Still scarred, yes, and still missing his left hand, but the scars seemed less prominent, his complexion had improved, and he seemed to have—was it possible?—filled out.
“Sir, you look…” He searched for the right word.
“Renewed?”
Yes. Exactly.
“May I ask—?”
“Not your concern, Drexler. Your immediate concern lies in retrieving the item I entrusted to you for safekeeping before the Internet fiasco. I assume you still have it.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Then proceed.”
Traffic was light and he made good time, pulling in front of his building fewer than fifteen minutes later.
“I will wait here.”
Ernst hurried up to his apartment but entered cautiously. What if Jack waited inside? Not an irrational fear—it wouldn’t be the first time. Ernst would have to choose sides right then and there: Tell Jack that his prey waited below, wounded and unsuspecting, or keep the One’s confidence.
But his fear proved unfounded. His apartment was empty and he removed the rectangular box from beneath his bed without incident.
Ernst returned to the car and opened the rear door to hand it to the One, who took it awkwardly with his remaining hand. Then Ernst slipped back behind the wheel.
“One more stop,” said the One.
Only one? And then what?
He gave Ernst an address in the West Eighties. Traffic was heavier there, and half an hour passed before he pulled in before a four-story brownstone. The One got out, carrying his package, and disappeared into the narrow alley running along the side.
What now? More renewal? How long would this take?
Not long at all. The One reappeared less than ten minutes later, still carrying that strange box under his arm. But instead of re-entering the car, he motioned Ernst to lower the window.
“You may go about your business. I have no further need of you tonight.”
That came as both a relief and a disappointment. The One’s presence was intensely discomfiting, but at least he knew where he was and what he was doing … although he had to confess he had no idea what the One had been up to since they’d arrived in Manhattan.
“But where are you going, where will you stay? You have no phone, no money. I will give you the use of my—”
“Not necessary. Events will reach a head in the next few hours or days or … they will not. If they go our way, phones and money will be irrelevant. If they do not, you will hear from me.”
With that he turned and began walking east. Where to? Central Park lay in that direction.
Ernst sat and watched him go, remembering his parting words.
If they go our way …
The One had said “our way.” Did that mean that Ernst was back in the fold, that he’d be spared the tribulations of the Change? It certainly seemed so.
With a lightened heart, he put the car in gear and headed home.
Strange, how things worked. Had Ernst not sided with Jack last week, Szeto would still be alive. The One’s remarks this morning had made it clear that he’d called Szeto first and, were he alive, Szeto would be ferrying the One around today instead of Ernst.
Always trust your instincts, he reminded himself. And right now his instincts told him to stay as far as possible from Jack.
9
Jack slowed his southward progress on 206 as he neared the light at Quakerton Road. The sun had sunk a while ago and darkness had settled. Eddie’s BlackBerry had found an Enterprise car rental place but it had taken forever to reach it and do the paperwork. Jack figured he’d probably ruined John Tyleski’s credit by abandoning his last rental on the South Fork, so he’d used a new credit card identity to rent a Pontiac G6. Not much of a car, but that wasn’t a bad thing. It meant no one would pay much attention to it.
He let Eddie and Weezy keep the Crown Vic.
Was he doing the right thing, leaving Weezy and Eddie to go on alone? He wasn’t comfortable with that but …
He shook his head. Maybe it was just him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something … something that had to do with that sigil.
As he turned onto Quakerton he saw a pickup pull out onto 206 and head north. Looked familiar. That guy Tommy? What had he come back for? Something big, covered by a drape, sat on the bed of his truck. Most likely some of his equipment, but Jack had a feeling—
Enough with these damn feelings. Feelings-feelings-feelings. What the hell? They were driving him crazy. He needed facts, damn it.
He reached the Lodge, a pale blob against the darker trees behind it, and not a single light on inside. He parked a block down on the street and walked back. Old Town had fewer streetlights than the newer sections on the other side of the lake, and that was a good thing tonight. He’d taken his lock-pick set and bump keys from the Crown Vic and carried them now, along with a flashlight, plus one of Weezy’s Sharpies and a pad, all in a small backpack slung over a shoulder.
He went straight to the back door. He’d noted the brand of the door lock before, so he had his Quickset bumps ready. The third one fit and in seconds he was in. Turning on his flashlight for only a second at a time for guidance, he found the basement door … leaning against a wall. The black rectangle of the doorway gaped before him.
His gut twisted. Not good.
Discarding all discretion, he turned on the basement lights and pelted down the stairs. The basement looked different, rearranged since they’d left. He fairly ran to the opening in the floor. The ladder had been pulled out and lay beside it. He lowered it back into the hole and descended.
No sign of the sigil.
Shit.
Heart pounding, Jack raced back up the ladder. The sigil was too big to hide, so the only explanation was they’d removed it. That guy Tommy had been leaving Johnson. Had he had the sigil in the back of his truck?
What was his phone number? Weezy had rattled it off. She’d know. But as he pulled out his phone to call her, he heard her voice in his head reciting the number. Instead of speed-dialing her, he punched in that number. After two rings he reached the voice mail:
“You’ve reached Thomas Mulliner Excavating and Land Clearing Service. Leave a number and we’ll call you back as soon as possible.”
