Fatal Error

by F. Paul Wilson

  “What?”

  “The other morning—what is today? I’ve lost track.”

  “Thursday.”

  “Then it was Tuesday morning. He made me admit a virus into both my computers. He said it was so he could track my emails, to make sure I wasn’t communicating with the police.”

  “Did you let him?” Barbara said.

  “Of course. I thought it strange at the time that he wanted the key to my encrypted files, but now it makes sense. He was going through all my files looking for this piece of code. But what—?”

  Barbara sobbed. “Tuesday morning? That’s when . . . even though you did what he asked, he still cut off Robby’s finger.”

  Jack shook his head. “And told Munir he had to cut off one of his own. Even though he probably already had the code. Sick bastard.”

  Munir’s expression remained incredulous. “But what do I have that he wants?”

  “Something to do with the online game program you’ve been working on,” she said.

  He pressed his hands against the sides of his head. “The game? The MMO? What could he possibly—?”

  “What’s it do?” Jack said.

  “It speeds up play. Russ and I—”

  “Russ!” Barbara said. “He mentioned Russ!”

  Jack shook his head. “I can’t believe Russ would be involved in anything like this.”

  “He’s not,” Barbara said. “But Valez told me that Russ was shooting his mouth off about the wonders of this software.”

  “Then why didn’t he go to Russ?”

  Munir sighed. “Because I store all the code.”

  “But didn’t he have a copy?”

  Munir shook his head. “I have—or at least had—the more secure system. Russ calls me ‘Mister Encryption.’ But still . . .” He frowned. “He would have gone to Russ first.”

  Jack remembered something. “Maybe he did. Maybe he got in through the guy next door. Russ gets online by poaching his neighbor’s Wi-Fi.”

  Munir closed his eyes as if in pain. “Oh, that makes it so easy. He found out Russ didn’t have it, so he came after me.”

  “And he couldn’t get into your system—”

  “Even if he did, I use two-fifty-six-bit AES encryption.”

  “So he attacked you through your family and made it look like crazy racism when all he really wanted was a bit of code.”

  Munir turned to Barbara. “Did he say why?”

  She shook her head.

  “Or who he was working for?” Jack asked.

  Another shake. “It was hard enough extracting what I did. Once I learned that it was neither random nor personal, but just for a chunk of innocent computer code, I . . . I was so sickened I couldn’t bear to be near him anymore.” She closed her eyes and tears squeezed between her lids as she sobbed. “He cut off my little boy’s finger for a string of letters and numbers!”

  Murnir threw his arms around her. “I’m so sorry.”

  As Jack gave them a moment, he thought about how it was pretty near a sure thing that certain strings of letters and numbers out there could change the world. But code for an online game? To use the online lingua franca: WTF?

  “What happened to his hand?”

  Still sobbing, Barbara reached into her coat pocket. She pulled out a clear plastic bag and handed it to him. Jack checked it out.

  A human thumb.

  Munir gasped.

  Jack said, “What are you going to do with it?”

  “See to it that he and it are never rejoined.”

  Jack pocketed it. “I’ll take care of that.”

  He’d noticed a rat hole in the rear wall of the garage. Maybe he’d treat them to a midday snack.

  “But we’ve a bigger problem: What do we do with the rest of him?”

  Munir looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  Might as well slap it on the table: “If I were in your shoes, I’d get rid of him as well.”

  Barbara’s eyes widened. “You mean kill him?”

  “Think about it. He knows who you are, knows where to find you. He snatched you and Robby once. What’s going to keep him from doing it again? His plan was to kill you—”

  “You don’t know that,” she said.

  “Why else would he allow you to see his face? When I mentioned it to him yesterday he didn’t deny it.”

  Barbara pressed herself against her husband. “You’re talking cold-blooded murder.”

  “Sure sounds like it.”

  “No,” Munir said, shaking his head. “I won’t allow it. I . . . I can’t.”

  “ ‘Allow’? I wasn’t talking about Barbara doing it.”

