FATAL ERROR
ALSO BY F. PAUL WILSON
Repairman Jack*
The Tomb
Gateways
Legacies
Crisscross
Conspiracies
Infernal
All the Rage
Harbingers
Hosts
Bloodline
The Haunted Air
By the Sword
Ground Zero
Young Adult*
Jack: Secret Histories
Jack: Secret Circles
Jack: Secret Vengeance
The Adversary Cycle*
The Keep
Reborn
The Tomb
Reprisal
The Touch
Nightworld
Other Novels
Healer
Implant
Wheels Within Wheels
Deep as the Marrow
An Enemy of the State
Mirage (with Matthew J. Costello)
Black Wind*
Nightkill (with Steven Spruill)
Dydeetown World
Masque (with Matthew J. Costello)
The Tery
The Christmas Thingy
Sibs*
Sims
The Select
The Fifth Harmonic
Virgin
Midnight Mass
Short Fiction
Soft and Others
The Barrens and Others*
Aftershock & Others*
The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emporium*
Editor
Freak Show
Diagnosis: Terminal
* See “The Secret History of the World”
FATAL ERROR
A Repairman Jack Novel
F. PAUL WILSON
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK • NEW YORK
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Author’s note
Monday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Tuesday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Wednesday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Thursday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Friday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Saturday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Sunday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
The Secret History of the World
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
FATAL ERROR: A REPAIRMAN JACK NOVEL
Copyright © 2010 by F. Paul Wilson
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 978-0-7653-2282-1
First Edition: October 2010
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to the usual crew for their efforts: my wife, Mary; David Hartwell, Becky Maines, and Stacy Hague-Hill at the publisher; Steven Spruill; and my agent, Albert Zuckerman.
Special thanks to Christopher Corbett—a reader known as Fenian1916 on the repairmanjack.com forum—for the title.
And special thanks to my cyberconsultants: Clint Collins, Ronald P. Crowe, Jr., Scott Garrett, Paul Hewitt, and Jason Tabor.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The penultimate Repairman Jack novel.
As mentioned in the past few books, I’m ending the series with number fifteen (though Jack will be a major player in Nightworld).
I’ve always said this would be a closed-end series, that I would not run Jack into the ground, that I had a big story to tell and would lower the curtain after telling it.
The end of that story is just around the corner.
Fatal Error picks up in the winter following Ground Zero, and its finale coincides with that of Reprisal. If/when you read Reprisal, you’ll understand what happened between Glaeken and Rasalom in North Carolina. (See “The Secret History of the World” at the end of this book for how everything fits together.) As with the last couple of novels, Fatal Error doesn’t tie up as neatly as we’d all like, but it sets the stage for an ass-kicking finale to the series.
One more Repairman Jack novel remains. Working title: The Dark at the End. Appropriate, I think, considering it ends just before Nightworld begins.
In Nightworld, the Adversary Cycle and Repairman Jack saga will merge and . . . close. The Secret History concludes with Nightworld. More stories remain to be told, but the timeline stops there.
Hang in there, folks. It’s been a long ride, and we’ve still got a lot of wonder, terror, and tragedy ahead. I promise you’ll be glad you made the trip.
—F. Paul Wilson the Jersey Shore
MONDAY
1
Munir stood on the curb, facing Fifth Avenue with Central Park behind him. He unzipped his fly and tugged himself free. His reluctant member shriveled at the cold slap of the winter wind, as if shrinking from the sight of all these passing strangers.
At least he hoped they were strangers.
Please let no one who knows me pass by. Or, Allah forbid, a policeman.
He stretched its flabby length and urged his bladder to empty. That was what the madman had demanded of him, so that was what he had to do. He’d drunk two quarts of Gatorade in the past hour to ensure he’d be full to bursting, but he couldn’t go. His sphincter was clamped shut as tightly as his jaw.
Off to his right the light at the corner turned red and the traffic slowed to a stop. A woman in a cab glanced at him through her window and started when she saw how he was exposing himself. Her lips tightened and she shook her head in disgust as she turned away. He could almost read her mind: A guy in a suit exposing himself on Fifth Avenue—the world’s going to hell even faster than they say.
But it has become hell for me, Munir thought.
He saw her pull out a cell phone and punch in three numbers. That could only mean she was calling 911. But he had to stay and do this.
He closed his eyes to shut out the line of cars idling before him, tried to block out the tapping, scuffing footsteps of the shoppers and strollers on the sidewalk behind him as they hurried to and fro. But a child’s voice broke through.
“Look, Mommy. What’s that man—?”
“Don’t look, honey,” said a woman’s voice. “It’s just someone who’s not right in the head.”
Tears became a pressure behind Munir’s sealed eyelids. He bit back a sob of humiliation and tried to imagine himself in a private place, in his own bathroom, standing over the toilet. He forced himself to relax, and soon it came. As the warm liquid streamed out of him, the waiting sob burst free, propelled equally by shame and relief.
He did not have to shut off the flow. When he opened his eyes and saw the glistening, steaming puddle before him on the asphalt, saw the drivers and passengers and passersby staring, the stream dried up on its own.
I hope that is enough, he thought. Please let that be enough.
But he was not dealing with a sane man, and he had to please him. Please him or else . . .
He looked up and saw a young blond woman staring down at him from a third-floor window in a building across the street. Her repulsed expression mirrored his own feelings. Averting his eyes, he zipped up and fled down the sidewalk, all but tripping over his own feet as he ran.