Got him. Jack left his cell number, said he had to speak to him ASAP.
So, Tommy was one of the Mulliner clan. The Pinelands were full of them, going back to revolutionary times. Jack wasn’t going to sit around waiting for a call back that might not come till morning. He had to find a Mulliner with an excavating business.
He punched in 4-1-1.
10
Rasalom rose through the darkness at the rear of Glaeken’s building. He had fed well and was strong enough now to reassert his mastery over gravity.
The drug rehab center had served him well. He had identified certain centers—the ones that offered detox programs—as excellent feeding grounds. Not all detox programs were equal, however. The more high-tech centers, catering to the upper socioeconomic strata, performed rapid detox under general anesthesia, rendering their clients worthless for Rasalom’s purposes.
The more run-of-the-mill centers, the ones that oversaw withdrawal from alcohol and opiates and other drugs the old-fashioned way, offered a veritable smorgasbord of pain, fear, and self-loathing. A couple of hours in proximity to a few addicts in varying stages of the process had replenished him.
He reached the fifth-floor level. He willed the window latch on the other side of the glass to rotate to the unlocked position. With the box pinned under his left arm, he used his right hand to lift the sash. He climbed into the apartment without fear of disturbing a tenant. That was the wonderful thing about Glaeken’s building—only Glaeken and the Lady and a few others lived here.
He left the apartment and ascended the stairwell.
After the revelation of Glaeken’s mortality, Rasalom had had no trouble locating him. He had then enlisted Szeto to find someo
ne who could make certain modifications to the quarters below the Lady’s.
He reached that floor and entered the bare apartment. Szeto had told him that the equipment had been hidden in a built-in cabinet. Rasalom laid the box before it. He opened the cabinet to reveal its electronic contents.
He could not help but marvel at this modern world. His body had matured in these times but his consciousness and the predominance of his reference points were anchored in vastly more primitive eras. Communication now was a wonder, astoundingly convenient—unless one wished to sever communications. And Rasalom so wished. But he’d had no idea how to accomplish that, so he had left it up to others.
The cabinet contained a metallic box with multiple antennae jutting skyward. To its right lay a remote with a single button; to the left, a set of headphones.
He understood little of electronics and modern communications. He’d spent the decades since his rebirth trying to erase the Lady’s presence through the arcane and traditional avenue of Opus Omega, and then the even more arcane Fhinntmanchca. When those failed—or, in the case of the Fhinntmanchca, only partially succeeded—he’d allowed Drexler to attack the Lady indirectly via modern electronics or cyberspace or whatever it was called. That too had failed, and so now he was compelled to launch a direct assault.
Perhaps compelled wasn’t quite true. He was now free to take direct action, and he relished the opportunity.
Remembering Szeto’s instructions, Rasalom found the power switch on the box and pressed it. Lights began to glow along the front. It made no sound, not even a hum, but Szeto had sworn it would render all cell phones in the top half of the building useless.
Rasalom picked up the remote. This was supposed to activate a switch that would block incoming calls to the landline phone connections in the building. He pressed the button.
He did not know how long he would have to wait here for his moment, or if his moment would ever come. But he would wait as long as it took. He had time.
He put on the headphones and listened …
11
Glaeken admitted them to the Lady’s apartment. Weezy had called ahead from the road to tell him they would be there soon. The first thing upon entering, she went straight to the Lady and handed her the paper.
“What do you think? Is it a name?”
As the Lady took it, Weezy moved to her side and together they stared at the weird glyphs.
After a moment the Lady nodded. “It has been so long since I have seen this form of writing. It has been dead for ages. But, yes, it is a name.” She then made a sound like two grunts of different pitch connected by a click.
“That’s a name?” Eddie said. He sounded as if he was suppressing a laugh.
The Lady looked up at him. “I believe that is what I said.”
Weezy realized that Eddie wasn’t used to the Lady’s literal nature, so she jumped in.
“But is it the name—Rasalom’s Other Name?”
The Lady shrugged. “Who is to say? I have no way of telling.”
“But it came from the broken sigil,” Eddie said. “It was written on the only remaining section of the border.”
“And the sigil is made of tenathic,” Weezy added.
Glaeken said, “If that’s true, then it can only be from the First Age—the secret of forging it was lost in the Cataclysm. We have no choice but to proceed on the assumption this is his Other Name.”
“But what if it’s not?” Weezy said.
“We will never be sure until we try.”
Weezy finally looked directly at the playpen. Since entering the apartment, she’d kept it in her peripheral vision. Now she had to confront the reality of burdening that baby with Rasalom’s Other Name.
As ever, he sat in his space and gnawed a soup bone. He seemed perfectly content, oblivious to the role he was about to play in a cosmic drama. If Glaeken was right, his limited intelligence would allow him to remain oblivious. And that in turn would protect him.
She watched him and thought about how they were all pawns being moved around a cosmic game board. And now the pawns in this room were about to move him, bringing him into the game.