  He looked confused. “No, I meant you. Monster that he is, I don’t think I can be a party to something like that.”

  Now Jack saw the problem.

  “Whoa. We’ve got our signals crossed here. I’m not a contract killer. I don’t do that. Remember, I said, ‘If I were in your shoes.’ I’m talking about you offing him.”

  Their eyes widened simultaneously as they spoke in unison. “No!”

  “Better give that a little more thought. He started cutting off your wife’s nipple when the only thing he had against her was she married you. Now how do you think he feels about her?”

  Munir swallowed. “There must be another way.”

  “Not that I can see. He’s a ticking time bomb.”

  “The police . . . we can press charges.”

  “Sure, but that might not go the way you hope.” He looked at Barbara. “He was wearing surgical gloves when I broke in—”

  “He wore them the entire time.”

  Jack nodded. “No prints left behind. And he’s set the real Hollander up as a fall guy. I’m pretty sure Hollander is dead, so he won’t be able to deny his involvement.”

  “But we can all identify him.”

  “What about his thumb? How do you explain that? He’s established reasonable doubt, while you’ve cut him up. In this system, with the kind of judges we have in this city, he could walk while Barbara ends up behind bars.”

  Murnir shook his head. “No, that can’t happen.”

  “It damn well can. I’m not saying it will, but it can. You want to take that risk?”

  Jack wouldn’t. If this were personal—if Gia and Vicky were at risk—James Valez would not see sunset. Hell, he wouldn’t see noon. But this wasn’t personal. This was Munir and Barbara’s problem. They had to make the choice and do the deed.

  Munir seemed lost in thought.

  Barbara said, “Oh, Munir . . . you can’t be considering . . .”

  He looked at her. “What do you say? He kidnapped you, he cut you, he hurt Robby in front of you. I will go along with whatever you choose.”

  She closed her eyes. “I’ve hurt him back. If he had a heart attack now I would not try to save him. The world would be a better place without him, but I don’t want any more of his blood on my hands, and I don’t want it on yours.” She turned to Jack and shook her head. “No. We can’t.”

  Jack sighed. “I didn’t think you could.”

  He understood. They were regular citizens. They hadn’t walked in Jack’s shoes, or made the mistakes he’d made—like allowing a killer with a grudge to walk away. Someone had died because of that. He’d never make that mistake again.

  “Then we’ll have to let him go.”

  He could tell from their expressions they were frightened, and well they should be.

  Munir tightened his arm around his wife. “What can we do to protect ourselves?”

  “Arm yourselves and hire someone to teach you defensive tactics. Meanwhile, take off. I’ll deal with him.”

  “How?”

  “Let me worry about that. I’ll be expecting the rest of my fee tomorrow.”

  Munir nodded. “Absolutely.”

  When they were gone, Jack climbed back into the back of the van. He’d noticed the door ajar earlier. He hoped Valez had heard his conversation with the Habibs. He lay there with hi
s eyes closed. The bandage on his hand was completely red now.

  Jack yanked the tape off his mouth.

  “You awake?”

  Valez moaned. “My hand . . .” His voice was hoarse, gravelly. “Killing me. Need a doctor.”

  Jack had to laugh. “You’re kidding, right? You’re lucky you’re still alive. Up to me you’d be rat meat. Like your thumb.”

  He groaned.

  “Okay,” Jack said. “Here’s the deal: You live to see another day. Just how many more days depends on you. I know who you are and I know where you live.”

  He opened his eyes. “No you don’t. The first thing you asked me this morning was my name.”

  “Had a cop buddy trace your prints last night.” I wish, he thought. “You weren’t easy to find, but he found you.”

  “Bullshit. Don’t have a record.”

  “Amazing how many people think that means something. But just because you’ve never been arrested doesn’t mean your prints aren’t on file somewhere. Anyway, my buddy matched yours, James Valez. And the reason I asked you your name this morning is because an interrogator should always know the answer to at least one question he’s asking. How else you gonna know if the interrogatee—that’d be you—is telling the truth?”

