By the Sword rj-12

by F. Paul Wilson

  Suddenly he was sailing backward. He slammed against the fender of a parked car.

  "You will not touch her, sir." Henry's voice.

  The Kicker's face twisted into a snarl, then relaxed into a sneer when he looked up and saw Henry.

  "Not like I care 'bout no Mohammed-humping ho anyhow."

  Dawn would never have guessed Henry had such strength. He hid it well. As the Kicker started to turn away, Henry pointed to the stack of flyers in his backpack.

  "May I have one of those?"

  The man hesitated, squinting at them, then handed over half a dozen.

  "Sure. Spread 'em around. The more people see 'em, the quicker we find her."

  Still dazed, Dawn felt Henry grip her arm and lead her to the car. He ushered her into the backseat, closed the door after her, and soon they were rolling.

  Through the rear window she saw the Kicker writing something on the back of one of his flyers.

  They headed east, then uptown on Madison. And everywhere she looked she saw the flyers. She'd taken passing notice of them on the way to the store, but flyers were so common around the city, especially around construction sites, that she'd paid them no mind. But now, knowing what they said, each flash of orange was a cramp in her gut.

  Forcing herself to move, she leaned over the back of the front seat and retrieved one of the flyers. She stared at it.

  Where had they got this picture? She didn't remember it. It looked fairly recent, but before she'd lost the weight.

  "Do you see?" Henry said. "This is why the Master does not want you out. Now do you understand?"

  She waggled the flyer. "About these?"

  "Yes. They mean far more than just one man is looking for you. There's a whole network of people. And through these flyers and the reward they're offering, they're enlisting a host of allies. You simply cannot show your face in public."

  Dawn stared at the flyer. "I need to call this number."

  "I do not believe that would be wise."

  "Just stop at a pay phone. No one will know it's me." She had to call. She just had to. "Please, Henry."

  For a moment he said nothing. Then, without taking his eyes off the street, he offered a cell phone over his shoulder.

  "Use this. It's safe. But be very careful what you say."

  Her throat tightened at his unexpected gesture. "Thank you, Henry. You're a friend. And I'll be very careful."

  Her finger trembled as she punched in the number. A male voice answered on the second ring.

  "Dawn hot line."

  Dawn hot line… oh, God.

  "Hel—" She swallowed. "Hello? I'm calling about the girl on the flyer."

  "You think you've spotted her, right?" His tone was like, Yeah-yeah, tell me another one. "Where'd you see her?"

  "You don't sound like you believe me."

  He sighed. "Sorry. We've had so many false leads and—"

  "Who are you people and why are you looking for her? I mean, you're not the police, so—"

  "We're private, and we've taken an interest in her case… her disappearance. Have you seen Dawn? Do you know where she is?"

  "Who's in charge there? Who's behind this?"

  "He's not here right now. But if you haven't seen her, can you help us, give us any hint of where she might be?"

  "I'm not saying another word until I speak to whoever's behind this."

  "I'm sorry, he's not available right now."

  "Is his name Jerry? Tell—"

  A long-fingered hand snatched the phone away and snapped it shut.

  "Quite enough," Henry said. "I let you call for one reason: To make clear to you that your ex-lover is conducting a very organized hunt for you. Do you understand now?"

  Ex-lover? If he only knew the rest of it.

  "I understand."

  Did she ever.

  9

  "Still fighting chopsticks, I see," Jack said.

  The Isher Sports Shop was officially closed, its narrow, cluttered aisles dark except for the rearmost section where Abe perched on a stool behind the scarred counter. The air reeked of garlic from the take-out kimchi he was forking into his mouth.

  He raised his free hand and waggled his stubby, chubby fingers.

  "These look made for eating with sticks?"

  "You could learn."

  "Why for I should learn? For westerners, chopsticks are an affectation. I don't do affectations."

  No argument there, Jack thought, taking in Abe's customary white half-sleeve shirt and black trousers, strained by his bulging belly and stained by the day's parade of edibles.

  "Well, for one thing, they might slow down your eating."

  "I should eat slow? Why?"

