By the Sword Read online

  BY THE SWORD

  ALSO BY F. PAUL WILSON

  Repairman Jack*

  The Tomb

  Legacies

  Conspiracies

  All the Rage

  Hosts

  The Haunted Air

  Gateways

  Crisscross

  Infernal

  Harbingers

  Bloodline

  Young Adult*

  Jack: Secret Histories

  The Adversary Cycle*

  The Keep

  The Tomb

  The Touch

  Reborn

  Reprisal

  Nightworld

  Other Novels

  Healer

  Wheels Within Wheels

  An Enemy of the State

  Black Wind*

  Dydeetown World

  The Tery

  Sibs

  The Select

  Virgin

  Implant

  Deep as the Marrow

  Mirage (with Matthew J. Costello)

  Nightkill (with Steven Spruill)

  Masque (with Matthew J. Costello)

  The Christmas Thingy

  Sims

  The Fifth Harmonic

  Midnight Mass

  Short Fiction

  Soft and Others

  The Barrens and Others*

  Editor

  Freak Show

  Diagnosis: Terminal

  *See “The Secret History of the World”

  BY THE SWORD

  A Repairman Jack Novel

  F. PAUL WILSON

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the usual crew for their efforts: Mary; Meggan; my editor, David Hartwell; Elizabeth Monteleone; Steven Spruill; and my agent, Al Zuckerman.

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

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

  Special thanks to Tom O’Day, whose generous charitable donation earned him a violent death within.

  And last, thanks to Paul Ramplin for the title. As often happens, I’ll write a novel with no idea what to call it. Once again, I asked the members of the repairmanjack.com forum to help me out. Paul came up with By the Sword, and it stuck.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I’ve always said that Repairman Jack 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, we’re nearing the end of that story.

  And with only a few novels left in the series, I’m running into a problem. I’m no longer able to tie up each novel as neatly as I’d like. I’ve always kept longer story arcs running from book to book, but I used to be able to bring each installment to a satisfying conclusion. That, I’m afraid, is no longer the case.

  As I move people and objects into place 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. You may have noticed that Bloodline didn’t quite end. By the Sword picks up where it left off, and the next installment will pick up where this leaves off.

  At most, three or four more novels remain in the series. Along the way we’ll be reprinting the remainder of the Adversary Cycle, synching the releases of The Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, and Nightworld with Jack’s timeline. (See “The Secret History of the World” at the end of this book for the sequence.)

  More and more now, the post-Harbingers installments of Jack’s tale are going to form what the French call a roman-fleuve—literally, 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 if you’ve read the ones before.

  Hang in there, folks. It’s been a long ride, and we’ve still got a lot of wonder, terror, and tragedy ahead, but I promise you’ll be glad you made the trip.

  —F. Paul Wilson

  the Jersey shore

  CONTENTS

  SUNDAY

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  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

  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

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  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

  FRIDAY

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  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

  SUNDAY

  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

&
nbsp; CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE WORLD

  SUNDAY

  1

  They weren’t making muggers like they used to.

  After trolling for about an hour through the unseasonably warm May night, here was the second he’d found—or rather had found him. Jack was wearing a Hard Rock Cafe sweatshirt, acid-washed jeans, and his I New York visor. The compleat tourist. A piece of raw steak dangling before a hungry wolf.

  When he’d spotted the guy tailing him, he’d wandered off the pavement and down into this leafy glade. Off to his right the mercury-vapor glow from Central Park West backlit the trees. Over his assailant’s shoulder he could make out the year-round Christmas lights on the trees that flanked the Tavern on the Green.

  Jack studied the guy facing him. A hulking figure in the shadows, maybe twenty-five, about six foot, pushing two hundred pounds, giving him an inch and thirty pounds on Jack. He had stringy brown hair bleached blond on top, all combed to the side so it hung over his right eye; the left side of his head above the ear and below the part had been buzzcut down to the scalp—the Flock of Seagulls guy after a run-in with a lawn mower. 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 leather gloves, one of which was wrapped around the handle of a big Special Forces knife, the point angled toward Jack’s belly.

  “You talking to me, Rambo?” Jack said.

  “Yeah.” The guy’s voice was nasal. He twitched and sniffed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m talkin a you. See anybody else here?”

  Jack glanced around. “No. I guess if there were, you wouldn’t have stopped me.”

  “Gimme your wallet.”

  Jack looked him in the eye. This was the part he liked.

