Read Online Repairman Jack [09]-Infernal by F. Paul Wilson - Free Book Online

before he realized it wasn’t human: But it looked human. Well, as much as a blow-up sex doll could look human. Its wide eyes and mouth fixed in a perfect 0 lent it a perpetually surprised look.
    Jack backed away and watched it make a slow-motion descent to the floor, where it bounced once and lay still.
    Nothing much else in the closet but some ratty-looking clothes.
    Jack reholstered the Glock and stuffed a couple of iPods and some video games—he’d heard good things about the new Metal Gear —into the bag. He stepped to the door and pressed his ear to the wood. All quiet in the hallway. He turned the knob—
    —and felt the door slam into him, knocking him back. He was reaching for the Glock when he saw the pistol in the skinny white guy’s hand.
    “Hold it right there, fucker! Don’t you fuckin’ move!”
    “You need help, Scotty?” said a black guy in the hall.
    “Nah, I’m cool. Thanks for the call, though.”
    “Want me get the cops?”
    “I’m cool, Chuck, I’m cool. Let me handle this.”
    Of course he didn’t want anyone calling the cops—not with all this hot stuff in his pad.
    With his free hand Scotty flipped on the overhead light, then kicked the door closed.
    “Well, well, well,” he said, swaggering closer. “What have we here?”
    Jack put on a sheepish grin—damn well should be sheepish. He’d screwed up. One of Jack’s rules was never go out on a fix if you’re not one hundred percent. And he hadn’t been near a hundred percent since yesterday afternoon. His concentration had been way off.
    Jack could see how it went down: Someone spotted him picking Scotty’s lock. The spotter called Scotty and the fence had been waiting in the hall for Jack to open the door. Good strategy, especially with Polio’s delicate musicianship to mask any sounds that might have given him away.
    “Heh-heh. Kind of funny, isn’t it,” Jack said. “I mean, you with all this stolen stuff and me stealing some of it.”
    “Do you see me laughing, fuck face?”
    Jack flicked his gaze between Scotty’s mean dark eyes and the .32-caliber pistol—a Saturday night special if he’d ever seen one—pointed at his midsection. A revolver—good. Hammer down—even better.
    Guy was an amateur.
    “Well, no, but—”
    “But nothin’. Drop the bag.”
    Jack complied and raised his hands to upper-chest level. He was waiting for Scotty either to check the contents of the bag or try to pistol whip him. That was when Jack would make his move.
    “Wh-what are you gonna do?”
    “Know what Dumpster divin’ is?”
    “Sure. I had to do it now and then when I was hungry and tapped out. Why?”
    “Because you’re gonna do it again. Long distance. From the roof.”
    Jack added a quaver to his voice. “N-no, wait. W-we can—”
    “We can nothin’, fuck face!” He sidled in an arc to Jack’s right and cocked his head toward the door. “Move. We got us some stairs to climb.”
    Jack shook his head. “N-no. I ain’t goin’.”
    “Fuck you ain’t!” He stepped closer, extending the pistol toward Jack’s midsection. “Shoot you right here an’ be done with it!”
    A little closer… just a little closer…
    “What are you so mad about?” He jutted his chin toward the love doll on the floor. “Not like I raped your girl or nothin’!”
    Scotty’s gaze flicked toward the doll. His face reddened, then whitened.
    “That does it!”
    The muzzle pushed forward. Jack’s hand darted out and grabbed the top of the pistol. Wrapped his fingers around the cylinder. Clutched it in a death grip.
    “Hey!”
    Scotty pulled on the trigger. But the cylinder had to rotate before the hammer could fall. Jack had the cylinder locked in place.
    Yanked on the gun, bringing Scotty closer. The fence’s eyes wild with shock, confusion. Kept yanking on the trigger but getting no result. When Jack had him close enough, he let loose a vicious head butt, crushing Scotty’s nose. The sound of collapsing bone and cartilage