Scenes from the Secret History

by F. Paul Wilson

  Maggie had been under a blackmailer’s thumb since August. All she would say about the hook was that someone had photos of her that she’d rather not be made public. He’d been squeezing her and she was just about tapped out. She wouldn’t say what was in the photos. She admitted that she was in them, but that was it. Fine with Jack. If he found the blackmailer and the photos, he’d know. If not, none of his business.

  “And another difference between you and the sleazeballs is they’ll hunt down a blackmailer and rip his lungs out. You won’t, and this oxygen waster knows it. That’s where I come in.”

  Her eyes widened. “I don’t want anyone’s lungs ripped out!”

  Jack laughed. “Figure of speech. Probably better than this guy deserves, and it would be way too messy.”

  She stared at him a moment, an uneasy light in her eyes, then glanced around. Though no one was in earshot, she lowered her voice.

  “The person who gave me your name warned that you played ‘rough.’ I’m against violence. I just want those pictures back.”

  “I’m not a hitman,” he told her, “but this guy’s not going to just hand over those pictures, even if I say pretty please. I’ll try to get it done without him knowing who I’m working for, but a little rough and tumble may be unavoidable.”

  She grimaced. “Just as long as no lungs are ripped out.”

  Jack laughed. “Forget lungs, I want to know who told you I played rough. What’s his name?”

  A hint of a smile curved her thin lips. “Who said it was a he?”

  She wasn’t going to come across. All right, he’d wait. And watch. Customers without references earned extra scrutiny.

  “Okay. First things’ first: Did you bring the first half of my fee?”

  She looked away. “I don’t have it all. I had very little money in the first place, and so much of that is gone, used up paying this… beast.” It seemed to take an effort to call her blackmailer a name. Who was this lady? “I was wondering… could I pay you in installments?”

  Jack leaned back and stared at her. His impulse was to say, Forget it. He didn’t do this for fun. Too often a fix-it involved putting his skin on the line; might be different if he had a replacement, but this skin was his one and only. So he liked a good portion of his fee up front. Installments meant a continuing relationship, excuses for being late, and on and on. He didn’t want to be a bank, and he didn’t want a long-term customer relationship. He wanted to get in, get out, and say good-bye.

  And besides, dealing with a blackmailer could get ugly.

  But the twenty-five large nesting in his pocket brought back the previous owner’s words…

  Use whatever is left over to offset the fee for someone who can’t afford you…

  Maybe a lady who said she did good works and gave to charity deserved a little herself.

  Still, he couldn’t bring himself to agree right away.

  “Well, like I told you yesterday, this could be a tough job, with no guarantees. Getting your photos isn’t enough. I have to get the negatives as well. But if he used a digital camera, there won’t be any. Digital photos will exist on a hard drive somewhere, and most likely on a backup disk somewhere else. Finding all that will take time. But that’s Stage Two. Stage One is finding out who is blackmailing you.”

  She shook her head. “I just can’t imagine…

  “Got to be someone who knows you. Once we identify him, we’ll need to steal all copies of whatever it is he’s holding over you without him knowing you were behind it.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “The ideal scenario is to make it look like an accident – say, a fire. But that’s not always feasible. If you’re not his only victim – I know of one guy who’s made a career out of blackmail – it makes things a little easier.”

  “How?”

  “I can liberate more than just your stuff.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If he’s got multiple victims and just your stuff winds up missing, he’ll know it was you. If I wipe out everything I find, he’ll have a number of suspects. But even with your stuff gone, he’ll keep trying to squeeze you.”

  “But how–?”

  “He’ll assume you’ll think he still has the photos. That’s why we have to pave a way out for you.”

  “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

  He nodded. The blackmail industry kept his phone ringing. Most victims couldn’t go to the cops because that meant revealing the very thing they were paying the leech to keep under wraps. They imagined a trial, their secret trumpeted in the papers, or at the very least making the public record. A certain percentage, pushed to the point where they couldn’t or wouldn’t take it anymore, decided to seek a solution outside the system. That was where Jack came in.

  “Many times. Maybe even for your unnamed source.”

  “Oh, no. He’d never–" Her hand flew to her mouth.

  Gotcha, Jack thought, but didn’t make an issue of it. He’d narrowed down her source to a little less than half the population. At least it was a start.

  “As for the installments… we’ll work something out.”

  She smiled, this time revealing even white teeth. “Thank you. I’ll see you get your money, every penny of it.” She dug into her black no-name pocketbook. “I was able to bring the hundred dollars you asked for.”

  She handed him a hundred-dollar bill and two folded sheets of paper.

  Jack slipped the bill under his sweater and into the breast pocket of his shirt. The blackmailer had demanded a thousand as his next payment. He was going to get only a fraction of that. And Jack was going to send it.

  He had a reason for doing it himself. But more important, the payment would allow him to track down the blackmailer. He’d done this before: Send the money in a padded envelope with a dime-size transponder hidden in the lining, then follow the transponder.

