Brooklyn Knight

by null

  Next to the professor, however, his companion’s mind was filled with different issues. All the time he was working to face down the approaching horror, a dozen different voices sounded within LaRaja’s head, urging him to flee. They reminded him of how close his car was, that the key was waiting in the ignition, waiting for him to throw his vehicle into motion. He could still make it, they whispered. Pleaded.

  Others were more sinister.

  They questioned Knight’s motives, suggested that perhaps the professor meant to destroy him, to feed his soul to the approaching nightmare.

  “Why not,” asked one. “If you can believe this much of what he told you, why not all of it? Is this one of those dark forces he claimed the world is filled with, and if it is, is he one of those sinister men he says are so willing to use them?”

  The detective found himself beginning to shake. He understood Knight’s warnings now, realized the academic had been trying to prepare him for just this kind of doubt. Then, as terror clawed its way into his soul, a small voice from the furthest recesses of his brain reminded him;

  You believed the girl when she said she was here before. She saw this thing, and she came back. What exactly are you afraid of, Dennis, that doesn’t scare a young woman still wet behind the ears?

  And then, the glowing shape came within inches of the two men. Without hesitation, Knight stepped forward, plunging both his arms into the undulating specter. As he did so, he turned his head slightly toward the officer, shouting;

  “Do the same as me—join me!”

  Trembling, but closing his eyes all the same, with a prayer on his lips, Detective Denny LaRaja did as instructed. The professor put a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder then, holding it tightly, forcing his senses to remember that he was not alone, that human contact was right there next to him.

  LaRaja needed the guiding hand, for fear was invading his senses from every angle. Even knowing Knight was there at his side was not comfort enough to keep the desire to bolt from flooding his every thought. And then a sudden realization hit the detective—one so astounding as to be almost beyond his capability to accept it.

  Part of him realizing that he must be right, that the professor could have brought him out there for no other reason, LaRaja was just beginning to speak when the skies barked and another terrible bolt crashed down from the Heavens, striking them all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “All right now, son, let me see if I’ve got this whole thing straight.” The major general speaking to Agent Klein did not appear to be a particularly confused man. He also did not appear to be an extremely happy one, either.

  “You’ve come here to have us protect a rock?”

  The speaker was Major General Mark Harris, a ramrod of a fifty-year-old, slightly gray, with metal-flake eyes and a jaw that appeared capable of withstanding a blow from a two-by-four. As he stared upward from his seat behind his desk, unblinking, the agent before him answered simply;

  “Yes, sir.”

  The FBI man knew enough about military protocol to both not address the officer by either his rank or name, and also to not respond to anything more than he had been asked. He had answered the question put to him. To do more would be to offer offense. It would be a silent admission that he thought the major general did not know his own mind. In most of the outside world, such protocol seemed a particular type of arrogance, one that outraged liberal thinkers used to breaking into spontaneous debate over the slightest, most insignificant of things, often for no more reason than the mental exercise.

  To the military mind, however, order and discipline were not simply niceties. They were ways of conduct that, if not followed at the right time, could lead to the deaths of thousands, to the destruction of cities or the fall of nations. Klein had been well trained in dealing with the various patterns of thought among leadership personalities. He would handle a CEO in a much different manner from a military commander, from a police officer, from a politician.

  And, he thought, forcing himself not to smile, from an academic, as well.

  “Okay, Mr. Klein, now that you’ve gotten yourself all the way up here, tell me, why do I want to do this?”

  The agent understood the major general’s question. The officer was not asking to be convinced to follow his orders. He was looking for whatever information Klein might possess outside those orders. Immediately the FBI man launched into a complete recitation of the history of Hamid Ras Morand. He kept his report brief and concise, detailing all he knew of the terrorist’s various criminal activities as both a soldier of the line and a director behind the scenes. When Klein got to Morand’s most recent assignment, the watching over of Dr. Ungari and the uncovering of Memak’tori, he asked;

  “If I might be allowed to offer a speculation, General?” Receiving a nod from the commanding officer of Fort Drum, the FBI man continued, saying;

  “I’ve dealt with Morand in person recently. The encounter was brief, but long enough to lead me to form the opinion that he wants to—needs to, really—take possession of this Dream Stone very badly. Symbol of a cause, national pride, a totem meant for good luck, I have no idea exactly where his internal justification lies. But whatever his reasons, it’s my opinion that the man is clearly obsessed with getting his hands on the thing.”

  Klein paused in his explanation not only to swallow a deep breath before continuing but also to give Harris a moment to absorb all he had been told. The agent had done his homework on the major general in what limited time he had possessed. The officer had done several tours in the Middle East, working his way up the chain of command during every war, occupation, and skirmish available. The man knew more than a little about the mind-set of the Muslim fanatic. Harris had also nearly died in more than one surprise attack. Starting again, the FBI man lowered his tone to the conspiratorial as he said;

  “We brought the piece here, sir, because we believe Morand has access to some sort of sophisticated, possibly experimental weaponry. When the piece was being stolen initially from the Brooklyn Museum, the thieves suddenly murdered one another, and then were blown to bits. Speculation by our best experts hasn’t given us anything tangible to work with. Worse, when what they thought was the stone was moved to a police station, the building was somehow burned down from the inside. Stone and steel rooms obliterated. Metal doors melted from within. And, sir, the tiny bits of explanation the pros have handed us to work with make sci fi look tame.”

