By the Sword

by F. Paul Wilson

  Averting her eyes, she stepped toward the door.

  “You are! You are going in! Please don’t! Think of your baby and how it will feel to be torn apart!”

  She heard engine noise behind her and turned to see a gray panel truck pulling up to the curb. If it had been a cab she might have been tempted to take it away from here, from this nut.

  But no, she was seeing this through.

  When she continued forward he stepped between her and the door, blocking her way.

  “Please think of your baby!”

  Behind her she heard a door sliding open as she forced herself to make eye contact with the man.

  “Get out of my—”

  Terror spiked through her gut as she felt a gloved hand clamp over her mouth. As she lifted her hands to pull it off and scream, an arm snaked around her chest and she was yanked off her feet, spun around, and pushed through the side door of the panel truck. Someone within pulled her inside and for an instant her mouth was free but he clamped his hand across her face before she could scream. She bit him but all she got was leather glove. Panicked, she began twisting and kicking and trying to writhe free as the first man leaped in behind her and slid the door closed. He grabbed her legs and steadied them as the van began to move.

  “Easy, Dawn, easy,” he said in a tone he probably thought soothing but was not. “No one’s gonna hurt you. That’s the last thing we want. In fact, you’re gonna be safer now than you’ve ever been in your life.”

  He knew her name! And then she saw that weird little stick figure on all their hands.

  Oh, God, these were Jerry’s people!

  10

  Jack had dressed in wino casual—ripped dirty jeans, fatigue jacket, stomped-on fedora pulled down to his ears and eyebrows, unlaced sneakers three sizes too big for him, and a grime-smudged face. He’d accessorized with yellow rubber kitchen gloves, a pair of women’s sunglasses, and a stuffed black garbage bag that supposedly held his worldly belongings but in reality contained nothing but wadded-up newspaper. He waved his free arm in the air as he conversed with no one.

  A useful getup: No one except maybe god-squad types ever made eye contact with his type.

  When he’d called the number from the voice mail he’d played anxious to get back the katana, but sounded suspicious and wanted a public place. Whoever he spoke to countered by saying surely he’d want to examine the blade and couldn’t very well do that in Times Square. Jack insisted on public, specifically Madison Square Park. It had traffic but everyone pretty much minded their own business.

  He arrived a little after three—almost an hour early—and began picking through the trash bins, adding an occasional aluminum can or plastic bottle to his bag. Then he chose an empty bench with a clear view of the Admiral Farragut statue and the meeting spot. He began a muttered but heart-felt conversation with himself interspersed with scatological references to passersby.

  Eventually a slim, nervous-looking black guy in horn-rimmed glasses appeared, carrying an oblong object wrapped in what looked like a drop cloth. As instructed, he found a bench in the northeast corner of the park and took a seat. Jack rose and began to make another round of the trash cans.

  He spotted the heavy yakuza on line at the Shake Shack.

  Jack allowed himself a pat on the back. He’d been right.

  The Shake Shack made a perfect cover for the big guy. He looked like he liked to eat. Jack was tempted to see if he tried to order tempura or sashimi, but needed to keep moving.

  Found one of the others at the park’s northwest corner, near Fifth and 26th. Farther along the street he spotted the third loitering outside a sidewalk café on the far side of Madison.

  Where was Mr. Boss Man? Had to be somewhere nearby, most likely in that Lincoln Town Car, idling, watching. His men had the exits covered. They could snatch Slater as he left the park, or the boss could follow him if he made it to a cab.

  Jack wandered to the downtown end of the park and found a bench with a good view of Big Guy. He pretended to doze but kept watch from behind the sunglasses.

  Big Guy hung by the Shake Shack, chomping on a burger, then a hot dog, then an order of fries.

  The meeting time came and went. The yakuza had Slater’s voice mail number. Jack had told him not to return any calls. Forty-five minutes after the planned meeting time, a Town Car pulled to the curb on 23rd. A driver and the boss man sat in front. Big Guy joined his two buddies in the rear and they took off.

