By the Sword

by F. Paul Wilson

  2

  Hideo had wanted to search further through the police database last night but the need for sleep and the time zone change had caught up with him. He’d awakened late this morning fully refreshed and ready for the next step.

  His target was anyone connected with Hugh Gerrish. First was to search for a list of “known associates,” but he could find no such list. Perhaps because Gerrish had never been a fugitive. He had served no jail time, so there was no cellmate Hideo could look up.

  He went back to the crime itself and found the arrest record. His spirits lifted as he read through it: Gerrish had not been alone on the break and enter. He’d been captured along with a man named Alonzo Cooter.

  Hideo searched the database for that name and found the mug shot. A beefy, surly black face stared back at him. Not a cooperative face. The belligerence in his eyes said he was not a man who would frighten easily.

  But that was what the yakuza were for.

  He called for Kenji, then hit the print button. While he was waiting, Hideo found Cooter’s last known address—he hoped it was good—and printed that screen too. Then he scanned through Kaze Group’s properties in the five boroughs. Cooter lived in the South Bronx. Kaze owned a boarded-up building awaiting demolition near Yankee Stadium. Cooter lived less than a mile away.

  “Takita-san,” Kenji said with a quick bow upon arrival.

  Hideo wrote the building’s address on one of the printouts, then handed him the sheets.

  “Find this man. Bring him to this address. Then call me.”

  Another quick bow and Kenji was gone.

  Hideo nodded. Complications had been encountered and overcome. Soon he would be talking to Hugh Gerrish.

  Now…if only he could find the ronin.

  He called up the mystery man’s photo and stared at it, trying to devise a way to track him down.

  And he would. Hideo was sure of it.

  3

  “As nice as that was, it’s not an explanation.”

  Gia lay to his left on the bed, head on hand, propped on an elbow, gazing at him as she trailed fingers through his chest hair.

  Jack laughed. “Nice? Nice? It was fantastic. At least for me.”

  He wasn’t kidding. He loved pleasuring her with his fingertips, his lips, his tongue, and she’d experienced a couple of little deaths along the way, but after they’d fitted themselves together, Gia had taken over with an uncharacteristic hunger that left him feeling as if he’d been dissected organ by organ and then reassembled.

  She smiled. “Okay, it was fantastic for me too.”

  “What did you do to me?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s kind of fuzzy now.”

  “Whatever it was, I think I’m going to need a walker to get out of here.”

  “Sorry. No walkers around. Only Nellie’s old cane.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  He closed his eyes relishing the touch of her fingers on his chest. He felt wiped out.

  “Well?”

  He looked at her and saw her expectant expression. No way out of this. He’d have to tell her something, and it had to be the truth. He wasn’t going to start lying to her.

  He glanced at the clock. He wanted to get to Belmont noonish. Still plenty of time, so he couldn’t use that as an excuse.

  He raised a finger and began tracing concentric circles on her left breast, languidly gyring toward the nipple.

  “A rosy-tipped breast, as the novels like to say.”

  She pushed his hand away. “That tickles. And if you’re trying to distract me, it might work, so stop it and tell what’s been going on.”

  Jack sighed. Where to begin?

  “Last month I learned that I have big chunks of bad DNA floating around my chromosomes.” He didn’t mention that she and Vicky carried a little of it too. That everyone did to varying degrees.

  She frowned. “‘Bad’? What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s not normal. It gives people…violent tendencies.”

  There. He’d laid it on the table.

  Gia’s expression remained neutral, registering neither shock nor fear nor revulsion.

  “Oh.”

  “And I’ve got a lot of it.”

  “Oh.”

  After a silence that seemed to last forever she took a breath. “Well, I guess that explains some things—at least it’s a hint as to why you’re good at what you do—but it doesn’t explain your gentleness around here. You’re a pussycat with Vicky.”

  “She owns me.”

  “And you’ve never once raised your voice against me, let alone your hand, so why have you—?”

  “It feels like a ticking bomb.”

  “You can feel it?”