  He unfolded the first sheet of paper – Maggie’s perfect Palmer-method handwritten note saying she didn’t have any more to send at the moment. Good. Just what he’d told her to write. The second was the address. The money was supposed to go to “Occupant.” A street address and a number followed – plainly a mail drop. Jack did a double take at the street – Tremont Avenue in the Bronx… Box 224.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I know that address and I know who’s blackmailing you.”

  “Who?”

  “A walking, talking virus.”

  “But what’s his name?”

  Jack could see his round, sweaty-jowled face with eyes and mouth crowded close to the center of his face, held there by the gravitational field of his big, pushed-up nose. Richie Cordova, a fat, no good, rotten, useless glob of protoplasm. Not two months ago Jack had ruined most of Cordova’s stash of blackmail goodies. Obviously he’d missed Maggie’s photos.

  “Nobody you’d know. He’s the guy I mentioned before, who’s made a career out of blackmail.”

  Maggie looked frightened. “But how did he get those pictures of me and…?”

  And who? Jack wondered. Male or female?

  He had a pretty good idea of how it had gone down. Cordova’s legit grind was private investigations. Someone hired him for a job that had put him in Maggie’s orbit. The shitbum spotted something hinky, took a few pictures, and now was using them to supplement his income.

  “Bad luck. The wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  She leaned forward. “I want his name.”

  “Better you don’t know. It can’t do you any good. Might even buy you some trouble.” He looked at her. “I mean it.”

  “Yes, but–"

  “You believe in the soul, I assume?”

  “Of course.”

  “This guy’s is a Petrie dish.”

  She slumped again. “This is terrible.”

  �
��Not really. Granted you’ve got a better chance of goof-ups if you’re on the string to an amateur than a pro, but I’ve already dealt with this particular pro. I know where he lives and where he works. I’ll get your photos back.”

  She brightened. “You will?”

  “Well, maybe I shouldn’t guarantee anything, but we’ve gone from Stage One to Stage Two in a matter of minutes. That’s a record. We still have to send him that money though.”

  “Why? I thought that was to trace him. If you already know who he is–"

  “There’s a reason we’re shorting him. I want to rattle his cage, make him get in touch with you. When he calls, you’ve got to cry poverty–"

  She barked a bitter little laugh. “It won’t be an act, I can tell you that.”

  “Be convincing. What that does is set the stage for your sending him no more money when and if I retrieve your photos. You simply haven’t got it. Remember, he’s got a lot invested in his blackmail assets. We don’t want him connecting you to losing them. No telling what he’ll do.”

  Instead of looking concerned, Maggie smiled as if a terrible burden had been lifted.

  “This is going to work, isn’t it,” she said.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “No, it is. I can feel it. God turned away from me for a while – not without good reason – but now I see His hand again in my life. He led me to you, to someone who has already dealt with my tormentor. That can’t be just a coincidence.”

  Coincidence…

  Jack felt his shoulders tighten. He hated coincidences.

  Read the rest here…Crisscross

 

  December

  INFERNAL

  (one of Harry Morris’s studies for the

  limited edition wraparound cover)

  In Hosts we met Jack’s sister; his father in Gateways. And now his brother, Tom, Jr. – the anti-Jack. Jack saw one of the Seven Infernals as a teen. Now he gets up close and personal with another – the creepy Lilitongue of Gefreda.

  Infernal is the least favorite of a number of Jack fans. I think because they didn’t like his brother. (Let’s face it, Jack isn’t a fan of Tom either.) He’s everything Jack isn’t. He has no code.

  But I think the most off-putting thing about the book is the scene at LaGuardia Airport where his father, Tom, Sr., is gunned down.

  Yep. And that’s not a spoiler because it’s the opening scene. I received a ton of emails at the website and comments in the forum which can be summed up with “WTF? I can’t believe you did that!”

  I didn’t do it for the shock value. There is a reason, which I make clear in the next book, Harbingers, and have been hinting at since Hosts.

  Ready? Here goes…

  INFERNAL

  (sample)

  1

  As Tom watched Jack thread the crowd toward the stairs, trailing his carry-on, someone opened an exit door. A gust of cold December air sneaked through and wrapped around him. He shivered. Now he knew why he’d moved to Florida.

  He returned his attention to the still and empty baggage carousel. A moment or two later a klaxon sounded as an orange light began blinking; the carousel shuddered into motion.

  As luggage started to slide down a chute to the revolving surface Tom edged forward with everyone else, looking for his bag. It was black, like ninety percent of the rest, but he’d wrapped the handle in day-glo orange tape to make it easier to spot.

  One of the Hasidic women stood in front of him, carrying a one-year old. A little girl, bundled head to toe against winter. Her large brown eyes fixed on Tom and he gave her a little wave. She smiled and covered her face. A shy one.

  From the corner of his eye he saw a door swing open on the far side of the carousel. Two figures emerged but he paid them no mind until he heard the unmistakable ratchet of a breech bolt. He froze, then spun toward the doorway in time to see two figures in gray coveralls, ski-masked under black-and-white kufiyas, raising assault pistols.

  Instinct and training took over as Tom dove for the floor, carrying the mother and her little girl with him. The woman cried out, and as the three of them fell, her fat, bearded husband in his long black coat and sealskin hat whirled toward them, his face a mask of shock and outrage.

