F Wilson - Fatal Error

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.

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."

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 sidewalk 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.