  “No, but just knowing it’s there, inside me…” At a loss for words, he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “But I think I do. You’re afraid it will hurt us?”

  “No. I seem to be able to control it—most times. I have no doubt that you’re safe. But anyone who threatens that safety…” He thought of all the dead yeniçeri back in January. “They’re on the endangered species list.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Then what? You can’t infect us with it.”

  “No, but I just injected you with some.”

  She looked puzzled for a few heartbeats, then, “Oh.” Her eyes widened. “Oh. Emma.”

  “Yeah. Emma.”

  “You think she inherited some of this bad DNA?”

  “How could she not? She was half me.”

  Another long silence, then, “Well, it’s kind of scary, but it’s moot, isn’t it. Emma’s gone and I don’t want to—I can’t go through that again. I’d get my tubes tied if it mattered.”

  “Why doesn’t it matter? Because of those coma dreams?”

  She nodded.

  She’d come out of the coma this way, sure that the future was short—very short. Veilleur had mentioned something along those lines, and someone he knew who said he could see the future had told him next spring ended in darkness.

  When Gia had been on death’s threshold, had she peeked through and seen what was coming?

  Did that mean Rasalom was going to win?

  He shook it off.

  “Look, if anyone’s getting tubes tied it’s going to be me.”

  She smiled. “That’s sweet, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Please stop saying that.”

  “Well, it’s true, but I’ll stop saying it.”

  She rose from the bed. Jack stared at her. He loved Gia’s body—the breasts that fit his hands so perfectly, the curve of her hips, the slight swell of her belly. He wanted to reach out and grab her and pull her back.

  She’d taken it well. Seemed like he’d been worried about nothing. But a vasectomy…that was a thought. He didn’t want his oDNA going any further.

  He glanced at the clock. Time was moving.

  “Hey, Gi? How should I dress for my day at the races?”

  4

  Gia had thought he should dress down, and suggested his construction worker look: worn jeans, flannel shirt, work boots, Mets cap, dollar-store sunglasses.

  He drove the Long Island Expressway the entire length of Queens and crossed the border into Nassau County where Belmont Park occupies a large chunk of Elmont. He arrived a little past noon. Post time for the first race wasn’t until one o’clock, so he had time to settle in. He decided against valet parking, and chose the preferred lots instead, in case he needed his car in a hurry.

  His big problem—besides having nothing more than a blurry photo of his quarry—was not knowing where Gerrish was coming from, or how. The Long Island Railroad’s Bellerose stop was only a short distance away. If Gerrish didn’t have a car, that might be the way he’d come and go.

  From the outside, the patriotic bunting–bedecked grandstand was pretty much like he remembered it from the old days, except the ivy had spread farther across the brick walls and around the big arched windows.

  He bought a club
house admission and a program, and strolled the flagstone floors, checking out the Neiman manqué paintings on the walls as he refamiliarized himself with the place.

  He took the escalator up to the second floor and found a Sbarro’s. That hadn’t been here before.

  He ordered a slice of pepperoni pie and hung at the counter where he could keep watch on the traffic at the betting windows. Jack was betting on Gerrish being a clubhouse kind of guy—if he was as flush as he’d told folks, he wouldn’t hang outside with the hoi polloi. That meant sooner or later he’d show up here.

  Melancholy seeped into his mood as he watched the thin, drab, sad-looking crowd, mostly middle age or older, go through the motions. No zip, no vim or vigor. He seemed to remember a livelier crowd, Runyonesque flashy dressers with style and attitude. But memories are unreliable, tending to be colored by wishful thinking. Maybe it had never been like he thought he remembered. But either way, these folks had more in common with Willie Loman than Sky Masterson and Nathan Detroit.

  Around 12:45, after doing flybys to check out a couple of guys who turned out to be almosts-but-not-quites, Jack spotted a likely candidate lining up at a window. He had a round, florid face and wore dark blue nylon warm-up pants with white stripes under a loud Hawaiian shirt acrawl with birds of paradise. Brown, wavy hair stuck out below the edge of his Rangers cap.