  "Slow eaters tend to eat less."

  "You're not going to start, are you?"

  Jack shook his head. "Not tonight."

  He knew his own eating habits—except when Gia cooked for him—were anything but healthy. One of these days he'd get his cholesterol checked. But at least he was active. Abe spent most of his time on that stool, eating. Jack didn't like to think of his closest friend as a cardiac arrest waiting to happen.

  But he was getting tired of being a nag, especially since it hadn't changed anything. The guy was fatter than ever, and didn't seem to care. With his wife long dead, his daughter barely speaking to him… food and reading newspapers—usually simultaneously—were his joys in life.

  Abe said, "And kimchi, I'll have you know, is diet food. Fermented cabbage. More low-cal is hard to find." He pushed the container toward Jack. "You want?"

  Jack shook his head. The two burgers at the Ear would hold him the rest of the night.

  "Thanks, no. I didn't think any of the Korean places around here delivered."

  "I picked it up on my way back from the hospice."

  Jack knew why Abe had gone there.

  "How's the professor doing?"

  Abe shook his head. "Not good. The chemo and radiation are slowing down the cancer, but his right side is still useless from the stroke."

  "And the numbers?"

  A sigh. "Still with the numbers."

  Peter Buhmann, Ph.D., Abe's old professor from his university days, had suffered a stroke last month while paging through the Compendium of Srem. Turned out to be a hemorrhage into a metastatic brain tumor from kidney cancer. The weirdest part was that he'd stopped speaking words and begun speaking numbers. Exclusively. And not random numbers—only primes multiplied by seven. Strange and sad, because the cancer was all through his body.

  "How long?"

  Another shrug. "Could be weeks, could be months." He burped kimchi.

  "And how long before that stuff hits your colon? I would like to be out of here before then."

  Abe smiled. "Why do you think I stock those NBC masks?"

  "You'll let me know if I need to run downstairs and grab one, won't you?"

  "Of course. But my guess is you didn't come here at this hour to ask about the professor or tshepen me about what I eat and the way I eat it. Nu?"

  Jack told him about his meeting with Naka Slater.

  "So, a second-story man you're looking for."

  "Seems like it. Used the name Eddie Cordero, which rings some sort of bell with me, but apparently it's an aka."

  Abe frowned. "A bell for me too. Who, I wonder…?" He shrugged. "Maybe it will come. Meanwhile, we need to find a second-story ganef who was away for a while and has a tan maybe."

  "And looking to unload a rotted-out katana."

  Abe twirled his finger next to his head. "He's a little farblondjet, maybe?"

  "Maybe." Damn, this was weird—but that made it interesting. "Anyway, you put out the word to your people, I'll talk to mine."

  "You know who else you should talk to? Tom O'Day."

  The name sounded familiar.

  "The knife guy?"

  "Yes, and a fence he'll be should the opportunity arise. Runs an East Side specialty shop called Bladeville. Sells anything and everything that cuts—from
scimitars to steak knives."

  "Good thought. I'll check with him tomorrow. Never met him, so could you give him a call to loosen him up?"

  "Sure, but don't expect much looseness. A shmoozer he's not."

  "Might be if I say I'm looking to buy it. If he knows of it, he can dip his beak as middleman."

  "Good luck." Abe rubbed his belly and shifted in his seat. "Uh-oh. Fortz coming."

  Jack spun and beat it toward the door.

  "Bye."

  10

  "And you have no clue where she was calling from?"

  Menck shook his head. "Tried to squeeze her—gentle, I swear—but suddenly she hung up."

  Hank Thompson ground his teeth as he and Menck stood to the side of the phone bank he'd set up in the Lodge's basement. Ten phones manned by a rotating cadre of volunteers, collecting one false lead after another.

  "And you didn't do anything to scare her off?"

  "You've asked me that three times now and the answer's still no. Fuck no. Matter of fact, she already sounded scared when she got on the line."

  "Scared how?"

  Menck shrugged. "Dunno. Can't be sure but she sounded surprised. Like she'd just seen the flyer for the first time."

  How could that be? They were all over the five boroughs.

