By the Sword rj-12

by F. Paul Wilson

  "I'm sure she didn't want me totally isolated like I am."

  "You have the television, you have a computer—"

  "Yeah, one that's fixed so I can't IM or send e-mail."

  She still couldn't believe that AOL, Yahoo, Hotmail, Gmail, and all the rest were blocked to her. She could surf anywhere, even MySpace, but couldn't message anyone.

  "That was done for the same reason the telephone is coded: to prevent you from accidentally revealing your location. We are sure your friends are being watched, and one or two of them might even have had their computers hacked and monitored."

  "That's crazy. How could Jerry do that?"

  He wagged a finger at her. "You can't be too careful these days."

  "This is crazy." She felt herself filling up. She would not cry. But she felt so totally helpless. "I'm a prisoner."

  To her amazement, Henry's features softened—just a bit.

  "I know it seems that way, miss, but you must resign yourself to the fact that you cannot risk showing your face. He might see you."

  "And then what? Grab me and drag me kicking and screaming down the street?" She felt a spark of rage begin to glow. "You ever think maybe he should be worried about me? Like maybe if I saw him first I'd be on him like a cat, scratching his eyes out of his head?"

  "Now, miss, I know how you feel—"

  "No, you don't!" The rage flared. "You haven't a clue how I feel! You can't begin to know how I feel!"

  "Allow me to rephrase: I cannot imagine how you must feel, but you must not reveal yourself. Not yet."

  She felt herself cooling. Would she really have the nerve to attack that bastard? She wanted him hurt, but she didn't know if she had it in her to do it. Maybe some day she'd find out.

  "What if I wore a disguise—like a brown wig and big sunglasses?"

  He shook his head. "Still too dodgy, I fear."

  That hadn't been a flat no. Was he softening?

  And then it hit her—the perfect solution to the whole problem.

  8

  Jack let himself into his third-floor apartment but didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need light. He emptied tonight's proceeds from the Park-a-Thon onto the round oak table in the front room. He knew a fence who'd turn the gold chains and rings and medallions into cash tomorrow morning, then he'd give everything to Gia who'd make the official donation to the Little League.

  He dropped into a chair and stared out at the night. Not much to see, just other brownstones like his across the street. No famous Manhattan skyline visible from here, just an occasional tree.

  No need to keep an eye out for the mysterious watcher tonight. He'd just had a beer with him and he was home with his sick wife.

  Or so he said.

  Jack didn't know what to believe anymore. Everything he'd believed about himself and his family and the world around them all had been shot to hell in the last couple of years. Nothing was what it seemed.

  And to top it off, his relationship with Gia was starting to feel a little strained.

  His fault.

  He'd withdrawn from her and Vicky. Not completely, but after moving in and living with them during the months they'd needed to recuperate from the accident, returning to his own apartment must have seemed like a form of abandonment.

  But he hadn't abandoned them. He still saw them on a daily basis, but it wasn't the same. Things had changed—not them, nor his feelings for them. But his feelings about himself… those had changed when he'd learned about the measure of Otherness he carried in his blood.

  The Taint.

  What a perfect name for the perfectly awful.

  Knowing the truth had, well, tainted his relationship with them. He felt the need for some distance. Rationally he knew he couldn't contaminate them any more than they already were—he'd been assured everybody carried a little oDNA—but something deep in his subconscious wasn't so sure. Sex with Gia, so sweet and sweaty and wonderful… he couldn't escape a hazy image of him injecting her with bits of Otherness.

  Crazy, yes. They'd been together almost two years. But knowing… knowing colored everything.

  He shook himself. Had to get over this. And he would. Just going to take some time, was all.

  But he felt so alone. He'd always been able to be alone without being lonely, but this was different. He felt like a Stylite monk standing on an infinitely tall pinnacle. Everyone he cared about waited far below, forever out of reach as he faced the swirling cosmos alone.

  He smiled and shook his head. Look at me: drama queen.

  Buck up and shut up.