  Could be.

  Jack slipped the photo from his pocket and gave it a quick look.

  Yeah. A definite possibility. Even had the big diamond stud earring. Trouble was, he wore wraparound shades and had his cap pulled down almost to his eyebrows. The Hugh Gerrish in the photo had a wicked widow’s peak, but this guy’s hat was obscuring his hairline. Jack needed a way to sneak a peek at the peak.

  He hurried over and slipped behind him in the betting line.

  “Rangers fan, huh?”

  The guy turned and looked at him. “You got a problem with that? You gonna give me some Islander shit?”

  The Islanders had just won the Stanley Cup and Ranger fans were not happy.

  Jack smiled. “Hey, easy. I’m a Ranger guy too.” Lie. Jack hated hockey. He hated high fives almost as much, but held up his hand for one. “Next year the cup is ours.”

  The guy smiled and gave Jack’s raised palm a good-natured slap.

  “From your lips to God’s ear.”

  Jack made a point of staring at his cap. “That’s a nice one. Where’d you get it? The Garden?”

  He nodded. “Cost an arm and a leg but worth every penny.”

  “Yeah. Nice quality. Wonder who made it. Mind if I see the label?”

  “Sure.”

  The guy took it off, revealing a huge widow’s peak. Jack couldn’t help staring at it.

  Lily, call Herman—we’ve found Eddie.

  “I thought you wanted to see it.”

  Jack shook himself and took the proffered hat, pretended to look at the label, then handed it back.

  “Cool. Thanks. Gotta get me one. You live in the city?”

  A suspicious light sparked in his eyes as he fit the cap back on his head. “Why you wanna know?”

  Jack put on a flustered look. “No particular reason. Just wish I could get into the Garden more. Get me one of those hats.”

  The suspicious light faded. “I’m in Jamaica. The train takes me right into Penn.”

  “Yeah?” Jack’s mind raced. “I’m in Jamaica too. Briarwood, actually. Put everything I had into a tiny two-bedroom ranch nine years ago and am I ever glad.”

  Gerrish nodded. “You must be sitting pretty. But, hey. It’s just as easy for you to get to the Garden as me.”

  Jack shook his head. “Not at night…the wife don’t like me going out at night.”

  He snorted a laugh. “Been there, done that. That’s why she’s now my ex-wife.”

  They shared a manly heh-heh-heh and then came Gerrish’s turn at the window.

  Jack leaned close to listen in, planning to bet the same horse. Gerrish supposedly knew his ponies, and winning would give Jack a chance to reconnect with him at the payout. But a glance over the bird of paradise on his shoulder gave him a shock. No human being at the window. Some sort of cash register sat there instead.

  When did this happen?

  He watched in dismay as Gerrish worked the thing like an accountant on an adding machine, then took the ticket that popped out and started to walk away.

  “Luck to you,” Jack said.

  Gerrish didn’t turn. “Yeah. Same.”

  As Gerrish moved off, Jack stepped up to the machine and studied it for a few seconds. He had no idea what to do, and no time to figure it out, so he faked working it, then walked off in the same general direction as Gerrish.

  5

  Dawn sat chin deep in the hot tub and stared at Henry.

  “You mean you still haven’t changed your mind?”

  “It’s not a matter of changing my mind, miss. It’s simply that I have not been able to reach the Master and do not have permission. I would help if I could but I cannot risk it again. I break out in a sweat just thinking about what could have happened.”

  What was it with this guy? Didn’t he have any balls?

  Balls…there was a thought. Henry seemed like totally sexless. She never caught him looking at her. Not once.

  What would stiff-and-staid Henry do if she totally came on to him? He looked to be like fifty—like two and a half times her age. But big deal. She’d been living with a pervo twice her age and doing him every night.

  She bit back a surge of acid as her stomach tried to hurl. Don’t think about that. You’ve got that perv’s baby inside you and the only way you’re going to get rid of it is to get out of this place.

