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

“What can he possibly gain from tormenting me?”

“Torment, hell. This guy’s out to destroy you. And as for gain, I’m guessing on revenge.”

“For what?” This was so maddening. “I fear you are getting off course with this idea that somehow I know this insane man.”

“Maybe. But something he said during your last conversation doesn’t sit right. He said he was being ‘a lot more generous than you’d ever be.’ That’s not a remark a stranger would make. And then he said ‘faux pas’ a little while after. He’s trying to sound like a redneck but I don’t know too many rednecks with faux pas in their vocabulary.”

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean he knows me personally.”

“You said you run a department in this oil company.”

“Yes. Saud Petrol. I’m head of Stateside operations division.”

“Which means you’ve got to hire and fire, I imagine.”

“Of course.”

“Look there. That’s where you’ll find this kook – in your personnel records. He’s the proverbial Disgruntled Employee. Or Former Employee. Or Almost Employee. Someone you fired, someone you didn’t hire, or someone you passed over for promotion. I’d go with the first – some people get very personal about being fired.”

Munir searched his past for any confrontations with members of his department. He could think of only one and that was so minor –

Jack was pushing the tape cassette across the table.

“Call the cops,” he said.

Fear wrapped thick fingers around Munir’s throat and squeezed. “No! He’ll find out! He’ll–”

“I can’t help you, pal. This isn’t my thing. You need more than I can give you. You need officialdom. You need a squad of paper shufflers doing background checks on the people past and present in your department. I’m small potatoes. No staff, no access to fingerprint files. You need all of that and more if you’re going to get your family through this. The FBI’s good at this stuff. They can stay out of sight, work in the background while you deal with this guy up front.”

“But–”

He rose and clapped a hand on Munir’s shoulder as he passed.

“Good luck.”

And then he was walking away… blending into the crowd around the bar… gone.

6

Charlie popped out his door down the hall just as Munir was unlocking his own.

“Thought that was you.” He held up a Federal Express envelope. “This came while you were out. I signed for it.”

Munir snatched it from him. His heart began to thud when he saw the name Trade Towers in the sender section of the address label.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he gasped and practically fell into his apartment.

“Hey, wait. Did you–?”

The door slammed on Charlie’s question as Munir’s fingers fumbled with the tab of the opening strip. Finally he got a grip on it and ripped it across the top. He looked inside. Empty except for shadows. No. It couldn’t be. He’d felt a bulge, a thickness within. He up ended it.

A photograph slipped out and fluttered to the floor.

Munir dropped to a squat and snatched it up. He groaned as he saw Barbara – naked, gagged, bound spread eagle on the bed as before, but alone this time. Something white was draped across her midsection. Munir looked closer.

A newspaper. A tabloid. The Post. The headline was the same he’d seen on the newsstands this morning. And Barbara was staring at the camera. No tears this time. Alert. Angry. Alive .

Munir wanted to cry. He pressed the photo against his chest and sobbed once, then looked at it again to make sure there was no trickery. No, it was real.

At the bottom was another one of the madman’s hateful inscriptions: She watched.

Barbara watched? Watched what? What did that mean?

Just then the phone rang. Munir leaped for it. He pressed the RECORD button on the answerphone as soon as he recognized the distorted voice.

Finished barfing yet, Mooo neeer?”

“I – I don’t know what you mean. But I thank you for this photo. I’m terribly relieved to know my wife is still alive. Thank you.”

He wanted to scream that he ached for the day when he could meet him face to face and flay him alive, but said nothing. Barbara and Robby could only be hurt by angering this madman.

“‘ Thank you’?” The voice on the phone sounded baffled. “Whatta you mean, ‘thank you’? Didn’t you see the rest?”

Munir went cold all over. He tried to speak but words would not come. It felt as if something were stuck in his throat. Finally, he managed a few words.

“Rest? What rest?”

“ I think you’d better take another look in that envelope, Mooo neeer. Take a real good look before you think about thankin’ me. I’ll call you back later.”

“No–!”

The line went dead.

Panic exploded within Munir as he hung up and rushed backed to the foyer.

Didn’t you see the rest?

What rest? Please, Allah, what did he mean? What was he saying?

He snatched up the stiff envelope. Yes, something still in it. A bulge at the bottom, wedged into the corner. He smacked the open end of the envelope against the floor.

Once. Twice.

Something tumbled out. Something in a small zip loc bag.

Short. Cylindrical. A pale, dusky pink. Bloody red at the ragged end.

Munir jammed the back of his wrist against his mouth. To hold back the screams. To hold back the vomit.

And the inscription on Barbara’s photograph came back to him.

She watched.

The phone began to ring.

7

“Take it easy, guy,” Jack said to the sobbing man slumped before him. “It’s going to be all right.”

Jack didn’t believe that, and he doubted Munir did either, but he didn’t know what else to say. Hard enough to deal with a sobbing woman. What do you say to a blubbering man?

He’d been on his way home from Gia’s over on Sutton Square when he stopped off at the St. Moritz to make one last call to his voice mail. He never used his apartment phone for that and did his best to randomize the times and locations of his calls. When he was on Central Park South he rarely passed up a chance to call in from the lobby of the Plaza or one of its high priced neighbors.

He heard Munir’s grief choked voice: “ Please… I have no one else to call. He’s hurt Robby! He’s hurt my boy! Please help me, I beg you!”

Jack couldn’t say what was behind the impulse. He didn’t want to, but a moment later he found himself calling Munir back, coaxing an address out of the near hysterical man, and coming over here. He’d pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves before entering the Turtle Bay high rise where Munir’s apartment was located. He was sure this mess was going to end up in the hands of officialdom and he wished to leave behind nothing that belonged to him, especially his fingerprints.

Munir had been so glad to see him, so grateful to him for coming that Jack practically had to peel the man off of him.

He helped him to the kitchen and found a heavy meat cleaver lying on the table there. Several deep gouges, fresh ones, marred the tabletop. Jack finally got him calmed down.

“Where is it?”

“There.” He pointed to the upper section of the refrigerator. “I thought if maybe I kept it cold…”

Munir slumped forward on the table, face down, his forehead resting on the arms crossed before him. Jack opened the freezer compartment and pulled out the plastic bag.

It was a finger. A kid’s. The left pinkie. Cleanly chopped off. Probably with the cleaver in the photo of a more delicate portion of the kid’s anatomy he’d seen earlier this evening.

The son of a bitch.