  The general considered what he had been told for a moment, then questioned what Klein had meant when he said “what they thought was the stone was moved to a police station.” The agent explained the mistake the thieves had made in as brief a fashion as he had everything else. Harris gave him a slight stare, then lowered his eyes so that the FBI man would have no access to his thoughts while he contemplated all he had been told.

  The first thing the officer reminded himself of was that there was no use in debating the protection of this hunk of rock. Klein and the others he was working with in New York City had used the chain of command quickly and efficiently. Before the agent had arrived, the major general’s office had already received orders to comply with the FBI’s requests in this matter, adding the somewhat disturbing tagline “no matter how outlandish.” With that much a given, the officer’s main duty was to figure out just how to keep this thing out of terrorist hands with as little risk to his men and equipment as possible.

  Harris had risen through the ranks quickly, half of his brilliant rise due to plain dumb luck, the other to always being organized, on top of each situation as outlined, but also by being as prepared as possible for the unexpected. He saw before him in Klein and his rock nothing more than a replay of so many of the situations that had come his way over the years, all of them Fate’s attempts to derail his career. And now, as so often in the past, he had only a matter of seconds in which to make his decision on how to handle this latest assault on his future.

  Drum was the closest facility to New York C
ity capable of handling the needs of the moment—with that fact Harris had no argument. National Guard posts like Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn might have been infinitely closer, but they were manned by part-timers, sorely lacking in equipment, not nearly as well trained, and, even worse, situated in the middle of a major metropolitan area. And that, he thought, was his dumb luck at work once more.

  This problem had not been dropped in his specific lap; it had been dropped on Drum. There might be nerves out in the world put at ease because he was the commander, but he also realized it was just as likely no one when making the decision to saddle Drum with this particular problem had considered the fact that it would be Major General Mark Harris who would be in charge of the operation.

  Don’t flatter yourself too much, old man, he told himself. The thought almost made him chuckle, until he added, That’s a real good way to get killed in this job.

  Taking his own advice, the major general returned to pondering his problem. As for being prepared for such an event, Harris had to wonder: What exactly should he do? Lock this thing in a bunker, surround it 24-7 with heavily armed men? And dogs, perhaps? Maybe mount machine guns on the roof, circle the place with tanks? He had plenty of men and guns, more than enough heavy artillery. Even enough dogs.

  But, he asked himself, would any of that have helped that police station? They had men and guns there, too. Doesn’t seem to have helped them any.

  The major general was perfectly willing to believe that this Morand character wanted this Dream Thing, needed it for some reason that made some bizarre sort of perfect sense to him and his kind. That meant, most likely, that he or his agents would be on their way soon. To men like Morand, dying in an attempt to acquire this thing was considered as good as, if not better than, succeeding. It was something Harris had learned through bitter experience—you do not underestimate the resolve of a fanatic.

  In fact, the part of his brain he had relied upon the heaviest over the years reminded him, if you’re smart, you count on it.

  Pursing his lips, allowing them to make a slight “tsking” sound, the general raised his head slightly so that his eyes were aligned with the FBI agent’s once more. Then, giving the man enough of a smile to let him know he was willing to work with him, Harris said;

  “So tell me, Mr. Klein, just what kind of sci-fi defenses do you think might help kick this sorry bastard’s ass?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  LaRaja’s eyes went painfully wide as the specter first enveloped him. He did not seem to notice the fact that the professor had been taken inside the shimmering form as well, was not aware that Knight had gripped his shoulder, that the professor’s fingers were digging into his flesh with a force far stronger than any of which he would have imagined the academic capable. No, too much of LaRaja’s brain was frozen in primal panic to take note of such things.

  Get hold of yourself, you old fool, a sliver of his mind snapped, desperate for him to regain control. A girl said it was nothing, for Christ’s sake—a girl! Deal with it!

  Still, the detective’s initial fears continued to spiral wildly out of control. Despite the defensive preparations Knight had tried to install within LaRaja’s mind, the experience was proving too far beyond the realities the man knew or could understand. It was simply too much for him.

  Panic threw itself into the detective’s veins, ancestral terrors pummeling him, screaming to him that he was not dreaming, that he was in contact with exactly that with which he thought he was in contact, and that he should be running as far away as he could as fast as possible. Garbled shrieks of horror filled his mind, clawing at him, ordering, begging, cajoling—slamming the detective with every assault they could find to start him moving and then keep him that way.

  But just as the last braces his resolve possessed were beginning to actually crack, at the moment he found his heels starting to rise from the ground, his eyes scanning for the best direction in which to make his retreat, suddenly he felt something that calmed a vital portion of his nerves. Something he understood.

  Something familiar.

  “J-Jimmy?”