  Unless she'd been out of town for a couple of weeks.

  "You're sure she asked for 'Jerry'?"

  "Absolutely. Who's Jerry?"

  Hank almost shouted, My brother, you asshole, but realized Menck had no way of knowing that. Only a handful of people knew he had a brother—half brother, actually—and they weren't talking.

  The world knew that Jeremy Bolton was dead, but didn't know Hank's connection. It had been a big story last month when his body was found and identified by DNA. Dawn had known him as Jerry Bethlehem—still presumed alive—but the rest of the world knew him as Jeremy Bolton, the famous Atlanta Abortionist Killer from almost twenty years ago. Only the same handful of people who knew the brother relationship knew that Jeremy had been living as Jerry.

  Hank was pretty sure he knew who was behind his death.

  Mr. Everyman: mid-thirties, average height, average build, average-length brown hair, average nose, nothing-special brown eyes, dressed in nondescript clothing. He'd dogged Hank's trail, pretending to be a reporter, even mugged him in broad daylight.

  Jeremy had described a guy just like him worming into the edges of his life.

  An agent of what his father had called the Enemy. That had sounded a little bit crazy to Hank, a little bit paranoid. But then Daddy had disappeared.

  Now Hank believed: They were out to ruin Daddy's Plan to change the world. Dawn's baby was the key to the Plan, and the Enemy was out to kill it. Kill it. Hank had to find Dawn first.

  That had been Dawn on the phone. Had to be.

  Is his name Jerry?

  She was the only one who'd connect those flyers with Jerry.

  Which meant she didn't know he was dead. Maybe he could use that…

  And maybe not.

  "Oh, here's Darryl," Menck said, pointing to a lean, scruffy Kicker waiting by the stairs. "He wants to talk to you. Says it might be important."

  "Yeah?" Hank knew Darryl. One of his flyer posters. "Send him over."

  Darryl approached and squinted at him. He always squinted, even at night.

  "Hey, man. A little weirdness happened today. Might be somethin, might be nothin."

  "Shoot."

  "I was hangin this flyer by Blume's when this Arab chick comes over and starts asking me about it."

  "Arab?"

  "Well, she was wearing that veil thing they wear."

  Hank nodded. He didn't know much about rag heads, but knew the veil meant Muslim, not necessarily Arab.

  "What was her problem?"

  "Well, for one thing, she was all shook up. I mean, her hands were shaking, man. Asking all sorts of questions about who was looking for her and what we intended to do with her if we found her."

  Hank felt his insides begin to tighten.

  "What she look like?"

  Darryl shrugged. "Well, with the veil thing with that big scarf wrapped all around her head and shoulders, who could tell?"

  "You must have seen her eyes. What color were they?"

  Darryl shook his head. "Wearin shades, man. The only thing I could see was her forehead and her hands."

  "What color—dark or light?"

  "See, that's the thing that got me curious. Arabs got dark skin, right? Hers was real pale."

  Hank felt his saliva evaporating. "Did you see any of her hair?"

  "Like I said, she was covered up pretty good, but I was suspicious, so I went to take a peek under her veil and some guy dressed like a chauffeur pushed me away. Told me not to touch her. Even called me 'sir.' "

  "Chauffeur?" Oh, hell, could it be the Enemy? "What'd he look like? Brown hair and eyes, average height?"

  Darryl shook his head. "Nah. Tall and skinny, but a no-nonsense type. I wasn't gonna raise no ruckus with him."

  "Chauffeur means a car. Did you—?"

  "Scope the plates?" Darryl grinned and pulled a folded flyer from his pocket. "Sure did. Big black Mercedes. Number's right there."

  Hank let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Here was their first break.

  "What time was this?"

  Darryl shrugged. "Around four, maybe?"

  He turned to Menck. "When did that call come in?"

  Menck checked a sheet in his hand. "Four-oh-seven."

  Dawn. She thought Jerry was still alive so she'd worn a Muslim veil to hide from him. After leaving Darryl, she'd called here.

  Yeah, it was her.

  But a chauffeur?

  He clapped Darryl on the shoulder. "Good work, my man."

