Scenes from the Secret History

by F. Paul Wilson

  He smiled at the thought. He’d always wanted an academic life, to spend his workdays on the campus of a great university. Well, for the last few years his wish had come true. Except he didn’t travel there every day to immerse himself in the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of the ages; he came to tend the grounds.

  With his degrees he could have been at Georgetown, or even Darnell or Brown as an academic, but proving his qualifications would require him to reveal his past, and he couldn’t do that.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror at his long, salt-and-pepper hair – mostly salt now – still wet from his morning shower, pulled tight to the back, at his scarred forehead, bent nose, and full, graying beard. Only the bright blue eyes of his former self remained. If his mother were still alive, even she might have trouble recognizing him now.

  He peered ahead. Had to be an accident somewhere up there. Either that or the road department had picked the town’s so-called a.m. rush hour to do some street repairs. Will had grown up in a real city, the city with the king – no, the emperor of rush hours. This little bottleneck couldn’t hold a candle to that.

  He killed time by reading bumper stickers. Most of them were religious.

  “BORN AGAIN”

  “YOUR GOD DEAD? TRY MINE: JESUS LIVES!”

  “LISTEN FOR THE SHOUT – HE’S COMING AGAIN!”

  “A CLOSE ENCOUNTER OF THE BEST KIND: JESUS!”

  And Will’s favorite…

  “JESUS IS COMING AGAIN AND BOY IS HE PISSED!”

  I can dig that, Will thought.

  He considered turning on the radio but wasn’t in the mood for the ubiquitous country music or the crud that dominated the university’s student station, so he listened to the engine as it idled in the press. An ancient gas guzzling V-8 but it purred like a week-old kitten. It had taken him a while but he’d finally got the timing right.

  Will noticed that the right lane seemed to be inching forward faster than his own. When a space opened up next to him, he eased over toward the curb and made slightly better time for half a block. Then he came to a dead stop along with everybody else.

  Big deal. He’d picked up fifty feet over his old spot. Hardly worth the trouble. He peered ahead to see if the next side street was one he could use to detour around the congestion. He couldn’t make out the name on the sign. He glanced to his right and froze.

  Oh, no.

  A telephone booth stood on the sidewalk not six feet from the passenger door of his car.

  Not many left these days, and usually he could spot one blocks away. But this had been hidden by the unusually large knot of people clustered at the bus stop next to it. He’d missed it.

  Panic gripped the center of Will’s chest and twisted. How close was he? Too close. How long had he been stopped? Too long. He couldn’t stay here. He didn’t need much, just half a car length forward or back, but he had to move, had to get away from that phone.

  No room in front – he’d already pulled up to the rear bumper of the car ahead of him. He lurched around in his seat, peering over the trunk. No room there either. The car behind was right on his tail.

  Trapped.

  Get out of the car – that was the only thing to do. Get out and walk off a short distance until the snarl loosened up, then run back and screech away.

  He reached for the door handle. He had to move now if he was going to get away before–

  No. Wait. Be cool.

  Maybe it wouldn’t happen. Maybe the horror had finally let go. Maybe it was over.

  He hadn’t allowed himself near a landline phone for so long, how did he know it would happen again? Nothing had happened yet. Maybe nothing would. If he just stayed calm and stayed put, maybe–

  The phone in the booth began to ring.

  Will closed his eyes, set his jaw, and gripped the steering wheel with all his strength.

  Damn!

  The phone rang only once. Not the usual two-second burst, but a long, continuous ring that went on and on.

  Will opened his eyes to see who would answer it. Someone always did. Who’d be the unlucky one?

  He watched the commuters at the bus stop ignore it for a while. They looked at each other, then at the phone, then back down the street where their bus was stuck in traffic somewhere out of sight. Will knew that wouldn’t last. No one could ignore a phone that rang like that.

  Finally, a woman started for the booth.

  Don’t, lady.

  She continued forward, oblivious to his silent warning. When she reached the booth she hesitated. It was that ring, Will knew, that endless continuous ring that so jangled the nerves with its alienness. You couldn’t help but sense that something was very wrong here.

  She looked around at her fellow commuters who were all staring at her, urging her on with their eyes.

  Answer it, they seemed to say. If nothing else you’ll stop that damned incessant ring!

  She lifted the receiver and put it to her ear. Will watched her face, watched her expression change from one of mild curiosity to concern, and then to horror. She pulled the receiver away from her head and stared at it as if the earpiece had turned to slime. She dropped it and backed away. Another of the commuters – a man this time – began to approach the booth. Then Will noticed the car in front of him begin to move ahead. He gunned the Chevy and stayed on the other car’s bumper as it pulled away.

  Will kept his sweaty hands tight on the wheel and fought the sick chills and nausea that swept through him.

  Thank God it didn’t happen with cell phones. At least not yet. Only land lines. And he had a pretty good idea of why.

  Delve into the darkness here… Reprisal

  February

  Fatal Error

  (includes “The Wringer”)

  We’re approaching the End Game.

  I’d read a theory by a 19th century a Jesuit named Pierre Teilhard de Chardin that the growth of human numbers and interactions would create a separate consciousness called the noosphere. What if he was right? What if I was fed by every thought, every interaction between every sentient being on the planet. It’s not cyberspace, though cyberspace adds to it. Every email, every Twitter tweet, every Facebook add or app or comment, every chat-room quip, every blog entry or comment, every text message or eBay bid – billions upon billions of interactions every hour, all between sentient beings, and all adding to the noosphere.

  The noosphere feeds the Lady. The way to take out the Lady then – and pave the way for the Otherness – is to take out the Internet. And I figured out a way to do it.

  That’s the game that’s afoot in Fatal Error. But it’s hardly apparent as we open with a poor guy who’s being put through the wringer…

  Fatal Error

  (sample)

  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 sphincters were 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

  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.

  Three guesses as to the identity of that “fierce man”… Fatal Error

  March

  THE DARK AT THE END