Mark Smith - The Inquisitor

“Tell me, Harry. How did you figure out ‘BigBossMan’?”

Harry shrugged. “I was able to get into Geiger’s IMs. Through my

“Really? That’s pretty tough to do.”

“Took a while. But I’ve got some programs I cooked up.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a figure running toward him. He stiffened, his hands tightening on the cane, but then settled back when the jogger ran by.

“How’s Ezra?” he said.

“Beginning to work through things, but still not in great shape. I’ve only seen him once-secretly, and just for a few hours at a hotel with his mother. It’s not fair for me to be around him much with all the heat on me now. I’m never in one place more than a day or two. Anyway, he says he’s playing a lot of violin. I guess that’s a good thing.”

“I guess,” Harry said. “Tell me something, Matheson. Were you ever in the art business?”

“No. That was just a cover so I could move around.”

Harry quickly surveyed his surroundings and then took a small package from a pocket. “I found a way to open the digital lock, so now you’ve got the originals and two copies.”

“Much appreciated,” Matheson said. He took the package and slid it into a small bag on the bench next to him. “You’re very good at what you do, Harry.”

“Thanks.”

“In fact, Veritas Arcana could really use someone with your skills. We’re getting bigger every day-four servers now, all over the globe-but those who don’t like what we do are always breathing down our necks, trying to shut us down.”

“I don’t think so, man. Sorry.”

“Well, think about it. If you change your mind, you obviously won’t have any trouble finding me.”

The eastern horizon showed the faintest illumination, a preface to dawn.

Atop the back fence that had been fashioned into a miniature skyline, a cat appeared. After walking a few feet along the jagged edge, the cat jumped down into the yard.

All that was left of the structure that had once occupied the lot was the cleared foundation and its concrete stoop in back. The cat went up the two steps, lay down on the stoop, and began to lick himself clean from his night’s labors.

At the sound of uneven footsteps, the cat looked up. A man sat down on the stoop and began scratching the scar above the the cat’s eyeless socket. The cat responded with a rumbling purr.

No one from the neighborhood would have recognized the man. He wore black-framed glasses, and curls spilled out from under a back-turned baseball cap. A trim black beard reached almost to his cheekbones.

In his hand the man held a dusty, palm-sized portion of broken flooring. He wiped it clean on his pants and studied it: the fragment was made of mahogany, with an ash inlay of a crescent moon. Holding it with his fingertips, he turned it twenty degrees clockwise, then twenty degrees back the other way, as one might do with a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that was not yet part of the whole.

“The world knows nothing of you. That is my gift to you. You are no one.”

The man slid the piece of wood into his pocket, picked up the cat, and perched the animal on his shoulder.

“Time to go,” he said.

He got to his feet slowly, turned, and started across the foundation toward the sidewalk. He had a slight limp, but somehow the man incorporated it into the swing of his body as he moved.

One could say it lent him a certain measure of grace.