By the Sword

by F. Paul Wilson

  He found a tall, thin, hawk-faced man in a white suit. He had a hook nose and graying hair slicked straight back. He carried a cane wrapped in some sort of dark hide. He extended a business card, trapped between the tips of his index and middle finger. Hank checked it out.

  Ernst Drexler II

  Actuator

  ASFO

  “What can I do for you, Mister Drexler?”

  “Mister Thompson, we have a problem.” His voice carried a hint of a German accent. His icy-blue stare made Hank uncomfortable, but he couldn’t show that.

  “Oh? Who’s ‘we’?”

  “You and I. The Council of Seven sent me to inspect the premises.”

  Council of Seven…that meant the high-ups of the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order. Had to play nice-nice with them. They’d opened this lodge building to Hank as a headquarters of sorts for him. The place had a bunch of small, empty storerooms on its second floor. Hank had had these converted to bedrooms for himself and a few choice Kickers.

  A great setup. With its deeply recessed windows and solid granite walls, the place looked like a fortress. It offered him a secure Lower East Side location with a room overlooking the street.

  So whatever problem this Drexler guy was having, Hank wanted it fixed.

  He crooked a finger at Hank. “I want you to see something.”

  He led Hank down the wide stone stairway to the main hall where he pointed to the ten-foot seal of carved stone suspended on the far wall.

  “Okay,” Hank said slowly. “I see the Septimus Lodge seal. What am I—?”

  “It’s called a sigil, Mister Thompson. A sigil.”

  “Right. A sigil. Sorry.” What the hell was a sigil, anyway? “But I don’t under—oh, shit.”

  Some asshole had spray-painted a little Kicker Man on the stone.

  Hank ground his teeth. The Kicker Evolution attracted people from all walks of life, all the social strata, but the majority seemed to come from the low end. A fair number had criminal records. Lowlifes, some might call them. Yeah, well, maybe they were. But they were Hank’s lowlifes.

  Trouble was, they pulled shithead pranks like this. He didn’t care that they tagged the Kicker Man all over the city—that was advertising of sorts. But you don’t piss where you sleep.

  Problem was, the guy who did this probably wasn’t one of the ones bunking here. And with all the various Kickers wandering in and out during the day, Hank would never be able to track him down.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Sorry isn’t enough. The Septimus sigil is immensely important to the Order. We are an ancient brotherhood, and that sigil is far, far older. This will not be tolerated.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “That is not enough.” Drexler’s voice was calm, cool. Maybe too cool. “The Council has taken a step unprecedented in the history of the Order by opening its doors to nonmembers.”

  “Why us?” Hank said. The question had been bugging him.

  Receiving only a cold look from Drexler, Hank went on.

  “I mean, the Septimus Lodge goes back, what, a couple hundred years?”

  “A couple of hundred? Mister Thompson, it goes back much, much further than that.”

  “Okay, much further. So if in all that time you’ve never let in nonmembers, why the sudden change of heart? And why us? And you didn’t just let us in, you invited us.”

  “The local members received a directive.”

  “Yeah? Where from?”

  “The worldwide High Council of the Seven. They rule the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order. When they speak, the Lodges obey.”

  “Don’t think we’re not grateful, we are. But what about the rest of the question: Why us?”

  “The Council doesn’t explain its decisions.”

  Hank sensed this guy knew more than he was saying. Lots more.

  “Well, Mister Drexler. Since the Council entrusts you with inspecting this place, I imagine you’re wired in. You’ve gotta have some idea.”

  A humorless smile played around Drexler’s thin lips as he glanced at the Kicker Man graffito, then back to Hank.

  “It could be that they think you and your followers—”

  Hank wagged a finger. “Not ‘followers.’ That would make me their leader, and I’m not. Kickers recognize no leaders. We’re all simply fellow Kickers.”

  At least that was the line he made a point of pushing every chance he got: I’m not your leader. We’re all just Kickers. He figured the more he denied it, the more he’d be identified in their heads as the leader he said he wasn’t.