  He rose and stepped over to his computer. Needed a distraction.

  He logged onto repairmanjack.com and checked the Web mail there, deleting the predictable inquiries about appliance repairs until he came to one with "Stolen—help please" in the subject line.

  He knew what that meant: Something indeed had been stolen, but the victim could not report the theft to the cops because the item was either illegal or ill-gotten. That was where private eyes came in. But if it was very, very illegal or major-felony ill-gotten… that was where Jack came in.

  This sounded promising. He opened the file.

  Dear Mr. Repairman Jack—

  I was given your name and told you might help me find a lost object. The authorities cannot help. I am praying you can help.

  —N

  Concise and to the point—Jack liked that. The authorities cannot help—liked that too. Implied he couldn't go to them. But "authorities"… who still called them "authorities"?

  He pulled one of his TracFones from a drawer and punched in the number. After two rings he heard a male voice say, "Hai," and rattle off a string of syllables that sounded Japanese.

  Surprised, Jack hesitated, then said, "Um, did you recently leave a message at a certain Web site?"

  The voice switched to accented English. "Repairman Jack? You are Repairman Jack?"

  Jack hated admitting it—never fond of that name. Abe had stuck him with it and now it followed him around like a bad debt.

  "Yeah, that's me. What's up?"

  "A family heirloom was stolen last month from my home. Please, I must have it back."

  "Where's home?"

  "Maui."

  Well, that put an end to this job-to-be.

  "Maui as in Hawaii? Sorry. No Maui. It's got to be within an easy drive. Better luck—"

  "No-no! You do not understand. It was stolen in Maui and brought here to New York City."

  "You know that for sure?"

  "Reasonably sure."

  Reasonably was close enough.

  "Just what is this heirloom?"

  "I would rather not say right now. I have pictures I can show."

  "Is it big?"

  "It is not small, but can easily be carried with one hand."

  Good. Liked to hear that. One more, then he'd quit the twenty questions. Jack liked to know how a customer found him.

  "Where did you hear about me?"

  "From friend of friend on Maui."

  Jack frowned. Did he know anyone out there? Didn't think so.

  "Name?"

  "I prefer not to speak names on phone. Where can we meet? I will tell you everything then."

  Jack couldn't argue about keeping mum but the meeting place was a good question. He'd been overusing Julio's lately and couldn't risk becoming a creature of too much habit. Someplace public… far from Julio's… that served beer, of course.

  "Okay. We'll meet tomorrow at—"

  "Can we not meet tonight?"

  "Tomorrow. Three P.M. at the Ear. It's on Spring between Washington and Greenwich."

  "The Ear? This is a true name?"

  "Believe it. It's a pub."

  "It does not sound appetizing."

  "You eat sushi?"

  "Of course."

  "Well, don't expect to find any there. See you at three. If you're late, I'm gone."

  MONDAY

  1

  Hank Thompson lay blinking in the dark,
just awakened from a dream.

  But not the usual dream. Not the dream of the Kicker Man protectively cradling a baby—Dawn's baby, Hank was sure—in his four arms. This one involved the Kicker Man, yes, but instead of holding a baby he was swinging a Japanese sword—one of those long, curved samurai numbers—whipping it back and forth. And then he dropped it and faded away.

  But the sword remained, allowing Hank a closer look.

  A real piece of crap—no handle and its blade eaten away in spots up and down its length.

  But maybe it only looked like a piece of crap. Its appearance with the Kicker Man meant it was important. Somehow it figured into the future of the movement—or "Kicker evolution," as he was calling it.

  A few months ago Hank would have been asking, How? Why? Now he knew better. Somewhere along the way he'd become a sort of antenna for signals from… where? Out there was all he could say, although where that was and what was out there he had no idea. His daddy had told him about "Others" on the outside that wanted to be on the inside, and that Daddy and Hank and his sibs had special blood that would put them in great favor if they helped the Others cross over.