  The hue of the glow around LaRaja and the professor shimmered brightly in response to the question, the strongest of the gleaming motes swarming around the detective. LaRaja’s eyes went wide as multiple emotions raced through his system. His nerves screeched at him, still wanting him to run. But, deep within the man his instincts began to war among themselves.

  It is Jimmy, the back of his mind told him. Or at least, it’s Jimmy’s ghost. It has to be! And then, just as LaRaja blurted;

  “Piers—it’s Jimmy, back from the dead. It’s his ghost, right?”

  That was the moment when the cloudless sky roared and a massively thick column of tremendous energy blasted downward, striking the two men and the enveloping spirit of Jimmy Dollins with the force of a crashing jetliner. Once more the ground was split and burned, the grass charred in a reeking circle that rushed to spread twenty yards in every direction. Flames slathered across the faces of the surrounding gravestones, blackening their edges, filling the cut marks of their engraved names and dates with a crackling soot, leaving them scorched and steaming.

  “Nooooooooo!”

  Bridget’s voice shattered the still of the evening with every bit as much force as the lightning blast, its mingled fear and pain equally as piercing as its predecessor. Throwing herself out of the detective’s car, she raced forward across the burning grass, uncaring of whatever might befall her.

  “Professor,” she screamed, clambering up the small hillock, unable to find a trace of either Knight or LaRaja through the acrid smoke. “Where are you?”

  “We’re here, my dear.”

  Spinning around, Bridget stopped where she was as she found the professor coming across the cemetery lawn toward her. Behind him, farther back, she could see the detective, whole and hale as Knight, still enshrouded by the spirit of his late partner. Her eyes wide, she stopped before her employer, staring at him, her mind thrown into confusion at the sight of the man unharmed—unscorched, even—as if nothing had happened.

  “I, I … ,” she stammered, her thought processes still not quite capable of explaining with any adequacy what she was seeing, “I don’t understand. You were just … you were hit—again. But you’re all right. The detective …”

  “We’re both fine,” said Knight in a quiet voice. The side of his mouth curling into his trademark half smile, he told Bridget gently, “Come now, you didn’t think I’d return here, to the same spot, looking to re-create what happened before and not bring along something to assure a different result—did you?” His mouth surrendering to the desire to turn itself into a complete smile, Knight added humorously;

  “Ahhhh, youth, you just think everyone over thirty is senile, don’t you?”

  As the girl simply stared, her mind once again trying to keep pace with things that a few days previous she could never have imagined, the professor reached into his pocket and withdrew a small piece of carved wood. Showing it to her, placing the object in her hand, Knight explained;

  “White oak—it’s from our good friends the Druids. They knew quite a bit when it came to the manipulation of the forces of nature. As a sect they did not possess any real magic, per se, but they did understand how to use one force to channel another.”

  “And this, this thing …”

  “It’s a runic symbol, meant to give one control over the staggering might of the storm, specifically high winds and lightning. I filched it from the Dark Ages display earlier today. I had a feeling it would come in handy.” As Bridget simply stared, Knight continued his academic drone, telling her;

  “It absorbs energy; well, no, it doesn’t actually absorb it—more redirects it. Moves it around until it can be harnessed—stored. Of course, it’s not as simple to use as just, say, carrying around a rabbit’s foot for luck, or something along those lines. I had to make several offerings during the afternoon, actually, a bit of mantra chanting as well…
. You wouldn’t believe what it takes to get a live rabbit delivered to you these days, no questions asked … but it all seems to have worked out well. Don’t you think?”

  “You miserable son of a bitch,” Bridget snapped. Giving her employer a harsh glance, she added, “I was worried about you—I thought you were dead! Give a girl a little warning when you pull this kind of crap, why don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry,” the professor whispered, “but I thought if you knew I was preparing defenses against lightning you’d spend the entire day worrying about what would happen. I, I suppose I believed it would be easier on you somehow.”

  Although Bridget seemed to be holding things together, Knight suddenly realized the inordinate amount of stress the night’s events had to be putting her under. Looking directly into her eyes, he told her sincerely; “I’m sorry, my dear. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you along. But if I hadn’t, I thought that then I’d just be worried about you, and I knew you would worry if you weren’t with me, and …” Pausing, the professor sighed deeply, shaking his head sadly as he whispered;

  “God. I really have made a mess of things for you, haven’t I? You come to New York looking for a new life, a career, and what does meeting me get you? You’d have been better off—”

  “No,” came Bridget’s voice sharply, cutting him off. Her eyes boring into Knight’s, she told him, “Don’t say it. Don’t tell me anything about being ‘better off’ somewhere else or with someone else.”

  Deciding to allow Bridget the moment to get things out of her system, Knight merely nodded, allowing her to continue without interruption.

  “I’m sorry I got so emotional. I apologize, and don’t start in with any nonsense about there being no need to do so. I’m your assistant—I’m supposed to be, anyway. I’m supposed to be a help to you, not a burden. But some of …” She paused for a moment, then put her hands out before herself in a gesture of confused futility, adding, “… all this, all of this insanity I never expected … it’s just taking me a bit of getting used to it all, if you know what I mean.”