F Wilson - The Dark at the End

Jack rose from his seat. “That was my question to you: Where is the One?”

“I told you: I don’t know.”

Jack closed the distance between them and stood over him, reaching into the pocket of his jacket.

Now what? Ernst wondered. A knife? A bullet?

No… something small and metallic in his hand. Ernst flinched as it landed in his lap.

“Your little gizmo will work better with that.”

Ernst glanced down and saw the Taser’s battery, then looked at Jack’s retreating form.

“That’s it?”

Jack turned at the door and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his baseball cap. “That’s it.”

“But…” Ernst didn’t know what to say.

“You say you don’t know where he is or how to find him, and I believe you.”

He was baffled. “Why?”

“Because if you knew, you’d tell me. Right?”

It hadn’t occurred to Ernst until this moment, but if he did indeed know the whereabouts of the One…

“Yes… yes, I believe I would.”

“Because you think I don’t stand a chance against him, and you’d like to see me get my just deserts for thinking I can take him on. Right?”

“Exactly.” This was uncanny.

He shrugged as he opened the door. “So there’s no point in continuing this conversation.”

He stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him, leaving Ernst alone.

Ernst rose and locked the door. He felt a little safer after he slid the surface-mounted bolt into place, but not much.

What a jarring experience. But it had answered a slew of questions, solved some nagging mysteries.

Jack and the One had met… and the One had wanted to know more about Jack.

The man who had killed all those operatives Szeto had sent after the woman, stolen Thompson’s Compendium, Tasered Ernst in Central Park, and done who knew what else… all were the same person… all were Jack the lawn-cutting teen.

And Jack was working for the Enemy. Not only working, but looking for the One… to kill him.

And that raised another question.

Why wasn’t the Defender looking for the One? Why had an immortal sent a mortal to kill a fellow immortal?

It made no sense unless…

Ernst remembered his bizarre last meeting with the One. He had been enraged that the Jihad virus had not had the desired effect, and yet quite literally giddy-had actually laughed-about an unspecified event. He could hear his voice again as if he were in the room…

… something wonderful happened yesterday. Something I should have suspected, but never dreamed possible… something that changes everything… at last I can take direct action… take matters into my own hands. I will finish this myself. ”

Two obstacles had stood in the path between the One and bringing about the Change: the Defender and the Lady.

No question that the Lady remained-Szeto’s failed attempt on her life proved that.

… At last I can take direct action…

In all the One’s moves against the Lady, he had stayed out of the picture, kept his hand hidden. Even with the Fhinntmanchca, he had remained in the background, orchestrating the attack through the Order and the Dormentalists and the Kickers. He had never taken direct action.

Now he felt he could.

What had changed?

The Defender? Had something happened to him? That might explain why Jack was so openly searching for the One.

If the Defender was out of the picture-and really, that was a question being asked with increasing frequency over the years in the upper echelons of the Order: Where was the Defender?

During the months since the Fhinntmanchca debacle, it had become an incessant buzz.

Why hadn’t the Defender stepped in-if not in time to stop it, then at least making himself known afterward? The incident should have goaded him into some sort of action.

But no… nothing.

The Defender hadn’t been heard from since the dawn of World War II when it appeared he’d slain the One. No need for him to do anything after that. But then came the One’s reincarnation in 1968. He could have- should have-acted then. Countless opportunities to snuff out the One for good must have presented themselves during the years he was growing to manhood.

But again… nothing.

Was it possible he’d been killed in the war? Caught in Dresden during the firebombing, perhaps? In the wrong place when a V2 smashed into London during the battle of Britain?

Whatever the reason, the Defender had been conspicuous by his absence. And now Jack was taking on the task that should be the Defender’s.

As Americans liked to say: What’s wrong with this picture?

Everything.

… Something I should have suspected, but never dreamed possible… something that changes everything…

That “something” could only be that the Defender was no longer around. Which would indeed leave the One free to take direct action.

So… all that stood between the One and the Lady now was a lone mortal.

Jack didn’t stand a chance.

Or did he?

Was that why the One had been asking about him? He couldn’t possibly fear Jack… could he?

For some reason Jack seemed to think he could bring it off. Ernst had gathered from their brief conversation that the intelligent boy he’d known as a teen had not grown into a fool, so why did he think he could win? Did he know something Ernst didn’t?

If he did succeed, the Change would be forestalled… indefinitely.

And that possibility brought back other things Jack had said, frightening things that had struck home…

Hank had kept up a brisk pace on his trek and found himself puffing a little by the time he stopped at the corner across the street from Drexler’s apartment building.

Out of shape. Back in the day before he became a best-selling author, he earned his pay through hard physical labor-and every so often he missed the simplicity of his slaughterhouse job. But, despite all the pain-in-the-ass picayune bullshit it entailed, being the King of Kickerdom was better. He had a purpose now, something he’d lacked before.

As he waited for the light to change he saw a guy in a hoodie come out the front entrance and signal an approaching cab. Hank gave him a casual glance and was turning away when the cab’s headlights caught his face.

He knew that face. Where-?

Him! Shit, it was him!

Tyleski-the guy who stole the Compendium.

A burst of rage pushed Hank off the curb but he reined it in after two steps and stopped. The guy was getting into the cab and Hank would never reach him.

But he couldn’t let him get away again. No fucking way.

He looked upstream and saw a couple of cabs barreling his way. He waved an arm and the one in the lead swerved across three lanes to stop in front of him. Hank jumped in and pointed to Tyleski’s departing taxi across the street.

“Follow that cab!” he said, realizing how the words sounded as they spilled out.

But no wisecrack from the driver. He just hit the gas and followed.

Now what? Think.

Follow the guy home, find out where he lived, then arrange payback.

Wait. Shit happened. What if traffic snarled and he got away? This was a precious opportunity. Couldn’t let chance screw it up. He needed backup. He could call Kewan and No. Szeto-call Szeto. Good chance this was the same guy he was looking for. He’d be more aggressive than Kewan. Tons more. He had a real hard-on for this guy.

He found his number and punched SEND.

“Yes.”

“Hey, it’s me. You know that guy we were talking about today, the guy you’ve been looking for? I’m following him in a cab as we speak, but I’m afraid I might lose him, so-”

“Do not lose him! I will call you right back.”