By the Sword

    And now this flyer. Who but the owner from Hawaii would be offering such a reward? If so, it meant he had not yet reclaimed the katana.

    He had to speak to this man. He was a living link to the sword—the only one within reach—and Hideo needed to learn what he knew. Perhaps he could provide a direction. He needed something, anything. He was floundering about. He felt as if he was drowning.

    He grabbed the receiver from his desk phone and began to punch in the number listed on the sheet.

    Halfway through, he stopped.

    What was he going to say? He would have to choose his words carefully. The last thing he wanted was to raise suspicion, so everything he said had to have a basis in fact. He must assume that this man knew about the deaths of Gerrish and O'Day. He would be on his guard. Hideo did not want to frighten him off. No, he must lure him in and take control of him.

    He sat and began making notes in preparation for his call.

    After Veilleur left for home, Jack lingered at Julio's, kibitzing with some of the regulars. When he finally headed out he found himself walking behind a scruffy guy carrying a handful of pink sheets—the same shade as the one Veilleur had brought to the table. No doubt one of the guys Naka's printer had hired for dissemination.

    But to Jack's surprise, the guy stopped at a pole where one of those pink flyers had been stapled and ripped it off. He added it to the stack in his hand and moved on.

    He didn't appear to be the civic-minded type to go around decluttering and prettifying the neighborhood. And Jack confirmed this as the guy passed by a pole with one of the HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? flyers with Dawn's picture. Pretty selective in his cleanup.

    Interesting.

    Jack picked up his pace and closed the distance between them. When the guy stopped at another pole that carried both flyers, he was practically on top of him.

    As the guy ripped off Naka's poster, Jack noticed the Kicker Man tattoo on his thumb web.

    Even more interesting. Maybe even verging on fascinating.

    Jack reached past him and tugged the Dawn flyer free and crumpled it into a ball.

    The Kicker whirled on him. "Hey! You outta your head? Whatcha think you're doin?"

    Jack put on a surprised look. "Why, same as you. Cleaning up these unsightly flyers. Aren't they just the worst nuisance?"

    "You mind your own goddamn business."

    "You mean you don't want help?"

    "Help?" He waved the pink flyers in Jack's face. "You wa

    "Why? They're just as ugly."

    That seemed to stump him, but only for a few seconds.

    "No, they ain't. And besides, these here are trying to help find a missing girl. These others are trying to find a crummy-looking sword… a… a weapon of death. Yeah, a weapon of death."

    "Hmmm." Jack pretended to give this serious consideration. "I see your point. But who is this missing girl and who are the people looking for her? Her family?"

    "Yeah. Her family. That's it. She ran away from home and nobody knows where she went. They want her back real bad."

    "How do we know they weren't abusing her?"

    "Listen up, asshole." The Kicker's expression became menacing as he leaned close to Jack. His breath stank. "Stop asking so many questions. If you don't know where she is, then shuddup and move on. 'Cause if you ain't part of the solution, you're part of the problem. Get that? Move on and keep your mitts off the girl flyers."

    "Did something die in your mouth?"

    The guy's faced contorted. He half raised a fist, then seemed to think better of it. Instead he pointed his finger in Jack's face.

    "You just remember what I told you or some bad shit's go

    "Perfectly."

    "Good."

    With that he turned and stomped away. As he passed a trash can he tossed in all the flyers, including Dawn's.

    So… the Kickers—Hank Thompson, in other words—were encouraging people to look for Dawn, but didn't want anyone looking for the katana. Because he already had it and didn't want anyone else looking for it?

    That meant a fourth player was in the mix.

    Naka Slater, the people behind the fake Naka, the yakuza, and now the Kickers.

    This was crazy. What was it about that thing?

    Well, he was out of it. From the start the chances that Slater would get a hit from those flyers had been slim at best. Now, with the Kickers combing the town and removing them, chances approached zero.

    Yeah. Out of it.

    So why didn't he feel relieved?

    Jack knew the answer. Because the Kickers were interested in the sword. He didn't know what that meant, but the Kicker-Otherness co

    He'd sensed something strange about that sword, but what use could it be to Hank Thompson? Whatever it was, he doubted it was for a good purpose. Maybe he should—

    Stop it, he told himself. You're out of it. Forget about it.

    And then his cell rang. Slater was on the other end.

    "Jack? I think we've got a hit."

    Swell.

    Naka Slater looked both excited and worried as they sat on a park bench near the center of Madison Square Park. Jack sat next to him, munching on a hot dog with peppers and onions from the Shake Shack on the downtown end near 23rd Street. The bench offered a good view of the ornate wedge of the Flatiron Building. The trees were in full bloom, their branches undulating in a gentle breeze. Schoolkids, old folks, secretaries, suits, hipsters, and bag ladies paraded along the crisscrossing paths.

    Jack remembered when the only folks who'd enter this park were junkies, pushers, and clueless tourists.

    "No one will listen to me," Slater said.

    "Who-what?"

    "Neither Homeland Security nor the NYPD. I told them about the Kakureta Kao and the Black Wind but I could tell they thought I was nuts."

    "Imagine that."

    "You think I'm nuts too, don't you."

    "I came here about the call, remember? We're after the katana, right?"

    "Yeah, but—"

    "The call?"

    He sighed and handed his cell phone to Jack. "Okay, okay. I've already entered the service number. Listen to the voice as well as the content."

    Jack hit the SEND button, punched in the code Slater gave him, and listened.

    "Hello. My name is James and I saw your flyer. I have the sword you seek and I know it's a Masamune. So I want more than five thousand for it. I'll need twice that. Call me back if that is acceptable. If not, I will keep it for myself."

    Jack pressed the 1 button to replay the message.

    Something familiar about that voice…

    "Hear those inflections?" Slater said. "He's Japanese."

    "You're sure?"

    "I speak both languages—very well, I might add. I learned them at a very early age, but Japanese came first, and certain rhythms and inflections bleed through to the trained ear. This fellow speaks nearly flawless English, but there's no question in my mind that Japanese was his first language."

    And then it clicked: the leader of the yakuza. He'd spoken—at least to Jack's ear—flawless English.

    Red flags flew up all over his brain.

    Slater said, "Do you think I should meet his demand? I mean, I can afford ten thousand, but—"

    "Agree to it, but let me handle it."

    Slater's eyebrows lifted. "You think he's lying? He knew it was a Masamune. That says a lot, don't you think?"