  “No.”

  The guy jerked back as if he’d been slapped, then stared at Jack, obviously unsure of how to take that.

  “What you say?”

  “I said no. En-oh. What’s the matter? You never heard that word before?”

  Probably hadn’t.

  His voice rose. “You crazy? Gimme your wallet or I cut you. You wanna get cut?”

  “No. Don’t want to get cut.”

  “Give it or I stab you in the uterus.”

  What?

  Fighting a laugh, Jack said, “Wouldn’t want that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “I left my wallet home. Will this do?”

  The guy’s eyes all but bulged. His free hand darted out.

  “Give it!”

  Jack shoved it back into his pocket.

  “Nope.”

  “You crazy fucker—!”

  As he lunged at Jack, jabbing the blade 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 wasted muscles and sluggish reflexes. But you had to respect that saw-toothed blade. A mean sucker.

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

  Hard.

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

  And then he stopped and counted to ten.

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

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

  He knew now the origin of that blackness, where it hid in his cells. But that didn’t make it go away or any easier to handle. So when one of these knuckle draggers got within reach, like this doughy lump of dung, he wanted to stomp him into the earth, leaving nothing but a wet stain.

  A thin wire here, one he Wallenda’d along, trying not to fall off on the wrong side. Spend too much time there and you became like this jerk.

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

  “Hey, man,” Polio fan whined. “Can’t you take a joke? I was only—”

  “Drop the knife.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  The bare fingers opened, the big blade’s handle slipped from the gloved palm and clattered to the earth.

  “Okay? I dropped it, okay? Now lemme up.”

  Jack released the arm but kept a foot on his back.

  “Empty your pockets.”

  “Hey, what—?”

  Jack increased the pressure of his foot. “Empty them.”

  “Okay! Okay!”

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

  “Keep going,” Jack said. “Everything.”

  The guy pulled a couple of crumpled wads 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 went through the small pile. About a hundred in cash, a half dozen credit cards, a gold high school ring. The wallet held a couple of twenties, three singles, and no ID.

  “I see you’ve been busy tonight.”

  “Early bird catches the worm.”

  “Yeah? Consider yourself a nightcrawler. This all you got?”

  “Aw, you ain’t gonna jack me, are ya?”

  “Interesting choice of words.”

  “Hey, I need that scratch.”

  “Your jones needs that scratch.”

  Actually, the Little League needed that scratch.

  Every year about this time the kids from the local teams that played here in the park would come knocking, looking for donations toward uniforms and equipment. Jack had made it a tradition to help them out by taking up nocturnal collections in the park.

  The Annual Repairman Jack Park-a-thon.

  Seemed only fair that the oxygen wasters who prowled the place at night should make donations to the kids who used it during the day. At least Jack thought so.

  “Let me see those hands.” He’d noticed an increasingly lower class of mugger over the past few years. Like this guy. Nothing on his fingers but a cheap pewter skull-faced pinky ring with red glass eyes. “How come no gold?” Jack pulled down the back of his collar. “No chains? You’re pathetic, you know that? Where’s your sense of style?”

  The previous donor had been better heeled.

  “I’m a working man,” the guy said, rolling a little and looking up at Jack. “No frills.”

  “Yeah. What do you work at?”

  “This!”

  The guy lunged for his knife, grabbed the handle, and stabbed up at Jack’s groin—maybe thinking he’d find a uterus there? Jack rolled away to his left and kicked him in the face as he lunged again. The guy went down and Jack was on him once more with the knife arm yanked high and his sneaker back in its former spot on his back.

  “We’ve already played this scene once,” he said through his teeth as the blackness rose again.

  “Hey, listen!” the guy said into the dirt. “You can have the dough!”

  “No kidding.”

  Jack yanked off the glove and looked at the hand within. No surprise at the tattoo in the thumb web.

  These guys were starting to pollute the city.

  “So you’re a Kicker, eh.”
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  “Yeah, man. Totally dissimilated. You too? You seem like—”

  He screamed as Jack shifted his foot into the rear of his shoulder and kicked down while giving the arm a sharp twist. The shoulder dislocated with a muffled pop, nearly drowned out by the high-pitched wail.

  He hadn’t wanted him to finish that sentence.

  The Rambo knife dropped from suddenly limp fingers. Jack kicked it away and released the arm.

  “Don’t know about the rest of you, but that arm is definitely dissimilated.”