  Darryl grinned and squinted, then headed for the door.

  Hank turned to Menck, who was in charge of the Be-on-the-Lookout sheet that every Kicker was supposed to carry in his or her back pocket. Only one thing on the sheet now: a picture of Dawn.

  "We need an updated BOLO list. Add that everyone should be on the lookout for a pale-skinned girl in a Muslim veil. They see her, don't get near, just tail her."

  Menck nodded. "Got it."

  Hank pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. "And find a way to add this."

  He handed him a crude drawing of the dream blade—the best he could manage from memory, but it gave the general idea. He'd written "sword blade" below it.

  Menck looked at him. "What the—?"

  "Just do it. And put down that if anyone sees it, bring it to me. And if you can't bring it, tell me about it. I want it."

  A long shot—very long—but who knew? One of his Kickers might be passing a junk store or antique shop and see it in the window. Worth a try.

  As Menck moved off, Hank felt his elation fade. Dawn's shock at seeing the flyer meant one thing: She'd been out of town the past few weeks.

  He looked around at the phone bank and wondered if maybe all this was a huge waste of time. If she'd just got back into town, where from? Had the Enemy gotten her an abortion? Had she been spending the time recovering?

  Hank wanted to scream. If she killed the kid, she killed the Plan. And for that, he'd kill her. It wouldn't bring the baby back, but it would be the right thing to do. And he'd enjoy it. Oh, how he'd enjoy it.

  11

  Hideo Takita sat in first class and stared at his laptop screen. The face staring back looked very much like his.

  Yoshio, his twin, had flown this same route less than two years ago. Sent by the board to investigate the mysteries surrounding someone named Ronald Clayton, a man who had died in the crash of JAL Flight 27 on his way to meet personally with Sasaki-san and the entire Kaze board.

  Nobody met with the entire Kaze board.

  But rumor had it that Clayton had developed a world-changing technology so revolutionary that the country—or company—controlling it could call the tune to which every other nation around th
e globe would have to dance.

  Yoshio's failure caused Hideo loss of face within the company. Had he succeeded he might have raised Japan to first among nations and Kaze to first among economic powers.

  Hideo switched to another face, one of a number of photos Yoshio had sent back during his investigation. This one had Arabic features. Hideo knew his name: Kemel Muhallal. He also knew he was dead.

  He clicked the arrow to proceed with his grim slide show. The next face was Caucasian: Sam Baker, an American mercenary. Also dead, his corpse found along with Muhallal's and three other bodies in the rear of a panel truck abandoned in the Catskill mountains. Two of those other bodies were mercenaries hired by Baker.

  The fifth had been Yoshio, the victim of a bullet into the back of his head.

  Another click and up popped a blurred photo of the mystery man. Yoshio hadn't known his name, but had labeled him "ronin." The ronin was missing. Perhaps he was dead too. And perhaps he was alive, the one responsible for executing Yoshio.

  Execution… the manner of his death showed that he had allowed himself to be captured alive. And that meant he might have talked. Hideo knew that no form of torture could make Yoshio give up Kaze secrets, but still… bushido lived on in Kaze Group.

  Hideo stared at what he could see of the face. The photo had been shot at an angle and the focus was poor. A very forgettable face. Not the face of a killer. But what then did a killer look like? Yoshio had killed in the service of Kaze. And Yoshio and Hideo, while not identical twins, had often been mistaken for each other.

  Which means I wear the face of a killer.

  Hideo shook his head. He could never kill anyone. Yes, he worked in the espionage wing of Kaze Group's corporate intelligence, where he spied on companies, traced money trails, hacked systems and intranets. But the only things he killed were worms and viruses and trojans.

  Killing a human? Unthinkable. He hesitated killing a fly unless it became especially bothersome.

  Sasaki-san obviously knew of his lack of aggression, why else would he have assigned three hoodlums as Hideo's traveling companions? Why then had he chosen Hideo of all people to chase down this ruined katana? Was it because of his computer skills? Or his language skills? He'd begun learning English as a child. He could say "Lulu loves lollipops" as well as any American.