  Sounded good for something Jack had just made up on the spot.

  “Anyway, here’s the deal: I dump you somewhere and you find your own way to a doctor. After that, you leave the Habibs alone. You bother them again, or they get even a hint that you’re sniffing around, I’m back in the picture. Despite what the wife did to you—be thankful she wasn’t working on your crotch—they’re gentle people. I, on the other hand, have impulse issues. I’ll come back and shoot off your kneecaps and smash your elbows. It’s part of my warranty. I guarantee my work. So the bottom line is, you’re out of their lives forever. Got it?”

  Valez said nothing, so Jack kicked his wounded hand.

  “Got it?”

  He howled. “Yes! Yes!”

  Jack hoped the message had penetrated.

  “Now, a couple more questions.”

  “Please . . .”

  “Why did you want that code?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Jack stared at the wounded hand. “You gonna let this turn ugly?”

  Jack wanted to avoid that almost as much as he guessed Valez did, but he couldn’t let on.

  Valez followed his stare. “No, please, I swear. I was only supposed to get into his hard drive and find the code. I don’t know what for. I swear on my mother’s life I don’t.”

  Could be telling the truth. No way to know for sure.

  “Who put you up to it? And don’t hold back. You are going to tell me, so why don’t we save me a little time and you a lot of pain by spilling? You don’t even have to speak. Just nod. The Order put you up to it, right?”

  He hesitated, then closed his eyes and nodded.

  Well, well, well . . . Barbara had broken him.

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t say. Not high enough to know.”

  That had a ring of truth as well. From what he’d learned about the Order, it was layered, with only the top echelons privy to the real agenda.

  Jack wanted to ask if Drexler was involved but didn’t want to give away how much he knew about the group.

  “Was it the Order’s idea to have you torture the Habibs and mutilate their boy?”

  He shook his head. “Mine.”

  “Why?”

  His answer surprised Jack.

  5

  Georges placed Dawn’s suitcase on the floor inside the front door of the apartment and handed her the door keys.

  “Unlike Gilda,” he said, smiling at her from the doorway, “I bear you no ill will. In fact, I wish you well. Had you been better behaved, I would not hold my current position.”

  He pulled the door closed, leaving her alone in her new place. Boxes of her belongings littered the floors, waiting to be unpacked.

  Alone . . . when was the last time she’d been alone anywhere?

  Her shoes clicked on the hardwood floor as she checked out the front room, dining area, and kitchen. Then to the two bedrooms. All furnished in a minimalist way. Although she couldn’t imagine him bothering, the furniture totally looked like something Mr. Osala would pick out: no personality.

  Well, so what? Not like she’d be throwing parties, or even having company. All the kids she’d hung with in high school were in college now. She’d been headed for Colgate before Jerry . . . and the baby . . . and Mom’s death . . .

  Suddenly overwhelmed, she dropped into a chair. The world had been her oyster, waiting for her to pry it open and grab the pearl. She’d done an expert job of screwing up her life and her mother’s. If she hadn’t fallen for Jerry’s line . . .

  She felt her throat tighten but she was not going to break down. She was on her own now and was going to have to stop acting like a baby.

  She noticed her hands trembling. Nerves? She felt like crap. Her stomach growled. When was the last time she’d eaten? She thought back. Had to be Tuesday afternoon—almost two days ago. She tended to get low blood sugar if she didn’t eat.

  She pushed herself up from the chair and almost fell back as the room did a 360. Had to get some food into her.

  She staggered to the kitchen, all but bouncing off a wall along the way. She yanked open the refrigerator door and stared at empty shelves. Mr. Osala had taken care of everything but stocking the fridge.

  She totally needed food. She’d spotted a coffee shop across the street. She could grab a sandwich and some milk, get her bearings, then do some grocery shopping.

  Sounded like a plan.