  Daddy's talk had sounded crazy at times, but he had a way of saying things that made you believe. That dead eye of his could see places and things no one else could. Or so he said.

  But a couple years ago Hank had started having dreams of the Kicker Man, and the man had shown him things… things he'd put into a book that had sold like crazy, making him famous—or maybe notorious was a better word—and attracting a following from all levels of society, especially people living on the fringe.

  Yeah, Kick was zooming toward its two-millionth copy sold, with no signs of slowing. He was rich.

  Hank glanced at the glowing face of his clock radio: 2:13 A.M. He pushed himself out of bed and wandered to his room's single window. He looked out at the Lower East Side block, just off Allen Street, one story below.

  Funny, he didn't feel rich. Not living in this single room in the Septimus Lodge. But he had to keep up appearances, had to live like his peeps. Get into conspicuous consumption and he might lose them—and that meant losing their donations. He had a few whales giving big bucks to the Kicker clubs, but most donations were small. But they added up because there were so many of them.

  Well, he was used to living lean. No biggie. He could hang out until the Change came and the Others arrived. Then he'd be rewarded. But there might be no change and no Others arriving if he didn't help open the door. And to do that he needed the Key.

  Had to find Dawn, damn it. Her baby was, as Daddy liked to say, the Key to the Future.

  But what about that ratty sword? Where did that fit in?

  He'd have to put that on the Kicker BOLO list.

  2

  Hideo Takita stood in Kaze Group's Tokyo office looking down at the Marunouchi district's gridlocked streets. Even in early afternoon—jammed.

  He lifted his gaze beyond the skyscrapers to the Imperial Palace squatting low and graceful among its flanking gardens, but the sight of it offered no peace.

  He wiped his sweating palms on the pants of his gray suit. A systems analyst such as Hideo was not invited to the office of Sasaki-san, the chairman of the board, simply for idle chatter. Idle was not a word one would associate with Kaze Group.

  The reception area offered little reassurance—literally and figuratively. Bare walls of polished steel, black ceiling, gleaming floor, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the city. A brushed-steel desk and chair were the room's only furnishings, and not meant for visitors. One must not be comfortable if one is idle at Kaze Group.

  Kaze… a fitting name.

  Although ostensibly a simple holding company, Kaze Group was more powerful than the largest of the keiretsus, the giant vertical and horizontal conglomerates that ruled Japanese business.

  Formed shortly after World War II, it had slowly woven itself into the fabric of Japan's economy. Today, through a web of dummy corporations, it owned controlling interest in Japan's "Big Six" keiretsus and most of the major corporations. The keiretsus were like icebergs—their small, uppermost portion visible, the vast bulk looming hidden beneath the surface.

  But what determined the path of icebergs through the sea? The currents. And what dictated the currents?

  The wind.

  Kaze.

  Not satisfied with Japan alone, Kaze Group had branched out, extending its reach in all directions. Although it produced nothing itself, it had a hand in the manufacture of everything of importance produced around the globe.

  "Takita-san?"

  Hideo whirled and saw that the slight, business-suited receptionist had returned and was standing behind the desk. Hideo tried to look relaxed and confident as he approached.

  "Sasaki-san will see me now?"

  The receptionist's lips twisted. Hideo realized with a spike of embarrassment that he was suppressing a laugh.

  "You will not be seeing the chairman today."

  Hideo imagined him adding, nor any other day.

  The receptionist handed Hideo a thumb-size flash drive.

  "On this you will find scans of a shipping tube taken at Kahului Airport on Maui. In that tube you will see the image of a damaged katana. The item was checked through to Kennedy International in New York. The passenger's name was listed as Eddie Cordero. That, however, is an alias. The chairman wishes you to go to New York and find that katana." The receptionist gave him a knowing look. "If you deliver this katana to him, he will be most grateful."

  Hideo knew what that meant. But…

  "The chairman wants me to find a damaged sword?"

  "You question the chairman's desire?"

  "No, of course not. I did not mean that. I meant, why me? I have no special skills."

