F. Paul Wilson - Quick Fixes - Tales of Repairman Jack

“When I came home from work Thursday night and found our apartment empty. I checked the answering machine and heard a distorted voice telling me that he had my wife and son and that they’d be fine if I did as I was told and didn’t go to the police. And if I had any thought of going to the police in spite of what he’d said, I should look on the dresser in our bedroom. The photographs were there.” Munir rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I sat up all night waiting for the phone to ring. He finally called me Friday morning.”

“And told you that you had to eat pork.”

Munir nodded. “He would tell me nothing about Barbara and Robby except that they were alive and well and were hoping I wouldn’t ‘screw up.’ I did as I was told, then hurried home and tried to vomit it up. He called and said I’d ‘done good.’ He said he’d call me again to tell me the next trick he was going to make me do. He said he was going to ‘put me through the wringer but good.’ “

“What was the next trick?”

“I was to steal a woman’s pocketbook in broad daylight, knock her down, and run with it. And I was not to get caught. He said the photos I had were ‘Before.’ If I was caught, he would send me ‘After.’“

“So you became a purse snatcher for a day. A successful one, I gather.”

Munir lowered his head. “I’m so ashamed… that poor woman.” His features hardened. “And then he sent the other photo.”

“Yeah? Let’s see it.”

Munir suddenly seemed flustered. “It’s – it’s at home.”

He was lying. Why?

“Bull. Let me see it.”

“No. I’d rather you didn’t–”

“I need to know everything if I’m going to help you.” Jack thrust out his hand. “Give.”

With obvious reluctance, Munir reached into his coat and passed across another still. Jack immediately understood his reluctance.

He saw the same blond woman from the first photo, only this time she was nude, tied spread eagle on a mattress, her dark pubic triangle toward the camera, her eyes bright with tears of humiliation; an equally naked dark haired boy crouched in terror next to her.

And I thought she was a natural blonde was written across the bottom.

Jack’s jaw began to ache from clenching it closed. He handed back the photo.

“And what about yesterday?”

“I had to urinate in the street before the Imperial Theater at a quarter to three in the afternoon.”

“Swell,” Jack said, shaking his head. “Sunday matinee time.”

“Correct. But I would do it all again if it would free Barbara and Robby.”

“You might have to do worse. In fact, I’m sure you’re going to have to do worse. I think this guy’s looking for your limit. He wants to see how far he can push you, wants to see how far you’ll go.”

“But where will it end?”

“Maybe with you killing somebody.”

“Him? Gladly! I–”

“No. Somebody else. A stranger. Or worse – somebody you know.”

Munir blanched. “No. Surely you can’t be…” His voice trailed off.

“Why not? He’s got you by the balls. That sort of power can make a well man sick and a sick man sicker.” He watched Munir’s face, the dismay tugging at his features as he stared at the tabletop. “What’ll you do?”

A pause while Munir returned from somewhere far away. “What?”

“When the time comes. When he says you’ve got to choose between the lives of your wife and son, and the life of someone else. What’ll you do?”

Munir didn’t flinch. “Do the killing, of course.”

“And the next innocent victim? And the one after that, and the one after that? When do you say enough, no more, finis ?”

Munir flinched. “I… I don’t know.”

Tough question. Jack wondered how he’d answer if Gia and Vicky were captives. How many innocent people would die before he stopped? What was the magic number? Jack hoped he never had to find out. The Son of Sam might end up looking like a piker.

“Let’s hear that tape.”

Munir pulled a cassette out of side pocket and slid it across. Jack slipped it into the Walkman. Maybe listening to this creep would help him get a read on him.

He handed Munir one headset and slipped the other over his ears. He hit PLAY.

The voice on the tape was electronically distorted. Two possible reasons for that. One obviously to prevent voice print analysis. But he also could be worried that Munir would recognize his voice. Jack listened to the snarling Southern accent. He couldn’t tell through the electronic buzz if it was authentic or not, but no question about the sincerity of the raw hate snaking through the phone line. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the voice.

Something there… something about this guy… a picture was forming…

5

Munir found it difficult to focus on the tape. After all, he had listened to that hated voice over and over until he knew by heart every filthy word, every nuance of expression. Besides, he was uneasy here. He never frequented places where liquor was served. The drinking and laughter at the bar – they were alien to his way of life. So he studied this stranger across the table from him instead.

This man called Repairman Jack was most unimpressive. True, he was taller than Munir, perhaps five eleven, but with a slim, wiry physique. Nothing at all special about his appearance. Brown hair with a low hairline, and such mild brown eyes; had he not been seated alone back here, he would have been almost invisible. Munir had expected a heroic figure – if not physically prepossessing, at least sharp, swift, and viper deadly. This man had none of those qualities. How was he going to wrest Barbara and Robby from their tormentor’s grasp? It hardly seemed possible.

And yet, as he watched him listening to the tape with his eyes closed, stopping it here and there to rewind and hear again a sentence or phrase, he became aware of the man’s quiet confidence, of a hint of furnace hot intensity roaring beneath his ordinary surface. And Munir began to see that perhaps there was a purpose behind Jack’s manner of dress, his whole demeanor being slanted toward unobtrusiveness. He realized that this man could dog your steps all day and you would never notice him.

When the tape was done, the stranger took off his headphones, removed the cassette from the player, and stared at it.

“Something screwy here,” he said finally.

“What do you mean?”

“He hates you.”

“Yes, I know. He hates all Arabs. He’s said so, many times.”

“No. He hates you .”

“Of course. I’m an Arab.”

What was he getting at?

“Wake up, Munir. I’m telling you this guy knows you and he hates your guts. This whole deal has nothing to do with nine-eleven or Arabs or any of the bullshit he’s been handing you. This is personal, Munir. Very personal.”

No. It wasn’t possible. He had never met anyone, had never been even remotely acquainted with a person who would do this to him and his family.

“I do not believe it.” His voice sounded hoarse. “It cannot be.”

Jack leaned forward, his voice low. “Think about it. In the space of three days this guy has made you offend your God, offend other people, humiliate yourself, and who knows what next? There’s real nastiness here, Munir. Cold, calculated malice. Especially this business of making you eat pork and drink beer at noon on Friday when you’re supposed to be at the mosque. I didn’t know you had to pray on Fridays at noon, but he did. That tells me he knows more than a little about your religion – studying up on it, most likely. He’s not playing this by ear. He’s got a plan. He’s not putting you through this ‘wringer’ of his just for the hell of it.”