  Jack rose and hurried deeper into the park, hoping to catch the decoy before he left.

  No worry. The thin black guy was still sitting on the bench with the bundle across his knees. Looked like no one had told him the gig was off. He jumped as Jack plopped down next to him and leaned close.

  “The moon is in the seventh house,” he whispered.

  The guy inched away. “What?”

  “The stars are aligning for the End Times. It’s all over now.”

  “Are-are you the one I’m supposed to meet?”

  “We’ll all meet in the afterlife two thousand light-years from home.” He pretended to notice the bundle for the first time. “Hey, is that my Christmas present?”

  “Christmas? No—”

  Jack raised his voice. “It is, dammit! Santa left it just for me and you took it!”

  The guy started to rise but Jack pulled him back and grabbed for the bundle. He pulled it from his grasp, found the edge of the cloth, and shook it out like a sandy towel.

  A scabbarded katana fell free. The tip pointed Jack’s way so he grabbed it and pulled, baring the blade.

  A smooth, unblemished blade.

  Jack tossed the scabbard at the guy and jumped to his feet. He clutched his black plastic bag against his chest, stamped his feet, and pointed with his free hand.

  “The Sword of Damocles! You’re an archangel! I knew it! It’s the end times! The End Times! I must prepare myself for sacrifice!”

  Now there’s a mixed bag of references, he thought as he turned and ran screaming from the park.

  11

  Dawn had no idea how long she’d been in the basement. Not like it was a dungeon or anything. It was warm and well lit; she had a folding chair to sit on. The rest of the furniture consisted of a few long folding tables supporting a bunch of phones, none of which worked—she knew; she’d tried every one of them. But the place had no windows and no clock on the wall, so even though it seemed like days, she knew it had been only hours. How many hours was the question.

  No, not the question, one of the questions.

  The big question was who were these people? She’d been hustled out of the truck and into the rear entrance of this ornate old building way downtown. She hadn’t seen any women, only men, and not many of those. The place seemed almost totally deserted.

  They’d fed her—brought her a Big Mac and fries and a bottle of Aquafina—but they hadn’t left her alone. Not for a second. Someone sat by the only exit door at all times. The first had been the guy who’d had the sign outside the clinic. On the heavy side, with short dark hair and a retreating hairline, he’d been called Menck by one of the guys in the truck. He’d tried to make small talk at first but she wasn’t interested, and he’d clammed up rather than answer the questions she peppered him with.

  She totally recognized the scruffy guy who relieved him: the same guy she’d run into outside Blume’s and in SoHo. She’d know that squint anywhere. They called him Darryl and he must have recognized her downtown and followed her to the Milford.

  She wanted to scream. She’d thought she was breaking free but all she’d accomplished was trading Mr. Osala’s prison for the Milford prison and now this one, wherever it was.

  Was there anyone left in the world who totally didn’t want to lock her up?

  “How long are you going to keep me here?” she said.

  Darryl scratched a bristly cheek. “That’s up to the main man.”

  “You mean Jerry?”

  The thought made her heart poun
d. He’d be royally pissed at her for trying to get an abortion, but he wouldn’t hurt her. Not while she still carried his precious baby. As Mr. Osala had said—why on God’s earth hadn’t she stayed with him?—the baby was her insurance policy.

  Darryl frowned. “Jerry? Don’t know of any Jerry.”

  He seemed to be telling the truth, but she couldn’t think of anyone else who could be behind this.

  “Then who’s this main man?”

  “He’s—” He caught himself. “Probably best if I let him tell you that.”

  “Well, where is he?”

  “You’ll see him soon.”

  Just then the door opened and Menck stuck his head through.

  “Bring her upstairs.”

  Dawn tried to jump to her feet and run—but where? And besides, her knees were too wobbly. So she just sat there while Menck held the door and Darryl came over and gripped her upper arm.

  “C’mon, gal. Time to see the main man.”

