F. Paul Wilson - By the Sword

Averting her eyes, she stepped toward the door.

"You are! You are going in! Please don't! Think of your baby and how it will feel to be torn apart!"

She heard engine noise behind her and turned to see a gray panel truck pulling up to the curb. If it had been a cab she might have been tempted to take it away from here, from this nut.

But no, she was seeing this through.

When she continued forward he stepped between her and the door, blocking her way.

"Please think of your baby!"

Behind her she heard a door sliding open as she forced herself to make eye contact with the man.

"Get out of my—"

Terror spiked through her gut as she felt a gloved hand clamp over her mouth. As she lifted her hands to pull it off and scream, an arm snaked around her chest and she was yanked off her feet, spun around, and pushed through the side door of the panel truck. Someone within pulled her inside and for an instant her mouth was free but he clamped his hand across her face before she could scream. She bit him but all she got was leather glove. Panicked, she began twisting and kicking and trying to writhe free as the first man leaped in behind her and slid the door closed. He grabbed her legs and steadied them as the van began to move.

"Easy, Dawn, easy," he said in a tone he probably thought soothing but was not. "No one's gonna hurt you. That's the last thing we want. In fact, you're gonna be safer now than you've ever been in your life."

He knew her name! And then she saw that weird little stick figure on all their hands.

Oh, God, these were Jerry's people!

Jack had dressed in wino casual—ripped dirty jeans, fatigue jacket, stomped-on fedora pulled down to his ears and eyebrows, unlaced sneakers three sizes too big for him, and a grime-smudged face. He'd accessorized with yellow rubber kitchen gloves, a pair of women's sunglasses, and a stuffed black garbage bag that supposedly held his worldly belongings but in reality contained nothing but wadded-up newspaper. He waved his free arm in the air as he conversed with no one.

A useful getup: No one except maybe god-squad types ever made eye contact with his type.

When he'd called the number from the voice mail he'd played anxious to get back the katana, but sounded suspicious and wanted a public place. Whoever he spoke to countered by saying surely he'd want to examine the blade and couldn't very well do that in Times Square. Jack insisted on public, specifically Madison Square Park. It had traffic but everyone pretty much minded their own business.

He arrived a little after three—almost an hour early—and began picking through the trash bins, adding an occasional aluminum can or plastic bottle to his bag. Then he chose an empty bench with a clear view of the Admiral Farragut statue and the meeting spot. He began a muttered but heartfelt conversation with himself interspersed with scatological references to passersby.

Eventually a slim, nervous-looking black guy in horn-rimmed glasses appeared, carrying an oblong object wrapped in what looked like a drop cloth. As instructed, he found a bench in the northeast corner of the park and took a seat. Jack rose and began to make another round of the trash cans.

He spotted the heavy yakuza on line at the Shake Shack.

Jack allowed himself a pat on the back. He'd been right.

The Shake Shack made a perfect cover for the big guy. He looked like he liked to eat. Jack was tempted to see if he tried to order tempura or sashimi, but needed to keep moving.

Found one of the others at the park's northwest corner, near Fifth and 26th. Farther along the street he spotted the third loitering outside a sidewalk café on the far side of Madison.

Where was Mr. Boss Man? Had to be somewhere nearby, most likely in that Lincoln Town Car, idling, watching. His men had the exits covered. They could snatch Slater as he left the park, or the boss could follow him if he made it to a cab.

Jack wandered to the downtown end of the park and found a bench with a good view of Big Guy. He pretended to doze but kept watch from behind the sunglasses.

Big Guy hung by the Shake Shack, chomping on a burger, then a hot dog, then an order of fries.

The meeting time came and went. The yakuza had Slater's voice mail number. Jack had told him not to return any calls. Forty-five minutes after the planned meeting time, a Town Car pulled to the curb on 23rd. A driver and the boss man sat in front. Big Guy joined his two buddies in the rear and they took off.

Jack rose and hurried deeper into the park, hoping to catch the decoy before he left.

No worry. The thin black guy was still sitting on the bench with the bundle across his knees. Looked like no one had told him the gig was off. He jumped as Jack plopped down next to him and leaned close.

"The moon is in the seventh house," he whispered.

The guy inched away. "What?"

"The stars are aligning for the End Times. It's all over now."

"Are-are you the one I'm supposed to meet?"

"We'll all meet in the afterlife two thousand light-years from home." He pretended to notice the bundle for the first time. "Hey, is that my Christmas present?"

"Christmas? No—"

Jack raised his voice. "It is, dammit! Santa left it just for me and you took it!"

The guy started to rise but Jack pulled him back and grabbed for the bundle. He pulled it from his grasp, found the edge of the cloth, and shook it out like a sandy towel.

A scabbarded katana fell free. The tip pointed Jack's way so he grabbed it and pulled, baring the blade.

A smooth, unblemished blade.

Jack tossed the scabbard at the guy and jumped to his feet. He clutched his black plastic bag against his chest, stamped his feet, and pointed with his free hand.

"The Sword of Damocles! You're an archangel! I knew it! It's the end times! The End Times! I must prepare myself for sacrifice!"

Now there's a mixed bag of references, he thought as he turned and ran screaming from the park.

Dawn had no idea how long she'd been in the basement. Not like it was a dungeon or anything. It was warm and well lit; she had a folding chair to sit on. The rest of the furniture consisted of a few long folding tables supporting a bunch of phones, none of which worked—she knew; she'd tried every one of them. But the place had no windows and no clock on the wall, so even though it seemed like days, she knew it had been only hours. How many hours was the question.

No, not the question, one of the questions.

The big question was who were these people? She'd been hustled out of the truck and into the rear entrance of this ornate old building way downtown. She hadn't seen any women, only men, and not many of those. The place seemed almost totally deserted.

They'd fed her—brought her a Big Mac and fries and a bottle of Aquafina—but they hadn't left her alone. Not for a second. Someone sat by the only exit door at all times. The first had been the guy who'd had the sign outside the clinic. On the heavy side, with short dark hair and a retreating hairline, he'd been called Menck by one of the guys in the truck. He'd tried to make small talk at first but she wasn't interested, and he'd clammed up rather than answer the questions she peppered him with.

She totally recognized the scruffy guy who relieved him: the same guy she'd run into outside Blume's and in SoHo. She'd know that squint anywhere. They called him Darryl and he must have recognized her downtown and followed her to the Milford.

She wanted to scream. She'd thought she was breaking free but all she'd accomplished was trading Mr. Osala's prison for the Milford prison and now this one, wherever it was.

Was there anyone left in the world who totally didn't want to lock her up?