  “If you say so,” Drexler said, obviously not buying it. “It could be that the Council recognizes a common bond between your Kickers and the Septimus order.”

  “Which would be what?”

  Drexler shrugged. “Who is to say? The Council is wise and it keeps its own counsel.”

  Yeah. Okay. Maybe they did tell him, maybe they didn’t. But either way, he’d bet this guy had a pretty good idea of the why part of the question.

  “But be that as it may,” Drexler intoned, pointing to the Kicker Man graffito, “their hospitality does not extend to this.”

  Hank found himself eyeing Drexler’s neck and thinking of the katana. He’d bet one good chop would send his head flying. Did he dare? He had a feeling he’d have to strike fast and hard and not miss. Because this Drexler guy did not look like someone he’d want to mess with.

  He shook off the thought and focused on the present.

  “I’ll have one of the men clean it up. Then we’ll track down the one who did this and make certain he never does anything like this again.”

  Drexler brushed his hands together, as if dusting off dirt. “See to it immediately.”

  As he walked away, Hank again envisioned the katana biting into his neck. A delightful sight.

  3

  “Tell me again why that article was never published?” P. Frank Winslow said as they waited for their food.

  Jack had called him this morning, pretending to be the same Trenton Times reporter who had interviewed him last month. He needed to talk to Winslow and the writer seemed anxious to comply. They arranged to meet for breakfast in the same spot as last time: a bustling lower Second Avenue deli named Moishe’s.

  Winslow’s work had shocked Jack when he’d stumbled upon it. The plots of his novels Rakshasa! and Berzerk!—both based on dreams—were bizarrely similar to events in Jack’s life. When Jack had interviewed him he’d mentioned other dreams his editor hadn’t deemed novel-worthy that also seemed plucked from Jack’s life.

  “My editor thought it was too blah,” Jack said.

  Winslow reacted like a mother who’d just heard someone say her baby was ugly. “Blah? Jake Fixx is blah? What’s he, nuts? How can a freakin’ ex–Navy SEAL and former CIA black-ops specialist be blah?”

  Thirtyish, with a skinny bod, big nose, and thin face, Winslow was a far cry from the burly, brawny hero of his series.

  Jack shrugged. “Who can explain editors?”

  “I hear ya. Mine’s a piece of work. Sounds like yours is too.”

  Jack knew a couple of authors and a few wannabes. They all loved to bitch about editors. Jack played it up.

  “Guy’s a clown. Doesn’t know squat about good journalism. I fought for the article, but he wouldn’t budge. Said I had to find a hook for it or forget about it.”

  Winslow’s hazel eyes stared at him over his coffee cup. “Hook? Isn’t Jake himself a hook?”

  Jack shook his head. “I guess not. I mean, for me he is. I’m a big fan of the character. Your books are super.”

  He saw Winslow swell with delight. Authors were so needy.

  “Yeah, well, I like him too. I—”

  “Here’s your food, gents,” said a cracked voice.

  Sally, their ancient, orange-haired, dowager-humped waitress had materialized tableside carrying their plates. Winslow had the same as last time: eggs over easy with corned beef hash; Jack had o
pted for the western omelet.

  As Winslow chopped up his runny eggs and mixed them into the hash, he said, “What kind of hook does he want?”

  “You don’t think he’d actually tell me, do you? That would take some original thought on his part. But I do have an idea.”

  Winslow looked up. “Like what?”

  “These dreams you base the books on. What if they’re not dreams? What if your unconscious mind has somehow tapped into the life of a real Jake Fixx?”

  He took a bite of the yolky hash. “You’re not telling me you think that’s possible, are you?”

  “Course not. But that could be my hook: Who is the real Jake Fixx? or Is there a real Jake Fixx?”

  Winslow nodded. “Ooh, I like that.”

  “I do too. But I’m going to have to sort of catalogue your Jake Fixx dreams, even the ones you don’t use.”