  She could do Henry. If she could do that perv she could do anyone. And it would only be once. She’d let him think it would be a regular thing, but no way.

  How did that phrase go? Quid pro quo? Yeah. She hadn’t gotten straight A’s at Benedictine Academy without paying attention in Latin class.

  If she did something for him, he’d have to do something for her if he wanted a replay. But no replay. This time if she got out she would be so not coming back.

  Did she dare? She’d feel like such a loser if he turned her down. But she had to risk it. She had this awful feeling that her future depended on it.

  She opened her mouth to speak but no words of seduction would come.

  Hey. Maybe she could seduce him with money. She had a quarter of a million in cash in her room.

  “Henry? What if I paid you for a shopping trip?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What if I totally paid you ten thousand dollars to take me out for an hour?”

  He looked offended. “You insult me, miss. I am not for sale.”

  She was about to double the offer but saw in his steely eyes that it would be a waste of time.

  Okay. Time to bite the bullet, as it were.

  Keeping her chin at water level, she reached behind her and unhooked the top of her bikini. She slipped out of it, releasing the girls, and pushed it under her. Next came the bottom.

  Now…the big moment.

  She rose to her feet and stood thigh deep in the bubbling water, facing Henry. She glanced down at her girls. The wet mounds glistened in the sunlight streaming through the windows. She could see the nipples rising in the chill room air. Maybe she was a little too thick in the waist, a little too wide in the hips, but she had great skin and she was like totally sure that hers was the best bod Henry had seen in a long, long time. She couldn’t see her pubes right now but knew they looked sort of funny. Pervo Jerry had made her shave. Well, didn’t force her, exactly. All he’d had to do was ask and she’d done it—like she’d done other things he’d asked. The hair was growing back now, looking like a three-day stubble.

  She’d never asked herself why he’d wanted her bare there. Thought it was just some simple kink. Maybe even a hygiene thing, though he’d never shaved himself.

  But knowing
what she knew now, it was probably a way to make her look more like a child.

  Her gorge rose again but she forced it back.

  Focus, Dawnie. Focus.

  She looked at Henry and saw that his jaw had totally dropped. The offended look in his eyes had given away to a sort of wonder and awe.

  “Like what you see?”

  Henry continued to stare in silence, his expression frozen.

  She stepped toward him, trying to make her movements languid and sexy, hiding the urgency bubbling inside. If this was going to work, if this was even going to get done, it had to get started soon and end quickly. Before Gilda arrived to make sure Dawn didn’t soak beyond her allotted twenty minutes.

  She climbed the two steps up to floor level and stopped before him, dripping.

  And still Henry said nothing. Maybe he’d been dreaming of sex with an eighteen-year-old. Maybe even younger.

  “You got a problem with young stuff, Henry? If not, I’m about to make you a very happy man.”

  Ugh. That sounded awful. Still…she’d gotten her message across and he hadn’t backed off. Hadn’t moved toward her either.

  Okay…looked like it was going to be all up to her.

  She knelt before him and reached for his fly, hoping this wouldn’t be too gross.

  She felt a bulge behind the fabric as she tugged on the zipper.

  Henry didn’t move to stop her.

  6

  Gerrish had a seat in the clubhouse’s reserved section but Jack had a good view of him from his spot. The guy bet on every race. Jack decided to keep his distance. He studied his copy of Post Parade Magazine and made a few mental bets of his own, but lost every single one—even when they were favorites.

  He hoped he had better luck bird-dogging Gerrish home.

  Jack made it a policy to follow Gerrish to the windows. He often collected wads of cash. Either the guy was dating Tyche on the side or really knew his ponies. After the next-to-last race he skipped the windows and headed for the exits.

  Giving him a good lead, Jack followed him to the LIRR Bellerose station. He stayed out of sight until a westbound train pulled in. He waited for Gerrish to board, then hopped on two cars ahead of him. The train was fairly empty, so Jack moved back a car and sat where he could take an occasional peek at his quarry.