Legacies
Legacies
A Repairman Jack Novel
F. Paul Wilson
Acknowledgements
For technical advice, many thanks to Simson Garfinkel, writer, commentator on the wired life, and honest-to-God, real-life building hacker (retired). Jack uses a variation on the Garfinkel Method of elevator surfing.
To my wife and first reader, Mary.
To Joe Bogdan, MD, and Daphne Keshishian, MD, for sharing their experiences with pediatric AIDS.
To the WB store managers of District 1: remember September 26, 1996, in Albany? Pages 67-82 are for you.
And for their generous and expert editorial help: Elizabeth Monteleone’s sharp eye for character detail, Steven Spruill’s psychological insights, Deidre Lonza’s copyediting skills and candy savvy, and Al Zuckerman, the maestro.
Author’s Note
Jack is back.
Of all my seventeen novels, none has generated more mail than The Tomb. It’s been in print since 1984, and I still get a steady stream of letters asking the same question: When are you bringing back Repairman Jack?
The truth is, I’ve brought him back half a dozen times in short stories and novelettes, and as a supporting character in Nightworld. But never in another novel of his own.
Why no Repairman Jack novel since The Tomb? Lots of reasons. Prime among them is that Jack is very special to me. I didn’t want to abuse him, so I held him back, letting him loose for a quick hit, then tucking him away again, waiting for the right set of circumstances where he could range free for an entire novel.
Legacies is that novel.
And the nicest thing is, I found I still like working with Jack. We’re going to do this again sometime. But I promise not to wait another decade and a half before I get down to it. (Neither of us is getting any younger, you know.)
NB: There is no Center for Children with AIDS on Seventh Avenue near St. Vincent’s. I made it up. Tragically, I did not have to make up the kids who need such a facility.
FRIDAY
1.
“It’s okay!” Alicia shouted as the cab jerked to the left to swing around a NYNEX truck plodding up Madison Avenue. “I’m not in a rush!”
The driver—curly dark hair, a Saddam Hussein mustache, and swarthy skin—didn’t seem to hear. He jogged his machine two lanes left, then three lanes right, hitting the brakes and gunning the engine, hitting and gunning, jerking Alicia back and forth, left and right in the rear seat, then swerving to avoid another yellow maniacmobile trying a similar move through the morning traffic.
Her cab’s net gain: one car length. Maybe.
Alicia rapped on the smudged, scratched surface of the plastic divider. “Slow down, dammit! I want to arrive in one piece.”
But the driver ignored her. If anything, he upped his speed. He seemed to be engaged in a private war against every other car in Manhattan. And God help you if you were a pedestrian.
Alicia should have been used to this. She’d grown up in Manhattan. She hadn’t been here for a while, though. She’d moved away at eighteen for college and had stayed away for medical school and her residencies in pediatrics and infectious diseases. She hadn’t wanted to come back—what with that man and her half brother Thomas still living here—but St. Vincent’s had made her the proverbial offer she couldn’t refuse.