  “No problem.”

  “Let’s start with the latest.” Here was what Jack had come for. “What’s happening?”

  “Really weird. About this cruddy Japanese sword that everyone wants. I—” He stopped, staring at Jack’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” The idea of this guy looking over his shoulder via his dreams made him queasy. “Go on.”

  “Well, I can’t use it all crudded up, but I can clean it up, make it super shiny—maybe even make it glow a little—and super sharp. You know, sharp enough to cut through a rifle barrel.”

  “Why not make it sing, too?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Never mind.”

  “And of course I’ll have to add a back story where Jake took dueling lessons from a master samurai while he was in the CIA.”

  “Of course.” Fixx was an expert in everything. God forbid he’d actually have to learn something. “So how does the dream end?”

  “It hasn’t yet. Like I told you before, I dream in chapters.”

  “Well, has he got the sword yet?”

  “Got it and lost it.”

  “Does he get it back again?”

  Winslow shrugged. “Haven’t dreamed that yet, but no matter how the dream turns out, I guarantee in my book Jake’ll get the sword back and use it to cut a swath through the bad guys.”

  “Who are?”

  “Don’t really know. Some sort of cult. I’ll probably make them members of that Aum Shinrikyo cult—you know, the ones who released sarin gas in Tokyo’s subway.”

  A cult…could the yakuza types he’d run into be part of a cult? Didn’t strike him as the type. The Kickers could be considered a cult, but they weren’t Japanese. That left Naka Slater—if that was his true name. Was he part of a cult?

  None of this made sense. Maybe the second Naka Slater would have some answers.

  “So you don’t know how it ends yet.”

  “I just told you: Jake gets the sword and—”

  “I meant the dreams.”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got my ending.”

  Swell. But Jack didn’t have his.

  4

  Dawn jumped and let out a little yelp when the phone rang. But unlike the last time, it kept ringing.

  She’d totally hated telling the abortion clinic where she was staying, but didn’t have much choice. Mr. Osala had confiscated her cell phone as soon as she’d entered his house. She hadn’t dared to stop and get a replacement while she’d been out yesterday.

  The clinic had done blood tests and a black woman doctor with an African accent had done a pelvic exam. They’d said they’d call her today with the results. If everything was okay, they’d set up a time for the actual abortion.

  She picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Y-yes?”

  “Ms. Pickering?” said a woman’s voice. “This is Grace from the Sitchin Clinic.”

  Relief. She felt her drum-tight muscles relax.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything is fine. You are eight weeks pregnant and in excellent health. You are an excellent candidate for the procedure.”

  “When?”

  “How does three o’clock tomorrow sound?”

  “Tomorrow? Can’t I get it done today?”

  “I’m sorry. We can schedule only so many a day and today is booked.”

  Damn. That meant another night alone in this room. She wanted this done with.

  “Okay, I guess. Yeah. Put me down for three.”

  “Excellent. I understand you’re paying cash?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “You will be expected to pay in full in advance.”

  They’d told her this yesterday and she’d agreed. The fee was stiff but she had it, and she couldn’t think of anything better to spend it on.

  “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”

  “Excellent. Please be here sharply at three. Have a nice day.”

  “Yeah. You too.”

  As she hung up she thought she should pump a fist or something, but she felt no sense of triumph. She’d be totally free of this baby, yeah, but she wouldn’t be free of Jerry Bethlehem. He’d still be out there looking for her. And he’d totally kill her if he found out she’d rid herself of his precious Key to the Future.

  By four o’clock tomorrow the baby would be gone. Then what? Where would she go from there?

  The only place she could think of was Mr. Osala’s.

  She’d show up at his door saying how sorry she was for running away, and how she didn’t know what had come over her—maybe she’d gone a little crazy from being cooped up—and how she’d totally never ever do it again.

  What she would so not tell him was that she was no longer pregnant. He’d said the baby was her life insurance policy where Jerry was concerned, and he might get mad if he knew she’d totally ignored his advice.