  Jerry…had to be.

  She allowed herself to be helped to her feet, then she preceded Darryl to the door where Menck took her arm and led her up a narrow stairway.

  As soon as she hit the first floor she began screaming for help. Her voice echoed off the stone walls. Darryl and Menck stood by and watched her with amused expressions. Two other men appeared. She recognized them from the truck.

  “What’s her problem?” one of them said.

  Darryl grinned. “She thinks there’s someone around to hear her.”

  “There is,” said the guy. “Us.”

  “Someone who cares,” Darryl added. He poked her shoulder. “There ain’t.”

  She stopped. She totally wanted to cry but she’d be damned if she’d break down in front of these jerks.

  Menck said, “We called ahead and had the building cleared before you arrived.” He tilted his head toward the waiting stairs. “Let’s go. Someone on the second floor is waiting to meet you.”

  She so didn’t want to go but they were behind her, pushing. When she reached the top she was out of breath, not from exertion, but fear. They led her down a hall to a half-open door. They guided her through and she stopped cold at the sight of a man she had totally never seen before.

  He stood in the middle of the room swinging a sword.

  She screamed.

  12

  As Jack approached the Kicker HQ, he was surprised to see a bunch of them hanging out on the front steps and the sidewalk.

  Earlier he’d ditched the rubber gloves and sunglasses, upgrading his look from wino casual to just plain scruffy. He’d traded his torn jeans for ones that were simply well worn. Then he’d stopped over at Gia’s where she’d used a Sharpie to draw a faux Kicker Man tattoo in his right thumb web. She’d wanted to know what he was up to but he put her off with a promise of a full explanation later.

  He did a quick check on the tat as he approached the throng. Might not pass muster in the light of day, but here in the dark, with only streetlights for illumination, it was perfect.

  He stopped by a knot of a half dozen guys and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. Making sure his tat was toward the group, he shook one out and lit up. As anticipated, someone needed a smoke.

  “Hey, bro,” said a blond guy in a work shirt. “Spare one of those?”

  “Sure.” Jack extended the box. After the guy had taken his, Jack offered it around. “Anyone else?”

  One other guy took him up on it. Jack lent them his lighter to fire up. After a few drags—fake inhaled for fear of coughing—he looked around.

  “What’s going on? What’s everybody doing outside? This a fire drill or something?”

  The blond guy grinned. “Damn near. Like three o’clock this afternoon we get the word: Everybody outta the building. Move-move-move. We been out here ever since. I went and grabbed a burger and come back figuring everything’d be back to normal. But no. Still locked out, and no reason why.”

  A tall, sullen type was eyeing Jack. “Ain’t seen you around before.”

  Jack eyed him right back. “I’m kinda new. Been out all day ripping down those sword flyers. You know they got them posted as far out as Jackson Heights? I mean, what gives with that?”

  The blond guy said, “Word is that someone heard just as we were being moved out that the next job would be taking down the girl posters.”

  Jack stiffened. “You mean those missing Dawn Pickering things we’ve been plastering all over town? They want them down?”

  “That’s the word.” He shrugged. “Don’t mean it’s true.”

  “Did they find her?”

  The tall guy shrugged. “Don’t think so. I been workin the phones these past four weeks and I ain’t heard nothin but bullshit comin in. One lie after another, just trying to get a piece of that reward. Sometimes people make me sick, y’know? I think Hank just figured if we ain’t found her by now, we ain’t gonna find her at all, and he decided to pull the plug.”

  “You might be right,” Jack said.

  Like hell. No way Hank would give up on that baby. He and his late unlamented brother Jerry saw Dawn’s baby as the Key to the Future. Only three reasons he’d pull the flyers: Dawn was dead, Dawn had gotten an abortion, or Dawn had been found and was under his control.

  Clearing out Kicker HQ on such short notice added a lot of weight to number three. If true, she could be inside right now.

  “Nice night.”

