F Wilson - The Dark at the End

He pulled up to the office door of the biggest, tallest building. A sign above it showed a stylized black sun that looked like a sunflower, and the words Wm. Blagden amp; Sons, Inc.

Yep. They still ran the place.

He got out and banged on the door, shouting, “Anybody there?” a couple of times.

If anyone answered, he’d ask for directions.

No one did. He flashed his penlight on the lock. A Schlage. Good.

He parked the Vic behind the mixers. Its black color blended nicely into the shadows. He pulled out his Schlage bump key set and returned to the door. Found one that fit the lock, tapped it with the butt of his Glock, and he was in. The place hadn’t been alarmed on his last trip and didn’t appear to be now. After all, what was there to steal? Sand? Loose cement mix?

Jack flashed his light around the office. Pretty bare bones: a couple of desks, chairs, computer monitors, filing cabinets. His plan was to find a work order for the date Osala was moved and maybe a delivery address to go along with it. A picture window looked out onto the big building’s wide, open floor. Jack aimed his flash through and the beam picked up…

A truck.

He stepped out onto the floor and played his beam over it as he approached. A box truck with the Blagden logo on the side. Jack froze as the light picked up something else beyond it. Something big and long and metallic.

Forcing himself back into motion, he passed the truck and stopped before a large metal tube, maybe twenty feet long and five in diameter, its flanks embossed with odd symbols. Jack knew it well. A year and a half ago he’d come here looking for someone. He’d peeped through the window as this cylinder-standing upright then-had been filled with concrete, unaware that the person he’d come to find was bound inside, and had drowned in the wet mix while Jack watched.

A wave of sadness rippled through him as he returned to the truck. He grabbed the handles on the rear door and heaved. As it rolled up, he flashed his light into the truck’s bay, revealing stacks of gleaming furniture protected by thick mover’s pads.

He stepped back and checked the license plate. It matched the numbers Mack had given him.

So… weeks after loading, Osala’s-Rasalom’s-furniture still hadn’t been delivered.

He hopped into the truck’s cab-it stank of cigarettes-and hunted for papers. None on the seat. In the glove compartment he found maps, matches, and a work order that matched Mack’s copy, but no delivery address. Instead, someone had scrawled Hold until further notice across the bottom.

Jack had a feeling the “further notice” might never come. But even if they eventually unloaded all this at Rasalom’s new digs, when would that be? More weeks? Months? Jack had no way of knowing. And no way to know about the move if and when it happened.

He couldn’t set up a stakeout. Not while Rasalom was skulking about, planning who knew what.

He returned to the rear of the truck and climbed in. Rasalom’s stuff… maybe it would give some clue to the guy.

He began inspecting things, then throwing them out-pushing them off the edge of the bed to crash on the concrete floor. Chairs got an immediate heave-ho. Dressers and bureaus first had their drawers pulled out and inspected-all empty-then were dumped.

Empty, empty, empty.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

When he’d finished, he eased himself down amid the splintered remains of the furniture and found himself facing the cylinder. A rush of anger burned away his frustration.

The Dormentalists had been behind the ritual murder in that tube. The higher-ups behind it had paid, but others hadn’t. William Blagden was a Dormentalist and had been involved, yet life was still business as usual for him. Maybe Jack should do something about that.

He knew his next step.

He retrieved the matchbook from the glove compartment and then popped the truck’s hood. Took him a moment to find the fuel line, took only a second to cut it. The sharp smell of gasoline spread as it spilled onto the floor. He waited for a good-size puddle to form, then struck a match, lit the book, and tossed it.

The gas went up with a woomp! and Jack headed for the door. Outside, he started his car and waited until the truck’s gas tank exploded, blowing out a number of windows. He watched a little longer, to be sure the building was catching. When he was, he put the Vic in gear and drove away.

Not at all what he’d come for, but at least the trip hadn’t been a total waste.

Gia zeroed in on the gauze as soon as Jack pulled off his T-shirt.

“What’s this?”

He pulled off the dressing and saw it had further healed to the point where it had stopped oozing. He’d forgotten about it because the pain was gone. This was scary.

“Just a scratch.” At least it was now.

Slim, with short blond hair and sky-blue eyes, Gia sat next to him on her bed. Vicky was asleep and they were enjoying a little private time.

“When? I don’t remember this yesterday.”

She removed her top and unfastened her bra as he gave her a quick rundown of the incident in Central Park. Her pink-tipped breasts weren’t large and weren’t small. A handful each… just right.

Her blue eyes were wide. “That shoot-out in the park? That was you?”

“I was just walking by-”

“How do you manage to get involved in these things?”

“I was minding my own business.”

He was reaching for one of her breasts but she pushed his hand away and leaned close, studying the wound.

“The news said a man was killed. That could have been you.” She frowned. “This looks almost healed.”

“Told you it was just a scratch. Doc Hargus said it hardly needed the butterflies.” To prove his point, Jack pulled them off. “There.”

He stared at the wound. No way the healing should be this far gone.

“You do heal fast.”

Jack opened his mouth to tell her, but closed it again. Why try to explain what he didn’t know for sure, what he only suspected? He’d talk to Glaeken first and see what he thought.

She ran a finger lightly along the line of the wound. “That other bullet scar is round.”

“That was a direct hit. This was a graze.”

“Looks like something a knife might make.” He’d expected her to be repulsed, and maybe if the wound looked fresher, she would be. But she seemed fascinated. “Or a sword.”

“Sword?” He laughed. “Where’d that come from?”

“I guess I have swords on my mind,” she said as she slipped out of her jeans. “I mean, since Vicky asked if I thought you’d mind if she brought your katana into school for show and tell.”

“The Gaijin Masamune?”

“Whatever.”

“How does she know about that?”

“Well, it’s visible on the top shelf of your front closet. Every time we hang up our coats-”

“Okay, okay. But how does she even know what a katana is?”

“A combination of things. They’re studying Japan in school, and today she happened to catch some of The Seven Samurai on TV.”

“But she hates black-and-white films.”

He remembered how he’d had to bribe her to watch the original King Kong.

“Well, she didn’t watch for long, and I’m pretty sure she would have flipped right past if they hadn’t been studying Japan. But she lasted long enough to recognize the swords in the samurais’ belts as just like the one in your closet.”

“And she wants to bring it to class?”

She slipped out of her panties.

“Don’t worry. I’ve already told her it’s not going to happen. Not with the schools’ zero-tolerance policy.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“Right. They get freaked about toy light sabers. Imagine something that can really lop off limbs and heads. Besides, it’s pretty messed up.”