F. Paul Wilson - Gateways

Also by F. Paul Wilson

Repairman Jack Novels:The TombLegaciesConspiraciesAll the RageHostsThe Haunted AirHealerWheels Within WheelsAn Enemy of the StateBlack WindSoft & OthersDydeetown WorldThe TerySibsThe SelectImplantDeep as the MarrowMirage(with Matthew J. Costello)Nightkill(with Steven Spruill)Masque(with Matthew J. Costello)The Barrens & OthersThe Christmas ThingySimsTheAdversary Cycle:The KeepThe TombThe TouchRebornReprisalNightworldEditor:Freak ShowDiagnosis: Terminal

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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

GATEWAYS: A REPAIRMAN JACK NOVEL

Copyright 2003 by F. Paul Wilson

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Edited by David G. Hartwell

A Forge Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Forge is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN 0-312-71161-1

First Edition: November 2003

for Daniel and Quinn

Authors Note

Thanks to the usual crew for their editorial help with the manuscript: my wife, Mary; my editor, David Hartwell; his assistant, Moshe Feder; Elizabeth Monteleone; Steven Spruill (who also allowed me to tap into his store of knowledge about the Korean War); and my agent, Albert Zuckerman.

Thanks, too, to the many friendly South Florida folk and air-boat pilots who helped me along the way, especially the rangers at the Royal Palm and Shark Valley Visitor Centers in Everglades National Park who introduced me to the amazing diversity of wildlife in the Glades.

Special thanks to Stuart Schiff for being so generous with his fabulous single malts, and to Blake Dollens for his keen eye.

Finally, thanks to NY Joe (Joe Schmidt) and Angel (Janada Oakley) for advice on the weaponry. I did a little improvising along the way, so any errors in that area are my own.

Tuesday

1

Blessed be the blackmailers, Jack thought as he pawed through the filing cabinet.

He had a penlight clamped in his teeth and kept it trained on the labels of the hanging folders while his latex-gloved fingers fanned through them.

What a trove. If someone could be called a professional blackmailer, Richie Cordova fit the bill. Private investigation was his legitimate line, if such a line could be legit. But apparently he dug up lots of additional dirt during the course of his investigations, and put that to work for him. Never against his clients, Jack had learned. Did his blackmailing anonymously. That kept his professional rep clean, kept that stream of referrals from satisfied clients flowing. But Jack had picked him up on a money drop Cordova had set up for his latest fish and took an instant dislike to the fat slob. Nine days of shadowing him hadnt mellowed that initial impression. The guy was a jerk.

Cordovas PI office occupied a second floor space over an Oriental deli on the other side of Bronx Park. But his other line of work, probably the more profitable one, was here on the third floor of his house. Small and stuffy, furnished with the filing cabinet, a computer, a high-end color printer, and a rickety desk, it appeared to be a converted attic.

Where was the letter? Jack was counting on it being in this cabinet. If not

ThereJank. Could that stand for Jankowski? He pulled out the file and opened it. Yep. This was it. Here was the handwritten letter at the root of Stanley Jankowskis problems. Cordova had found it and was using it to squeeze the banker for all he was worth.

Jack tucked it in his pocket.

Yes, blessed be those blackmailers, he thought as he began emptying the folders from both drawers of the cabinet and dropping their contentsletters, photos, negativesonto the floor, for they help keepeth me in business.

Blackmail was the reason a fair percentage of Jacks customers came to him. Stood to reason: They were being blackmailed because they had something they wanted kept secret; couldnt go to officialdom because then it would no longer be a secret. So they were left with two options: pay the blackmailer again, and again, and again, or go outside the system and pay Jack once to find the offending photos or documents and either return them or destroy them.

Destroying was better and safer, Jack thought. But untrusting customers feared Jack might simply use the material to start blackmailing them on his own. Jankowski had been burned and wasnt about to trust no one no how no more. He wanted to see the letter before he paid the second half of Jacks fee.

Jack spread the two drawers worth of photos and documents on the floor. A small, voyeuristic part of him wanted to sit and sift through them, looking for names or faces he recognized, but he resisted. No time. Cordova would be back in an hour.

He pulled a pair of glass Snapple bottles out of his backpack and unwrapped the duct tape from around their tops. He was about to do a big favor for some of the people in that pile. Not all. Cordova had probably scanned all this stuff into a computer and had digital copies stashed away somewhere. But a scan couldnt sub for a handwritten letter. Cordova needed the original, with its ink and fingerprints and all, to have any real leverage. A copy, no matter how close to the original, was not the real deal and could be dismissed as a clever fake.

He looked down at the pile of damning evidence. Some of these folks were about to get a freebie. Not because Jack particularly cared about themfor all he knew, some of them might deserve to be blackmailedbut because if he took just the Jankowski letter, Cordova would know who was behind this little visit. Jack didnt want that. With everything destroyed or damaged beyond repair, Cordova could only guess.

Burning the pile would have been best but the guy lived in a tight little Williamsbridge neighborhood in the upper Bronx. Lots of nice, old, post-war middle-class homes stacked cheek by jowl in a neat grid. If Cordovas place burned, it wouldnt burn alone. So Jack had come up with another way.

He held one of the Snapple bottles at arms length as he unscrewed the cap. Even then the sharp odor stung his nose. Sulfuric acid. Very carefullythis stuff would burn right through his latex gloveshe began to sprinkle it on the pile, watching the glossy surfaces of the photos smoke and bubble, the papers turn brown and shrivel.

Hed used up most of the first bottle and the room was filling with acrid smoke when he heard the front door slam three floors below.

Cordova?

Checked his watch: about a quarter past midnight. In the past week or so that Jack had been shadowing him, Cordova had hit a neighborhood bar over on White Plains Road three times, and on each night hed hung till 1A.M. or later. If that was Cordova downstairs, he was home at least an hour early. Damn him.

Dumped the rest of the acid from the first bottle and sloshed the contents of the second over the pile, then left them atop the filing cabinet. Now to get out of here. Wouldnt be long before Cordova detected the stink.

Opened the window and slid out onto the roof. Looked around. Hed planned on leaving as hed enteredthrough the back door. Now he was going to have to improvise.

Jack hated to improvise.

Looked over at the neighboring roof. Pretty close, but close enough to?

Through the open window behind him he heard Cordovas heavy feet pounding up the stairs. Another glance at the neighboring roof. Guessed it was going to have to be close enough.

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