  Well, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And maybe when he was away on his next trip she’d pretend to have a miscarriage.

  Meanwhile she’d be safe and comfortable.

  Feeling suddenly rotten, she dropped onto the unmade bed.

  Listen to me. I sound like a totally gold-plated conniving bitch.

  She’d never been like this. Never lied, never cheated. Maybe what she’d gone through—was still going through—had changed her. She hoped it was temporary, that when it was over she could get a grip and totally change back. Well, maybe not totally—all this had to leave scars.

  But what if this was the real her—the real Dawn who’d been hiding just below the surface of the other Dawn? What if Mom’s murder and the knowledge that she’d been screwing the man who not only had killed her mother but was also—

  She didn’t want to think about that. Every time she did, it made her totally want to hurl.

  Maybe that was it. She felt dirty, and totally worthless. So low she wouldn’t mind being dead. And when you felt that low, all sorts of things you never thought possible suddenly were easy—like lying and cheating and trading sex for favors.

  She had to climb out of this hole. And the first step up and back to her old self was to be rid of this baby. Because the old Dawn hadn’t been pregnant.

  Tomorrow…at three P.M…. she’d take that step.

  5

  Jack waited inside the Ear this time—same table, same back-to-the-wall seat under the perils-of-drink poster. The place was only a quarter full, the kitchen just getting up to speed.

  He’d worn the arm sling on the subway ride down. Didn’t like the feel but it did seem to make people give him a slightly wider berth. As he’d seated himself here he glommed on an unconventional use for it. He pulled his Kel-Tec backup from its ankle holster and sneaked it into the sling where it could rest unseen, just inches from his fingers.

  He liked that so much he thought about making a sling a regular accessory, then decided against it. Put ten guys in a crowded room, one with a sling, nine without: Who would people remember?

  No, save it for special occasions.

  He thought about his trip to the hospital earlier this morni
ng, right after his breakfast with Winslow. The guy calling himself Naka Slater had been taken down to Roosevelt on 59th Street. Jack had inquired at the ER about an auto accident victim brought in last night. After much wheedling and cajoling he’d been told that they’d admitted an Asian John Doe who’d refused to give his name.

  Still alive…good.

  Jack said he wondered if the guy could be his good buddy, Ishiro Honda. Could he maybe just go up and see if it was really him?

  She had to check with the higher-ups to see if that would be okay. Ten minutes later she’d returned to say the higher-ups needed to talk to the hospital attorneys—concerns about hippo regulations or something like that.

  He’d told her he’d be back. He wanted to talk to this guy, find out what he was up to, why he’d tried to kill him. But first…the new Naka Slater.

  He snagged a copy of the Post from a neighboring table where one of the help had left it. The Staten Island thing still dominated the front page: an aerial photo of the dead area of woods under a huge headline:

  EVEN THE COOTIES

  CROAKED!

  If the Pulitzer folks awarded a prize for headlines, the Post would win every year.

  He skimmed the page three article. It reported how tests had shown that even bacteria and mold spores had been killed. The consensus was some sort of toxin, but nobody knew what particular toxin. Whatever it was, this stuff killed everything.

  Just then a vaguely Asian guy stepped in and looked around. He wore khaki slacks and a long-sleeve, blue-and-white-striped rugby shirt. As his gaze settled on Jack, he raised his eyebrows and pointed. Jack nodded.

  The guy wound through the tables and offered his hand when he reached Jack’s. “Nakanaori Slater. But you can call me—”

  “Naka,” Jack said, shaking his hand. Good grip. He pointed to the other chair. “Yeah, I know.”

  Close up now Jack could see the Caucasian influence in his skin tone and features. Unlike his predecessor, this guy looked like the genuine offspring of a Japanese and an American. He also looked older than his predecessor—Jack guessed a well-preserved sixty, or maybe younger—and a lot more relaxed. His black hair was streaked with gray, and he too wore it combed down over the left half of his forehead.