F Wilson - The Dark at the End

But his fear proved unfounded. His apartment was empty and he removed the rectangular box from beneath his bed without incident.

Ernst returned to the car and opened the rear door to hand it to the One, who took it awkwardly with his remaining hand. Then Ernst slipped back behind the wheel.

“One more stop,” said the One.

Only one? And then what?

He gave Ernst an address in the West Eighties. Traffic was heavier there, and half an hour passed before he pulled in before a four-story brownstone. The One got out, carrying his package, and disappeared into the narrow alley running along the side.

What now? More renewal? How long would this take?

Not long at all. The One reappeared less than ten minutes later, still carrying that strange box under his arm. But instead of re-entering the car, he motioned Ernst to lower the window.

“You may go about your business. I have no further need of you tonight.”

That came as both a relief and a disappointment. The One’s presence was intensely discomfiting, but at least he knew where he was and what he was doing… although he had to confess he had no idea what the One had been up to since they’d arrived in Manhattan.

“But where are you going, where will you stay? You have no phone, no money. I will give you the use of my-”

“Not necessary. Events will reach a head in the next few hours or days or… they will not. If they go our way, phones and money will be irrelevant. If they do not, you will hear from me.”

With that he turned and began walking east. Where to? Central Park lay in that direction.

Ernst sat and watched him go, remembering his parting words.

If they go our way…

The One had said “ our way.” Did that mean that Ernst was back in the fold, that he’d be spared the tribulations of the Change? It certainly seemed so.

With a lightened heart, he put the car in gear and headed home.

Strange, how things worked. Had Ernst not sided with Jack last week, Szeto would still be alive. The One’s remarks this morning had made it clear that he’d called Szeto first and, were he alive, Szeto would be ferrying the One around today instead of Ernst.

Always trust your instincts, he reminded himself. And right now his instincts told him to stay as far as possible from Jack.

Jack slowed his southward progress on 206 as he neared the light at Quakerton Road. The sun had sunk a while ago and darkness had settled. Eddie’s BlackBerry had found an Enterprise car rental place but it had taken forever to reach it and do the paperwork. Jack figured he’d probably ruined John Tyleski’s credit by abandoning his last rental on the South Fork, so he’d used a new credit card identity to rent a Pontiac G6. Not much of a car, but that wasn’t a bad thing. It meant no one would pay much attention to it.

He let Eddie and Weezy keep the Crown Vic.

Was he doing the right thing, leaving Weezy and Eddie to go on alone? He wasn’t comfortable with that but…

He shook his head. Maybe it was just him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something… something that had to do with that sigil.

As he turned onto Quakerton he saw a pickup pull out onto 206 and head north. Looked familiar. That guy Tommy? What had he come back for? Something big, covered by a drape, sat on the bed of his truck. Most likely some of his equipment, but Jack had a feeling Enough with these damn feelings. Feelings-feelings-feelings. What the hell? They were driving him crazy. He needed facts, damn it.

He reached the Lodge, a pale blob against the darker trees behind it, and not a single light on inside. He parked a block down on the street and walked back. Old Town had fewer streetlights than the newer sections on the other side of the lake, and that was a good thing tonight. He’d taken his lock-pick set and bump keys from the Crown Vic and carried them now, along with a flashlight, plus one of Weezy’s Sharpies and a pad, all in a small backpack slung over a shoulder.

He went straight to the back door. He’d noted the brand of the door lock before, so he had his Quickset bumps ready. The third one fit and in seconds he was in. Turning on his flashlight for only a second at a time for guidance, he found the basement door… leaning against a wall. The black rectangle of the doorway gaped before him.

His gut twisted. Not good.

Discarding all discretion, he turned on the basement lights and pelted down the stairs. The basement looked different, rearranged since they’d left. He fairly ran to the opening in the floor. The ladder had been pulled out and lay beside it. He lowered it back into the hole and descended.

No sign of the sigil.

Shit.

Heart pounding, Jack raced back up the ladder. The sigil was too big to hide, so the only explanation was they’d removed it. That guy Tommy had been leaving Johnson. Had he had the sigil in the back of his truck?

What was his phone number? Weezy had rattled it off. She’d know. But as he pulled out his phone to call her, he heard her voice in his head reciting the number. Instead of speed-dialing her, he punched in that number. After two rings he reached the voice mail:

“You’ve reached Thomas Mulliner Excavating and Land Clearing Service. Leave a number and we’ll call you back as soon as possible.”

Got him. Jack left his cell number, said he had to speak to him

So, Tommy was one of the Mulliner clan. The Pinelands were full of them, going back to revolutionary times. Jack wasn’t going to sit around waiting for a call back that might not come till morning. He had to find a Mulliner with an excavating business.

He punched in 4-1-1.

Rasalom rose through the darkness at the rear of Glaeken’s building. He had fed well and was strong enough now to reassert his mastery over gravity.

The drug rehab center had served him well. He had identified certain centers-the ones that offered detox programs-as excellent feeding grounds. Not all detox programs were equal, however. The more high-tech centers, catering to the upper socioeconomic strata, performed rapid detox under general anesthesia, rendering their clients worthless for Rasalom’s purposes.

The more run-of-the-mill centers, the ones that oversaw withdrawal from alcohol and opiates and other drugs the old-fashioned way, offered a veritable smorgasbord of pain, fear, and self-loathing. A couple of hours in proximity to a few addicts in varying stages of the process had replenished him.

He reached the fifth-floor level. He willed the window latch on the other side of the glass to rotate to the unlocked position. With the box pinned under his left arm, he used his right hand to lift the sash. He climbed into the apartment without fear of disturbing a tenant. That was the wonderful thing about Glaeken’s building-only Glaeken and the Lady and a few others lived here.

He left the apartment and ascended the stairwell.

After the revelation of Glaeken’s mortality, Rasalom had had no trouble locating him. He had then enlisted Szeto to find someone who could make certain modifications to the quarters below the Lady’s.

He reached that floor and entered the bare apartment. Szeto had told him that the equipment had been hidden in a built-in cabinet. Rasalom laid the box before it. He opened the cabinet to reveal its electronic contents.

He could not help but marvel at this modern world. His body had matured in these times but his consciousness and the predominance of his reference points were anchored in vastly more primitive eras. Communication now was a wonder, astoundingly convenient-unless one wished to sever communications. And Rasalom so wished. But he’d had no idea how to accomplish that, so he had left it up to others.