  "The chairman thinks you do, and the chairman is wise." The receptionist paused, as if embarrassed, then added, "The chairman knows it is a difficult task. But he believes you will be especially diligent and expend extra effort because success will go a long way toward restoring your brother's honor."

  Hideo hung his head. Yoshio, what happened to you? Who killed you? He looked up and nodded to the receptionist.

  "I will go. I will find the chairman's katana."

  "It is not the chairman's, but he wishes it to be. However, it may not be the katana he wants. It must meet certain criteria, all of which will be explained on the drive." The receptionist glanced at his watch. "Your flight leaves in two hours. You had better hurry."

  Hideo made a quick bow and started toward the door.

  "Oh, and one more thing," the receptionist said, "you will not be traveling alone."

  Hideo eyed him. "Oh? Who—?"

  "Your three travel companions will meet you at the airport. They will be along to aid you should you need their sort of help. The chairman doesn't want you to end up like your brother."

  Hideo shuddered. Neither did he.

  3

  "Well, what do you think?" Gia said.

  Jack stared at the little wooden sculpture—although why it wasn't called a carving, he had no idea. But nomenclature aside, he liked it. A lot.

  "It's beautiful."

  He looked at Gia. For a while she'd let her blond hair grow out, but last week she'd shown up with it cut short again. He liked it short, with its little unruly wings curving into the air.

  She'd dragged him down to this SoHo art gallery, saying he just had to see the latest Sylvia. Jack had no idea what a Sylvia was, but he'd come along. And was glad he had.

  According to the brochure, some artist who signed her work simply as "Sylvia" was famous for her faux bonsai trees, laser sculpted from a model of the real thing. And Jack could see why. Her latest was a mix of bonsai and topiary—a boxwood with a curved trunk, its roots snaking over a rock and into the soil of its pot. But the rock wasn't a rock, the soil wasn't soil, and the tray wasn't clay. The whole thing was a solid block of laminated oak. Interesting enough, but the tiny boxwood leaves had been teas
ed and coaxed and trimmed into the shape of a skyscraper. Jack knew that shape: the tapering spire, the scalloped crown, the eagle heads jutting from the uppermost setback. Of course their size didn't allow the details of a bird's head, but Jack knew what those tiny protruding branches represented.

  Gia fixed him with her clear blue eyes. Her smile was dazzling. "Knowing how you love the Chrysler building, I figured this should be added to your must-see list."

  Jack walked around its pedestal, leaning over the velvet ropes that kept him from getting too close. Someone—Sylvia?—had hand-painted it, mimicking its natural colors. The leaves and moss were green, the tray and clasped stone different shades of gray, the trunk left the natural shade of the original oak.

  Jack stepped back. "From a distance it looks alive."

  "Isn't it just fabulous?" said a soft male voice behind him.

  Jack turned and saw a slim, middle-aged guy wearing a sailor shirt and white duck pants. His little name tag said GARY and his black hair was perfect.

  "Fleet Week's not quite here yet," Jack said.

  Gary grinned. "I know. I can't wait. But as I said"—he gestured to the tree—"isn't it fabulous?"

  "Yeah. Fabulous." A word misused and overused, but here it fit.

  "And it doesn't just look alive, it's so very much alive in the way all true art lives. And best of all, it requires no pruning, no wiring, no watering, and yet it remains perfect. Forever."

  "I like the low-maintenance idea. Always wanted a bonsai, but I have a brown thumb."

  "Maintenance is not an issue. This is a work of art, and so much more than a bonsai. This is a subtle melding of the man-made and the natural, a brilliant use of the latest in modern technology to preserve an ancient art form."

  Seemed like Gary had memorized the brochure.

  "How much do you want for it?"

  "It's not a matter of how much I want," he said, reaching into a pocket. "If I had my way it would stay on display here forever." He pulled out a card and pen and scribbled. "But alas, that won't pay the rent."

  Alas?

  He handed Jack the card. He'd written a number on it.