F. Paul Wilson - By the Sword

By the Sword

A Repairman Jack Novel

F. Paul Wilson

Thanks to the usual crew for theirefforts: Mary; Meggan; my editor, David Hartwell; Elizabeth Monteleone; StevenSpruill; and my agent, Al Zuckerman.

Many thanks to Alexis Saarela, JodiRosoff, Dot Lin, and head honcha Elena Stokes of Tor/Forge publicity for takingsuch good care of me during 2007.

Thanks also to a trio of gunniesfrom the repairmanjack.com forum: Biggles, Ashe, and Ken Valentine. They didtheir best to help solve the katana-meets-Glock question. The problem became aGordian knot, which I finally Alexandered.

Special thanks to Tom ODay, whosegenerous charitable donation earned him a violent death within.

And last, thanks to Paul Ramplinfor the title. As often happens, Ill write a novel with no idea what to callit. Once again, I asked the members of the repairmanjack.com forum to help meout. Paul came up with By the Sword, and it stuck.

Ive always said that RepairmanJack would be a closed-end series, that I would not run him into the ground,that I had a big story to tell and would lower the curtain after telling it.

Well, were nearing the end of thatstory.

And with only a few novels left inthe series, Im running into a problem. Im no longer able to tie up each novelas neatly as Id like. Ive always kept longer story arcs running from book tobook, but I used to be able to bring each installment to a satisfyingconclusion. That, Im afraid, is no longer the case.

As I move people and objects intoplace and set the stage for the events that will tip all of humanity into Nightworld,the final chapter, this sort of incremental closure has become impossible.

So I ask you to bear with me. Youmay have noticed that Bloodline didnt quite end. By the Swordpicks up where it left off, and the next installment will pick up where thisleaves off.

At most, three or four more novelsremain in the series. Along the way well be reprinting the remainder of theAdversary Cycle, synching the releases of The Touch, Reborn, Reprisal,and Nightworld with Jacks timeline. (See The Secret History of theWorld at the end of this book for the sequence.)

More and more now, the post-Harbingersinstallments of Jacks tale are going to form what the French call a roman-fleuveliterally,a river novel, with one story flowing from volume to volume. As a result,each new installment is going to feel richer, deeper, and make more sense ifyouve read the ones before.

Hang in there, folks. Its been along ride, and weve still got a lot of wonder, terror, and tragedy ahead, butI promise youll be glad you made the trip.

F. Paul Wilson

the Jersey shore

They werent making muggers likethey used to.

After trolling for about an hourthrough the unseasonably warm May night, here was the second hed foundorrather had found him. Jack was wearing a Hard Rock Cafe sweatshirt, acid-washedjeans, and his INew York visor. The compleat tourist. Apiece of raw steak dangling before a hungry wolf.

When hed spotted the guy tailinghim, hed wandered off the pavement and down into this leafy glade. Off to hisright the mercury-vapor glow from Central Park West backlit the trees. Over hisassailants shoulder he could make out the year-round Christmas lights on the treesthat flanked the Tavern on the Green.

Jack studied the guy facing him. Ahulking figure in the shadows, maybe twenty-five, about six foot, pushing twohundred pounds, giving him an inch and thirty pounds on Jack. He had stringybrown hair bleached blond on top, all combed to the side so it hung over hisright eye; the left side of his head above the ear and below the part had beenbuzzcut down to the scalpthe Flock of Seagulls guy after a run-in with a lawnmower. Pale, pimply skin and a skull dangling on a chain from his left ear.Black boots, baggy black pants, black Polio T-shirt, fingerless black leathergloves, one of which was wrapped around the handle of a big Special Forcesknife, the point angled toward Jacks belly.

You talking to me, Rambo? Jacksaid.

Yeah. The guys voice was nasal.He twitched and sniffed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Imtalkin a you. See anybody else here?

Jack glanced around. No. I guessif there were, you wouldnt have stopped me.

Gimme your wallet.

Jack looked him in the eye. Thiswas the part he liked.

No.

The guy jerked back as if hed beenslapped, then stared at Jack, obviously unsure of how to take that.

What you say?

I said no. En-oh.Whats the matter? You never heard that word before?

Probably hadnt.

His voice rose. You crazy? Gimmeyour wallet or I cut you. You wanna get cut?

No. Dont want to get cut.

Give it or I stab you in theuterus.

What?

Fighting a laugh, Jack said,Wouldnt want that. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.I left my wallet home. Will this do?

The guys eyes all but bulged. Hisfree hand darted out.

Give it!

Jack shoved it back into hispocket.

Nope.

You crazy fucker!

As he lunged at Jack, jabbing theblade point at his belly, Jack spun away, giving him plenty of room to miss.Not that he was worried about any surprises. Most of his type had wastedmuscles and sluggish reflexes. But you had to respect that saw-toothed blade. Amean sucker.

The guy made a clumsy turn and cameback, slashing face-high this time. Jack ducked, grabbed the wrist behind theknife as it went by, got a two-handed grip, and twisted.

Hard.

The guy shouted with pain as he wasjerked into an armlock with his weapon flattened between his shoulder blades.He kicked backward, landing a boot heel on one of Jacks shins. Wincing withpain, Jack gritted his teeth and kicked the muggers feet out from under him.As the guy went down on his face, he yanked the imprisoned arm back straightand rammed his right sneaker behind the shoulder, pinning him.

And then he stopped and counted toten.

At times like these he knew he wasin danger of losing it. The blackness hovered there on the edges, beckoninghim, urging him to go Mongol on this guy, to take out all his accumulatedanger, frustration, rage on this one pathetic jerk.

Plenty accumulated during hisday-to-day life. And every day it seemed to get a little worse.

He knew now the origin of thatblackness, where it hid in his cells. But that didnt make it go away or anyeasier to handle. So when one of these knuckle draggers got within reach, likethis doughy lump of dung, he wanted to stomp him into the earth, leavingnothing but a wet stain.

A thin wire here, one he Wallendadalong, trying not to fall off on the wrong side. Spend too much time there andyou became like this jerk.

He did a ten count and willed thatblackness back down to wherever it lived. Let out his breath and looked down.

Hey, man, Polio fan whined.Cant you take a joke? I was only

Drop the knife.

Sure, sure.

The bare fingers opened, the bigblades handle slipped from the gloved palm and clattered to the earth.

Okay? I dropped it, okay? Nowlemme up.

Jack released the arm but kept afoot on his back.

Empty your pockets.

Hey, what?

Jack increased the pressure of hisfoot. Empty them.

Okay! Okay!

He reached back and pulled a raggedcloth wallet from his hip pocket, then slid it across the dirt.

Keep going, Jack said.Everything.

The guy pulled a couple of crumpledwads of bills from his front pockets, and dumped them by the wallet.

You a cop?

You should be so lucky.

Jack squatted beside him and wentthrough the small pile. About a hundred in cash, a half dozen credit cards, agold high school ring. The wallet held a couple of twenties, three singles, andno ID.