising "soul food." Up ahead he noticed that the rear door of a Budweiser truck had been rolled up and folks were helping themselves to cases of beer and passing out the cans to anyone who wanted one. The driver was nowhere in sight.

  The result was an impassable vehicular thicket. He could walk his bike along the crowded sidewalks but time was running out.

  Jack needed 125th Street. It led directly to the Triboro Bridge. Only a few more blocks and he'd hit its ramp. The Triboro, true to its name, was actually a series of three bridges linking the Bronx, Manhattan, and, most important, Queens, where it led to the Grand Central Parkway, which in turn led to LaGuardia Airport. The bridges were linked by a long, high viaduct with no lights to slow the flow. Traffic should-should-open up there.

  Well, he could try a parallel approach. He turned around and headed back down Madison against the traffic, then turned east on 124th.

  Much better. Not good, but at least he was able to find a path through the cars. At Second Avenue he saw a sign to the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge. What the-?

  Oh, yeah. They'd renamed the bridge back in '08, but nobody called it the Kennedy or the RFK. It was the Triboro and would always be the Triboro. Even the traffic guys on the radio still called it the Triboro.

  Jack angled left onto the ramp and ran into real trouble.

  15

  "Lady?" Weezy said, edging into the darkened bedroom.

  She'd never had to address her before by name and "Lady" sounded kind of awkward. But awkwardness be damned, she wasn't answering.

  "Lady?"

  Still no response.

  Weezy stopped at the bedside and turned on the lamp. The Lady lay stretched out in her housedress, her arms at her side, her expression peaceful. She said she didn't sleep but her eyes were closed and She wasn't breathing.