2
“Gross,” Dawn said, turning away from the window to pace the consultation room. “What is it with people?”
“Pardon?” Dr. Landsman looked up from where he sat behind his desk, scribbling in her chart. “Did you say something?”
Dawn Pickering didn’t want to talk about some creep peeing in the street, she wanted to talk about herself and her baby. She ran her hands over her swollen belly, bulging like a watermelon beneath her maternity top.
“Can’t you . . . like . . . induce me or something?”
She’d been reading up on labor and delivery lately, and was so not looking forward to it. A cesarean would be totally better—knock her out and cut her open. She wouldn’t feel a thing, but then she’d have a scar. Well, a scar was a small price to pay for simply waking up and having it all over.
Dr. Landsman shook his head. “The baby’s not ready yet.”
A balding, fiftyish guy, he’d just done a pelvic exam, followed by her umpteenth ultrasound. Then he’d left her and waited here in his office for her to dress and join him.
“Isn’t the ultrasound supposed to give you a clue?”
“It is, and it says he’s not ready yet. But it won’t be long. Your cervix is soft. Your body’s getting ready to deliver.”
“But I was totally due in January and here it is February.” She rubbed her cold hands together. “Something’s wrong. You can tell me.”
“Ten months is unusual, yes, but nothing’s wrong.”
“Then why won’t you ever let me see the ultrasounds?”
He did the scans himself instead of his tech, and never allowed anyone else in the room except Mr. Osala, her self-appointed guardian. The doctor had started giving her appointments on Mondays and Thursdays. Why? He had no office hours and no staff at all those days. Was that what he wanted? And during the ultrasounds, he always kept the monitor screen turned away from her. For some reason, he never seemed to tire of looking at her baby.
“You wouldn’t understand what you were seeing.”
She resented that. She might be only eighteen—turning nineteen next month—but she was no dummy. She’d been accepted to Colgate and would be there right now if she hadn’t screwed up her life.
“You could point things out to me.”
“The baby is fine. You feel him moving, don’t you?”
“Like crazy.”
Some days she felt like she had a soccer camp inside her.
“Well then, I’ve told you he’s a boy and you know he’s healthy. What more do you need?”
“I need to see him.”
“I’m not sure I understand your eagerness to see a baby you’re giving up for adoption upon delivery. A baby you tried to abort, if I remember correctly.”
She had nothing to say to that. She’d totally changed her mind about the abortion, but she was so not ready to raise a child—especially this child, considering who the father was. Someone else would give him a good home and raise him better than she ever could. No way she was ready for motherhood.
He pulled out an old-fashioned pocket watch and popped the lid.
“Your friend, Mister Osala, should be calling soon.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“Well, he’s very concerned about you and your baby.”
Maybe too concerned.
The design on the lid of his watch caught her eye. Following the lines made her eyes cross.
“That looks old.”
He smiled. “It’s been in the family for almost two hundred years.”
“What’s that design? It’s weird.”
“Hmm?” He glanced at it, then quickly pocketed it. “Oh, that. Just a geometric curiosity.”
A phone rang. He dug out his cell and checked the display, then glanced up at her. “It’s him. Excuse me.”
“Sure.” She knew who it was. “Don’t forget to ask him how high.”
He gave her a puzzled look, like he didn’t get it.
“Jump,” she said. “How high you should jump.”
He still didn’t get it. For such a supposedly top-notch OB man, he could be so dense at times.
Osala hadn’t been around much lately. He used to come to all her appointments but now he was involved in some project down south that kept him away a lot. But he stayed in close touch with Dr. Landsman.
She felt the baby kick and shook her head. Sure felt like he wanted out. And she wanted him out. Not like she had back in the summer, when she’d tried to end the pregnancy. She’d been determined to get an abortion, and then Mr. Osala had told her, You want this child . . . You will do anything to assure its well-being, and everything changed, just like that. She couldn’t believe now that she’d wanted to kill her baby.
But that was totally different from wanting the pregnancy over and done with. She simply wanted to be back to normal size. She’d never been skinny, but this was ridiculous. She couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position anywhere, even in bed. She’d give anything for a full night’s sleep.
And once her pregnancy was over and the baby born, maybe Mr. Osala would let her leave his home. She’d been a virtual prisoner there since last spring—almost her entire pregnancy. Could she complain about a Fifth Avenue duplex penthouse where she wanted for nothing? Yeah, she could, because although she could have anything material, she couldn’t have what she wanted most: contact with the outside world. Because Mr. Osala feared that might lead the baby’s father to her. That was the last thing she wanted, too, but it seemed to her Mr. Osala had taken precautions to the extreme.
She wanted a life.
“Yes, I know it’s overdue,” she heard Dr. Landsman say. “I was just discussing that with Dawn when you called. Bu
t the baby’s healthy and, frankly, how do we know this isn’t perfectly normal? It’s not as if we have any precedents to follow.”
Those kinds of comments popped out every so often and never failed to sour her stomach. She’d learned not to ask about them, because Dr. Landsman only stonewalled her.
But she was convinced something was wrong with her baby. Dr. Landsman could tell her it was healthy till he was blue in the face, but that look in his eyes when he watched the ultrasound screen said he was looking at something he didn’t see every day.
And then there was the thing about the ultrasound images—Mr. Osala made the doctor delete them after every session. And when he wasn’t here, his driver Georges made sure they were history. Georges was almost as scary as his boss.