  Then the shooting began and the man dove floorward along with everybody else.

  Tom heard shattering glass and a scream of pain behind him. He turned in time to see the two security guards go down, caught in a spray of bullets that shattered the glass doors behind them. The woman’s legs folded under her and she hit the floor not six feet from him. A pulsating crimson fountain arced from her throat. He saw more shock than pain in her eyes. She’d never had a chance to draw her pistol.

  The shooters seemed to have made a point of taking down the guards first. More would be coming, but for the moment the killers were unopposed. They mowed down anyone trying to run, and then began a systematic slaughter of the rest.

  Tom watched in horror as the two faceless gunmen split, each taking a side of the carousel, tearing up the helpless, cowering passengers with a succession of short bursts from their stubby, odd-looking assault pistols. They worked quickly and methodically, pausing only to change magazines or cut down those who tried to flee.

  Tom’s gut writhed and his bladder clenched with the realization that he was going to die here. He’d been shot in Korea, he’d survived the firefight of his life and Hurricane Elvis just a few months ago, only to be exterminated here like a roach trapped on the floor. If only he had a gun – even a .22 pistol – he could stop these arrogant murderous shits. They knew no one could fight back.

  Tom turned. The dead guard’s pistol beckoned to him from its holster.

  Just then a man leaped up and tried to dive into the baggage chute, but an extended burst cut him nearly in half, leaving his body wedged in the opening.

  That long burst emptied the killer’s magazine. As he switched to a fresh one, a brawny Hasid leaped to his feet and charged, roaring like the bear he resembled. The killer, caught off guard, backpedaled and slipped on the bloody floor. The Hasid was almost upon him when the other killer turned and ripped him up with a burst to the chest and abdomen that sent him spinning to the floor.

  Now! Tom thought, not giving himself time to think as he pushed himself up to a crouch and started a high-assed scramble. Now!

  He heard shooting behind him, saw pieces chip out of the floor as bullets hit it, felt something tear into his thigh. It knocked him flat, but pushed him forward as it did, putting the gun within reach. He heard the hollow clink! of an empty chamber and knew with a sudden burst of hope that the shooter’s magazine had run dry. Bolts of agony shot through his leg when he tried to move it, but he’d been hurt worse than this. All that mattered was the pistol. He had a tiny window of opportunity here and had to make the most of it.

  His fingers were closing around the grip when he began to shake. Not just his hand and arms, his whole body. He tried again for the pistol but his arm seized up. He couldn’t breathe. He felt his body begin to flop around like a beached fish. His pulse pounded in his ears, slowing.

  What was happening? He’d only been hit in the leg. Had he taken another slug somewhere else? What…?

  Tom’s light, his air, his questions, his time… faded to nothingness.

  2

  Jack had to take a circular route to reach the pickup area, a reluctant mini-tour of the airport. LaGuardia was small as major airports went, and appeared to be the victim of some weird temporal dislocation. The dingy, Quonset-hut style hangers looked to be of 1930s vintage, while a green-glassed terminal itself was strictly fifties in design. The massive, six-story bare concrete parking garage could have been built yesterday.

  As he nosed his Crown Vic along the pickup lane outside the Central Terminal, he saw people running – not toward the doors, like late travelers, but from them. Screaming p
eople, faces masks of terror, fleeing for their lives.

  Jack’s heart double clutched. They were pouring from the baggage area… fleeing the far section… the section where he’d left Dad.

  No… it can’t…

  He gunned the engine and sped toward the far section, narrowly missing a panicked man and a screaming woman. He jerked to a halt when he saw the shattered doors and broken glass glittering on the sidewalk, the bullet holes in the still-intact panes.

  Oh, Christ… oh no-no-no!

  He jumped out and dashed across the sidewalk, almost slipping on the shards of glass, and skidded to a halt inside the baggage area.

  Blood… blood everywhere… lakes of red on the floor… even the carousel was red… a man’s feet and legs hung out of the baggage chute… the bloody rag-doll body of a baby girl sprawled among the endlessly circling luggage.

  No other movement, no crying, no screams or wails of the wounded. Just silence. Not one of the victims so much as stirred.

  Jack stood frozen and stared, numb, paralyzed…

  Dad…?

  Where was his father? He’d left him standing right over there by the –

  There! Shit! A body, a gray-haired man in a green-and-white coat.

  No-no-no-no!

  As Jack forced himself forward a voice shouted from somewhere to his left.

  “Freeze!”

  Jack heard the word but it didn’t register. Stiff and slow, he kept moving, a living zombie.

  “Freeze, goddammit or I’ll drop you where you stand!”

  Jack kept moving, forcing himself forward a few more steps until he reached the corpse. He dropped to his knees in a pool of still-warm blood, grabbed one of the shoulders, and rolled him over.

  The face – his lips were pulled back in a horrific, agonized grimace, but his glazed eyes left no doubt about it.

  Dad.

  Dead.

  Jack felt as if his chest might explode. He let out a sound that was equal parts moan and sob.

  He shook his father. It couldn’t be. They’d been talking just a few minutes ago. He couldn’t be dead!