F Wilson - Fatal Error

Jack tested the pipe. Not some flimsy aluminum tube that collapsed like a beer can, this was good old-fashioned galvanized steel. He pulled on the fittings. They wiggled in their sockets.

Not good, but he'd have to risk it.

He began to climb, shimmying up the pipe, vising it with his knees and elbows as he sought toeholds and fingerholds on the fittings. It shuddered, it groaned, and halfway up it settled a couple of inches with a jolt, but it held. Moments later he was perched outside the shrouded second-floor windows.

Now what?

Sometimes the direct approach was the best. He knocked on the nearest pane-two feet high, three feet wide, and filthy. After a few seconds, he knocked again. Finally a corner of one of the sheets lifted hesitantly and a man stared out at him. Dark, buzz-cut hair, wide dark eyes behind thick glasses, pale face in need of a shave. The eyes got wider and the face faded a few shades paler when he saw Jack.

Jack smiled and gave him a friendly wave. He raised his voice to be heard through the glass.

"Good morning. I'd like to have a word with Mrs. Habib, if you don't mind."

The corner of the sheet dropped and the guy disappeared. Which confirmed that he'd found Richard Hollander. Anybody else would have asked him what the hell he was doing out there and who the hell was Mrs. Habib?

Had to move quickly now. No telling what this gutless creep might do before he scuttled off.

Bracing his hands on the pipe, Jack planted one foot on the three-inch windowsill and aimed a kick at the bottom pane.

Suddenly the glass three panes above it exploded outward as a rusty steel L-bar smashed through, narrowly missing Jack's face and showering him with glittering shards.

Jack swung back onto the pipe and around to the windows on the other side. The bar retreated through the holes it had punched in the sheet and the glass. As Jack shifted his weight to the opposite sill, he realized that from inside he was silhouetted on the sheet. Too late. The bar came crashing through the pane level with Jack's groin, catching him in the leg. He grunted with pain as the corner of the bar tore through his jeans and gouged the flesh across the front of his thigh. In a sudden burst of rage, he grabbed the bar and pulled.

The sheet came down and draped over Hollander. He fought it off with panicky swipes, letting go of the bar in the process. Jack pulled it the rest of the way through the window and dropped it into the alley below. Then he kicked the remaining glass out of the pane and swung inside.

Hollander was dashing for the door, something in his right hand-gloved hand.

Jack started after him, his mind registering strobe-flash images as he moved: a big empty space, a card table, two chairs, three mattresses on the floor, the first empty, a boy tied to the second, a naked woman tied to the third, blood on her right breast.

Jack picked up speed and caught him as he reached the door. He grabbed the collar of Hollander's T-shirt and yanked him back. As the fabric ripped, Hollander spun and swung a meat cleaver at Jack's head. Jack ducked, grabbed the wrist with his left hand-Hollander was wearing latex gloves-and smashed his right fist into the pale face. The leather glove cushioned the blow a little, but not much. The glasses went flying, the cleaver fell to the floor, and Hollander dropped to his knees.

"I give up." He coughed and spat blood. "It's over."

"No." Jack hauled him to his feet. The darkness was welling up in him now, whispering, taking control. "It's not."

" 'Not'?" The wide blue eyes darted about in confusion. "Not what?"

"Over."

Jack drove a left into his gut, then caught him with an uppercut as he doubled over, slamming him back against the door.

Hollander retched and groaned as he sank to the floor again.

"You can't do this," he moaned. "I've surrendered."

"And you think that does it? You've played dirty for days and now that things aren't going your way anymore, that's it? Finsies? Uncle? Tilt? Game over? I don't think so. I don't think so."

"No. You've got to read me my rights and take me in."

"Oh, I get it," Jack said. "You think I'm a cop."

Hollander looked up at him in dazed confusion. He pursed his lips, beginning a question that died before it was asked.

"I'm not." Jack grinned. "Mooo-neeer sent me."

He waited a few heartbeats as Hollander glanced over to where Munir's naked wife and mutilated child were trussed up, watched the sick horror grow in his eyes. When it filled them, when Jack was sure he was tasting a crumb of what he'd been putting Munir through for days, he rammed the heel of his hand against the creep's nose in a spray of blood, slamming the back of his head against the door.

He wanted to do it again, and again, keep on doing it until the gutless wonder's skull was bone confetti, but he fought the urge, pulled back as Hollander's eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed the rest of the way to the floor.

He went first to the woman. She looked up at him with terrified eyes.

"Don't worry," he said. "Munir's on his way. It's all over."

She closed her eyes and began to sob through her gag.

As Jack fumbled with the knots on her wrists, he checked out the fresh blood on her left breast. The nipple was still there. An inch-long cut ran along its outer margin. A bloody straight razor lay on the mattress beside her.

If he'd tapped on that window a few minutes later…

As soon as her hands were free she sat up and tore the gag from her mouth. She looked at him with tear-flooded eyes but seemed unable to speak. Sobbing, she went to work on her ankle bonds. Jack stepped over to where the fallen sheet lay crumpled on the floor and draped it over her.

"That man, that… animal," she said. "He told us Munir didn't care about us, that he wouldn't cooperate, wouldn't do anything he was told."

Jack glanced over at Hollander's unconscious form. Was there no limit?

"He lied to you. Munir's been going crazy doing everything the guy told him."

"Did he really cut off his…?"

"No. But he would have if I hadn't stopped him."

"Who are you?"

"Nobody."

He went to the boy. The kid's eyes were bleary. He looked flushed and his skin was hot. Fever. A wad of bloody gauze encased his left hand. Jack pulled the gag from his mouth.

"Where's my dad?" he said hoarsely. Not Who are you? or What's going on? Just worried about his dad. Jack wished for a son like that someday.

"On his way."

He began untying the boy's wrists. Soon he had help from Barbara. A moment later, mother and son were crying in each other's arms. He found their clothing and handed it to them.

While they were dressing, Jack dragged Hollander over to Barbara's mattress and stuffed her gag in his mouth. As he finished tying him down with her ropes, he heard someone pounding on the downstairs door. He ushered the woman and the boy out to the landing. His thigh throbbed as he went down and found Munir frantic on the sidewalk.

"Where-?"

"Upstairs," Jack said.

"Are they-?"

Jack nodded.

He stepped aside to allow Munir past, then waited outside awhile to give them all a chance to be alone together. Five minutes, then he returned upstairs. It wasn't over yet.

He found them huddled on the landing in a group hug. Now came the tough part. He was in a bad position here.

"Okay. Decision time." They looked up. "Robby needs a doctor. But there's not an ER in the city that won't be phoning in a child abuse complaint as soon as they see that hand."

"He was abused." Barbara's eyes blazed. "But not by us."

"I know a doctor who won't say anything to anybody."

Because he couldn't. Doc Hargus's license had been on permanent suspension for years.

"But can he reattach Robby's finger?" she said.