F. Paul Wilson - By the Sword

"Well, given a choice between my word and a big fat maybe, yeah, I'm returning the blade."

"I hope it's the right decision."

"As far as I can see, it's the only decision."

But he'd rather someone else be making it.

A smiling Naka Slater opened the door and stepped back, his eyes on the package in Jack's hand.

"At last. The prodigal sword returns to the fold."

Jack figured that mix of metaphors beat his own from the park yesterday, but didn't congratulate him. Instead he added to the mix.

"Wrapped in a coat of many colors." Closing the door behind him, Jack handed it over. "All yours."

And good riddance.

But the Lady's words haunted him.

… it will be used for something momentous …

Was this chubby sixty-something plantation owner going to be the one to wield it? Hard to believe.

"How did you ever track it down?"

"Crack detective work."

"And you didn't have to buy it back? Because I'll reimburse—"

"No need. Reasoned discourse carried the day."

He carried it to the bed where he began to unwind the drop cloth.

"Would you believe this is the first time I've ever handled it? At least that I recall."

"You mean it was sitting in your house and you were never tempted to play samurai with it?"

"Tempted like crazy. But it was displayed in a sealed glass case for just that reason."

The grip end came free first.

"You've added a handle and a hilt."

"Not me. Someone along the way."

When he revealed the rest he grinned like a little boy with his first puppy.

"A scabbard too!"

As Slater grabbed the scabbard and pulled the blade free, Jack stepped back and slipped his hand to the Glock under the back of his loose T-shirt. He'd already played this scene once and had come away with a sliced-up shoulder. Not taking any chances this time.

Slater stayed bedside, however, swinging the blade back and forth. But as he swung it his smile faded to a frown, and then a grimace of distaste. He stopped swinging it and dropped it on the bed.

Jack stared at him. "This isn't where you try to tell me that isn't the right sword, is it?"

He shook his head. "No. I'd recognize those defects anywhere. But there's something wrong with that thing."

"Maybe the handle changes the balance or—"

"No-no. I mean something wrong inside it. The legends say that Masamune put a little of his gentle soul into each of his katana so that it would not be used for indiscriminate killing. It would sever an evil man's head but not cut a passing butterfly."

Buuuullshit… buuuullshit…

"So you're saying it's not a true Masamune?"

"I'm not enough of an expert to tell. Maybe it is, and maybe the Hiroshima bomb burned away whatever of Masamune was in there. I don't know. But I do know I don't want that thing in my house."

"You kidding me? It's been in your house all your life."

"Yes, two houses and two countries. Maybe I touched the katana when I was little. Maybe a part of me recognizes the difference. I don't like what it's become. I don't want it." He sheathed the blade and held out the katana to Jack. "Here. You take it."

"Hell no. What am I going to do with—?"

He grabbed the drop cloth, shoved it and the katana into Jack's hands, then hurried to the dresser. He returned with an envelope and gave that to Jack as well.

"Here—the rest of your fee." He then stepped to the door and opened it. "Please. Take it. Do whatever you want with it."

Nonplussed, Jack stepped back into the hall. "You're sure?"

"Absolutely. You did a wonderful job, but I've changed my mind. Are we square?"

"If you say so."

"Then it's a done deal. Thank you. Good-bye."

He closed the door.

"Yeah. Good-bye."

Jack looked down at the katana. Now what?

1:06.

Dawn blinked at the display on her bedside clock radio: P.M.? Couldn't be.

Clad only in panties, she dragged herself from under the covers and stepped to her bedroom window. She pulled aside the heavy drapes and cringed in the bright light. The sun was high, and Fifth Avenue and Central Park bustled below.

Right back where I started.

Or had she ever left? The events of the past few days seemed too totally fantastic to be real.

Shadowed around the city, abducted in broad daylight, Kickers, Jerry's brother swinging some weird sword, then kidnapped by ninjas, drugged by Japanese monks, rescued by Mr. Osala—who, it seems, likes to stand on the roof of his car during a storm—and now back to the penthouse.

Had she dreamed it all?

She went to her closet and pulled out a robe. She'd totally never worn one before she came here. After all, she'd been able to walk around her house in pretty much any state of undress she pleased. But this wasn't her house. So when she didn't feel like getting dressed—like now—she threw on one of these things.

She stepped out into the hall. The marble floor was cold on her feet as she padded to the kitchen hoping to find some coffee. But the kitchen was empty, just like the coffeepot. She'd make some herself if she knew where anything was, but this was Gilda's domain and she ruled it like a jealous queen.

Dawn realized she needed more than coffee. She was starving. She'd have to track down Gilda and have her whip up some breakfast. Or lunch. Or whatever.

She found her in the hall carrying an armful of men's clothing. They looked like…

"Are those Henry's?"

Gilda didn't look at her. "Yes."

"Then Mister Osala really did fire him?"

Gilda said nothing, just kept on moving toward the foyer. Dawn followed in a daze. Then it was true… all true… the nightmare had been real… and Henry had been fired because of her.

"I'm sorry about what happened. I—"

Gilda's cold look cut her off as she stopped and turned. "You should be ashamed. He was only trying to make you happy, and you betrayed him."

The truth of her words struck like a slap in the face. Yes, she'd totally betrayed him.

"But don't you see? I didn't want to stay here. I wanted to get away and none of you would let me."

"We are here to protect you."

"I know that, and after all that happened, I know this is the safest place to be. But I didn't see it that way then. I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

The ice remained in her tone. "Well, you did."

She turned and continued toward the foyer where she laid the pile by the door.

"Is Henry coming to pick them up?"

She wanted to tell him how sorry she was, but didn't know if she could face him.

Another cold look from Gilda. "Henry is never coming back."

"Then why are you putting his clothes out?"

"They are to be burned."

"Burned?" She didn't get it. "But he was only fired. You talk about him like he's dead."

Gilda turned away and headed in the direction of the kitchen.

"I will make you some lunch."

But Dawn was no longer hungry. She stared at that forlorn pile of clothing, thinking it couldn't be… it totally couldn't be.

Henry was out there in the city, totally alive and looking for another job. He had to be…

But what she'd seen in Gilda's eyes just before she'd turned away said otherwise.

She felt her blood turning to ice.

Dead? But that could only mean that Mr. Osala had…

What have I done ? Who are these people? What have I gotten myself into?

Jack entered his apartment with the katana.

The Lady's words had haunted him.

It might now be a weapon only for good, or only for evil. Or, like any blade, it might cut either way, depending on who wields it. But it will be used for something momentous.