  Jack turned away and looked up, pretending to stare at the sky, but really checking for a vantage point that would allow him to see into the building. As he scanned the cornices of the rooftops across the street he spotted a flash of reflection—a double flash, side by side.

  As in binoculars.

  13

  Her scream jolted Hank. Why—?

  Oh, yeah. The sword. He’d been swinging it around when she stepped into the room. Must have thought he was going to attack her.

  “Hey, it’s all right,” he said, lowering the blade. “I’m just playing with it.”

  She stood inside the doorway, trembling, her eyes shifting left and right.

  “Wh-where’s Jerry?”

  Jerry? Did she think he was still alive?

  Of course she did. She’d known him as Jerry Bethlehem. As far as anyone knew, Jerry Bethlehem was a murder suspect on the run from the law. But that had been an assumed identity. His body had been ID’d and he’d been declared dead under his real identity, Jeremy Bolton. No way Dawn could connect the two.

  He studied her. She didn’t look pregnant. He barely recognized her. She’d lost weight, and with her blond hair dyed brown and cut short, he might have passed her on the street without recognizing her. Only when he focused on her puggish face did he know for sure it was her.

  And he wanted to slug her. Or cut her.

  Probably not the best idea to be holding the katana while talking to her, but he liked the way it felt in his hands.

  He fumed at the thought of how she’d come within a few feet and a few seconds of killing Jeremy’s baby. If she’d set foot inside that clinic, she’d have been out of reach and the Plan would be in ashes right now.

  But much as he wanted to, he couldn’t hurt her. Not while she carried the Key to the Future.

  But after the baby was born…a whole new ball game.

  Then again, maybe not. She’d be the Mother of the Key, which might make her untouchable.

  So Hank bottled his fury while he considered what to say.

  She thought Jerry was alive…maybe he could use that.

  “Jerry’s not here at the moment.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Around. He doesn’t want to see you yet. He’s too mad at you for running off and putting us to all this trouble.”

  “Us?”

  “Him, me, all the Kickers. We’ve spent a lot of money and a lot of man-hours looking for you.”

  She frowned. “What’s in it for you?”

  “Why, the welfare of your baby, of course.”

  S
he was staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. “You…you look like him.”

  Hank noticed Menck and Darryl still standing in the doorway.

  He waved them off. “Close the door behind you.” Then he turned to Dawn and said, “Like who?” though he knew exactly who.

  “Like him. Put a beard on you and—oh, Jesus! You’re related!”

  “True. Jerry wa—” He caught himself. Almost said was. Have to watch that. “Jerry and I had the same father. He’s my half brother. And that…” He pointed to her midsection “…is my nephew.”

  She grabbed her belly with both hands and backed away until she was pressed against the door.

  “Oh, God!”

  She began to cry, and he couldn’t help feeling a little—just a little—sad for her. After all, she was only eighteen. Just a kid. She hadn’t asked for this.

  But on the other hand, she wouldn’t even exist if not for the Plan, so she owed the Plan. Owed it her life. And all the Plan was asking in return was the baby she didn’t even want, the baby she was on her way to kill.

  He spoke in a soft, soothing tone. “It’s not the end of the world, Dawn. It’s nine months out of your life. And you’re already—what?—almost two months into it. So we’re talking maybe seven months here. You see it through, and then, if you don’t want the baby, you walk away and spend the rest of your life any way you want to. If you want to stay and help raise him, you’ll never want for anything ever again.”

  She stopped crying and glared at him as she spoke through her gritted teeth.

  “I don’t want this baby! I know who Jerry is and I want this obscene thing out of me! If I could rip it out with my hands I would. It shouldn’t even exist. I don’t know what you two are up to or what you think this baby’s going to be, and I don’t care. Find your ‘Key to the Future’ somewhere else!” Her voice rose to a scream. “I don’t want it!”

  Hank felt heat filling his head. “Well, you’re going to have it so get used to it, babes. You can make it easy or you can make it hard, but that’s the way it’s gonna be.”