But hadn’t he always been in play? Wasn’t that what Jonah Stevens had in mind when he started designing his own strategy using his bloodline—a strategy aimed at producing a child that would supplant the One?
So, in a way, Jonah was going to get his wish: His grandchild was going to stop the One, though not in the way he’d intended.
“Even if it’s not the One’s Other Name,” Eddie said, “we haven’t lost anything, have we?”
Weezy looked from Glaeken to the Lady. “Have we?”
“The Other Naming Ceremony can be performed only once on the child. Once given an Other Name, it cannot be undone.”
Weezy looked back to the baby. “So, he could wind up with an Other Name that has no power. Then what?”
Glaeken shrugged. “It is the only name we have. Unless you know of some other inscribed tenathic sigil somewhere, we must accept it as the only name we will ever have.”
“We’ve got to go with it, Weez,” Eddie said. “And the sooner the better, if you ask me.”
She wasn’t asking him. She shook her head. “I want to wait for Jack.”
Eddie scowled. “He could be cooling his heels in a jail cell for all we know.”
“Wait,” Glaeken said. “Where is Jack? Why isn’t he here?”
How did she explain? She wasn’t sure herself.
“Something about the situation bothers him. He thinks it’s too easy, too pat.”
“I can’t argue with him on that. But if the sigil is, as you say, made of tenathic, then it must be genuine.”
“I agree, but he wanted another look at it.”
“We were caught trespassing in the Lodge,” Eddie said. “We were lucky we got away. Jack might not be so lucky a second time.”
“You don’t know Jack,” she snapped, fully intending the double meaning.
Eddie sighed. “I do. Or at least I’ve been getting to know him. But nobody’s perfect. I think it was risky going back.”
“And don’t you think the stakes merit some risk? We’ll wait until we hear from Jack.”
She didn’t have the authority to say that, but she guessed enough of her determination shone through. No one argued.
12
Rasalom frowned. The Heir was absent. He had expected him there, wanted him there—needed him there.
The woman had just said he wanted another look at the sigil. Why? Did he suspect the truth? But how could he?
This was not going as planned. Rasalom had expected the woman, the one studying the Compendium of Srem, to be the problem. If anyone would have noticed inconsistencies, it should have been she. These electronic countermeasures had been put in place to block communication from her.
Rasalom was suddenly glad he’d had the foresight to order Drexler to remove the sigil from the Lodge. The question was, where was the Heir now? With the sigil gone, what could he be doing?
13
Jack found the home of the Thomas Mulliner Excavating and Land Clearing Service at the end of a dark, twisty path in the woods off Carranza Road. His headlights picked up a clearing with a leaning shed, scattered backhoes and earth movers, and the Dodge pickup truck he’d seen earlier. He saw no sign of a house nearby, so he backed the little Pontiac around until the headlights were centered on the pickup, and left them on.
He left his car running and approached the pickup with fingers figuratively crossed. The draped object leaning in the bed was the right size. If only …
Using the rear bumper as a step, he hopped up into the bed and yanked the tarp free.
Yes!
The broken sigil gleamed in the headlights. He leaned in for another look at the glyphs carved into the black surface. Before leaving Weezy earlier, he’d asked her to draw him a duplicate of the glyphs she’d copied. He pulled it out and checked it again against the originals.
; A perfect copy. So why wasn’t he satisfied? Why—?
A shadow moved into the edge of the light cone from the headlights and a voice said, “Hold it right there!” before Jack could move.
Shit.
He did a slow turn and saw a guy standing about ten feet away pointing a shotgun at his midsection. More than a silhouette—he stood far enough off to the side for the lights to reveal some features. Jack recognized Tommy Mulliner, holding what looked like a Mossberg over-under twelve gauge.
“The fuck you think you’re doing here? Get your ass off my truck!”
“Just looking,” Jack said as he sifted through ways to play this.
“Bullshit!”
“If I’d seen anyone around, I would’ve asked, but the place was deserted, so—”
“I know you. I seen you at the Lodge. You was trespassing there and now you’re trespassing here. Get down.”
Jack thought about that. The sigil was too important and he wasn’t through with it. He couldn’t go for his Glock without the Mossberg tearing a hole in him, so …
“No.”
In the following seconds of stunned silence, he turned back to the sigil.
“What?” Tommy finally said.
“No. It’s a simple word. Also known as uh-uh, non, nein, nyet, and that’s a negatory.”
“I’ll blow your fucking head off!”
“Well, go ahead, Tommy. I’m here only to look, not steal, but you go ahead and do what you think you have to do. By the way, you related to Luke Mulliner, the guy who used to run the canoes at Quaker Lake?”
Another pause—Tommy probably hadn’t expected a question about his family right after a death threat.
“Yeah. My uncle. What about him?”
Jack knelt beside the sigil and ran his hand over the glyphs. Again that feeling of something not right, but he had to keep Tommy talking.
“Knew him when I was a kid living in Johnson.”
The Dark at the End (Repairman Jack) Page 32