  She fumbled around, found the envelope Mr. Osala had given her, grabbed the apartment key, and stepped out into the hall. As she closed the door behind her, the hallway undulated like a snake. She sagged against the wall as she broke out in a sweat and her legs turned to Twizzlers.

  She was sliding toward the floor when she heard a door open nearby.

  “Are you all right?” said a woman’s voice.

  Dawn conquered an urge to say she was fine and always acted this way.

  “Low blood sugar.”

  “Are you a diabetic?”

  She shook her head. “Just need something to eat.”

  Hands gripped her under the arms, lifted her to standing, and the two of them stumbled into the neighbor woman’s apartment. She was guided to a chair and she gratefully dropped into it.

  “Stay there. I’ll get you some juice.”

  But instead of heading straight for the kitchen, the woman closed and locked the door. Dawn got a look at her then: midthirties, straight dark hair, no makeup, medium build.

  She disappeared into the kitchen, then reappeared with a glass of orange juice. As Dawn gulped it down, the woman went back to the kitchen and returned with a couple of cheese sticks.

  “Here,” she said, unwrapping one. “Eat these. The protein will give you a more sustained blood sugar.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  She smiled. Nice smile. “Hardly.”

  “My name’s Dawn. I just moved—”

  “Yeah, I gathered you were my new neighbor. My name’s Louise, but people call me Weezy.”

  6

  One of the things Abe stored in his garage was a stock of defunct license plates Jack had acquired from Sal Vituolo, a former customer who owned a Staten Island junkyard. A set of those plates—from Mississippi—adorned Abe’s van now.

  He’d driven downtown to Allen Street, then turned onto the Lodge’s block. Valez was blindfolded, gagged, and wrapped in a sheet in the back. He had no idea of what Abe or the van looked like, or the location of the garage, and Jack planned to keep it that way. Jack wore an oversized cap with the brim riding his eyebrows, and big sunglasses.

  A few car lengths upstream from the Lodge, he double-parked, freed Valez from the bungees, and dragged him out the back door. He left him between two parked cars. The cold kept s
idewalk traffic lean and the few people around paid him little heed.

  As he drove off, he called the Lodge. He knew the number of the phone in the foyer.

  When someone answered, he asked for “the Lodge guy.” After multiple requests and clarification to “someone from the Septimus Order,” Drexler came to the phone.

  Good. Finding him there was hit or miss.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Just dropped one of your goons off by the curb—the guy who kidnapped Munir Habib’s wife and kid. Do you know he cut off the kid’s finger just for kicks—I mean after he broke into the computer and got the code. Nice buncha people you got in the Order.”

  “What are you talking about. Who—?”

  “Yeah, he told me all about the game code and what you want it for. You jerks are sicker than I thought.”

  He broke the connection and turned off the phone.

  There . . . that ought to rattle some cages.

  7

  This is a disaster, Ernst thought as he stared across his desk at Valez.

  The man was a disheveled mess—bruised, battered, and missing his right thumb. All bad enough, but the phone call.

  “Tell me again what happened.”

  “I already—”

  “Tell. Me.”

  Valez sighed. “I was attacked. It was a case of mistaken identity. They thought I was someone else . . . thought I had information about something I knew nothing about. They tortured me until they realized they had the wrong man.”

  An absurd story, obviously concocted on the spot. Apparently he hadn’t had time to make up something more credible.

  “So . . . this had nothing to do with acquiring the code from Habib’s computer?”

  “No. Absolutely not. I’d already secured the code and released his wife and child.”

  “But not before amputating the child’s finger.”

  Watching the blood drain from Valez’s face, Ernst knew the caller had been telling the truth. It took all his will to restrain his fury.

  “That’s . . .” Valez’s mouth worked in silence for a heartbeat or two.

  Ernst forced a calm tone. “Don’t bother denying it.”

  “How do—?”

  “How do I know? That does not concern you. What I do not know is why you deviated from the plan. Your mission was to extract the code from Habib’s computer without him knowing it. You were provided a scapegoat and a covering motive. I don’t remember any mention in the plan of mutilating a child. Explain.”