F Wilson - Fatal Error

He switched off the machine and turned to Jack.

"You see now why I need your help?"

"No. I'm telling you again the police and the feds can do a better job of tracking this guy."

"But will the police help me cut off my finger?"

"Forget it!" Jack said, swallowing hard. "No way."

"But I can't do it myself. I've tried but I can't make my hand hold still. I want to but I just can't do it myself." Munir looked him in the eyes. "Please. You're my only hope. You must."

"Don't pull that on me." Jack wanted out of here. Now. "Get this: Just because you need me doesn't mean you own me. Just because I can doesn't mean I must. And in this case I honestly doubt that I can. So keep all of your fingers and dial nine-one-one to get some help."

"No!" Anger overcame the fear and anguish in Munir's face. "I will not risk their lives!"

He strode back to the kitchen and picked up the cleaver. Jack was suddenly on guard. The guy was nearing the end of his rope. No telling what he'd do.

"I wasn't man enough to do it before," he said, hefting the cleaver. "But I can see I'll be getting no help from you or anyone else. So I'll have to take care of this all by myself!"

Jack stood back and watched as Munir slammed his left palm down on the tabletop, splayed the fingers, and angled the hand around so the thumb was pointing somewhere past his left flank.

Jack didn't move to stop him. Munir was doing what he thought he had to do.

He raised the cleaver above his head. It hovered there a moment, wavering like a cliff diver with second thoughts, then with a whimper of fear and dismay, Munir drove the cleaver into his hand.

Or rather into the tabletop where his hand had been.

Weeping, he collapsed into the chair then, and his sobs of anguish and self-loathing were terrible to hear.

"All right, goddammit," Jack said. He knew this was going to be nothing but trouble, but he'd seen and heard all he could stand. He kicked the nearest wall. "I'll do it."

Dawn had carried her lunch salad up to the top floor of the penthouse. She sat in one of the poolside chairs and gazed through the green-tinted glass walls at Central Park below. Not nearly as pretty now as in the summer when the trees were in full leaf. The bare branches and winter-brown grass were totally ugly. Shadows from the buildings along Central Park West were stretching her way, edging onto the frozen surface of Jackie O Lake. On the far side of the park, the setting sun peeked between the towers of the El Dorado building.

She sighed.

So damn lonely. She could have eaten downstairs with Gilda bustling about, but being around Gilda was worse than being alone. She'd had a thing against Dawn ever since Henry got the sack, or whatever happened to him. A lot of that was Dawn's fault, yeah, but Henry had gone along with it.

Anyway, she was sure Gilda would have totally poisoned her food long before now if not for her boss. "The Master," as she called him, kept Dawn locked away here for her protection. Supposedly. If anything hap She cried out and doubled over, sending her plate flying as a sharp pain ripped through her lower belly.

The plate shattered and the flying pieces hadn't settled before the pain was gone.

Dawn straightened and took a breath.

What was that? The start of labor?

Tensing, she waited for the next shot but it didn't come. After ten minutes of nothing happening, she rose and headed for her room, leaving the broken plate and scattered lettuce behind. Let Gilda clean it up. If it had been anyone else, Dawn would have picked up the pieces as best she could, but not for Gilda.

She stepped carefully, not wanting that pain to hit again while she was on her feet. But she reached her room without even a tiny pang. She lay down on her bed and waited.

"Ready?"

Munir's left hand was lashed to the tabletop. Jack had loaded him with every painkiller in the medicine cabinet-Tylenol, Advil, Bufferin, Anacin 3, Nuprin. Some of them were duplicates. Jack didn't care. He wanted Munir's pain center deadened as much as possible. He wished the guy drank. He'd have much preferred doing this to someone who was dead drunk. Or doped up. Jack could have scored a bunch of Dilaudids for him. But Munir had said no to both. No booze. No dope.

Tight-ass.

Jack had never cut off a finger. He wanted to do this right. The first time. No misses. Half an inch too far to the right and Munir would lose only a piece of his pinkie; half an inch too far to the left and he'd be missing the ring finger as well. So Jack had made himself a guide. He'd found a plastic cutting board, a quarter-inch thick, and notched one of its edges. Now he was holding the board upright with the notch clamped over the base of Munir's pinkie; the rest of his hand was safe behind the board. All Jack had to do was chop down as hard as he could along the vertical surface.

That was all.

Easy.

Right.

"I am ready," Munir said.

He was dripping sweat. His dark eyes looked up at Jack, then he nodded, stuffed a dishrag in his mouth, and turned his head away.

Swell, Jack thought. Glad you're ready. How about me?

Now or never.

He steadied the cutting board, raised the cleaver. He couldn't do this.

Got to.

He took a deep breath, tightened his grip -and drove the cleaver into the wall.

Munir jumped, turned, pulled the dishrag from his mouth.

"What? Why-?"

"This isn't going to work." Jack let the plastic cutting board drop and began to pace the kitchen. "Got to be another way. He's got us on the run. We're playing this whole thing by his rules."

"There aren't any others."

"Yeah, there are."

Jack continued pacing. One thing he'd learned over the years was not to let the other guy deal all the cards. Let him think he had control of the deck while you changed the order.

Munir wriggled his fingers. "Please. I cannot risk angering this madman."

Jack swung to face him. An idea was taking shape.

"You want me in on this?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then we do it my way. All of it. First thing we do is untie you." He began working at the knots that bound Munir's arm to the table. "Then we make some phone calls."

Munir understood none of this. He sat in a daze, sipping milk to ease a stomach that quaked from fear and burned from too many pills. Jack was on the phone, but his words made no sense.

"Yeah, Ron. It's me. Jack… Right. That Jack. Look, I need a piece of your wares… small piece. Easy thing… Right. I'll get that to you in an hour or two. Thing is, I need it by morning. Can you deliver?… Great. Be by later. By the way-how much?… Make that two and you got a deal… All right. See you."

Then he hung up, took the glass from Munir's hands. Munir found himself taken by the upper arm and pulled toward the door.

"Can you get us into your office?"

Munir nodded. "I'll need my ID card and keys, but yes, security will let me in."

"Great. There a back way out of here?"

Munir led him down the elevator to the parking garage and out the rear door. Night was falling. They caught a cruising gypsy cab and rode downtown to a hardware store on Bleecker Street. Jack told the cabbie to wait, then grabbed Munir's arm.

"Let's go."

"I can stay with the cab."

"No way. This won't work without you."

Munir followed him inside to where a painfully thin man with sallow skin and no hair whatsoever, not even eyebrows, stood behind the counter.

"Hey, Jack," he said.

"How's it going, Teddy? How're you feeling?"

"Like warmed-over shit. This chemo sucks the big one."

Munir noticed a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket of Teddy's shirt and made a tentative diagnosis. And yet he was still smoking? He didn't understand some people.