Jack liked the virtually deserted part because he might have to improvise. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that because he hated to improvise. But in case it did, he’d applied a droopy mustache and shoved some cotton pledgets between his cheeks and upper gums to change the shape of his face.
Mack looked at him. “How the hell you gonna stop a noise that ain’t there?”
“Well, why don’t we put her in motion and see about that. If there’s no noise, I’m outta here.”
Mack gave him a long stare, then said, “Let’s do that.”
He led Jack to the elevator on the left, pressed a button, and the ornate doors parted, revealing a good-size elevator.
“This the one belongs to Osala?” Jack wanted to be sure he was in the right one.
Mack nodded. “This is it. No one uses it but him and his people. Runs from here to the penthouse. No stops in between.”
Just like Glaeken’s. Jack knew from Dawn that it had a DOWN button but no UP. It required a key to go up.
“This Osala . . . he got a first name?”
“Yeah. ‘Mister.’ ”
“You don’t sound like you like him much.”
“Ain’t paid to like people.”
Mack stepped inside and moved to a rear corner where he folded his hands in front of him, looking like he was waiting for a train.
Jack held out his hand. “Key?”
Mack looked surprised. “Didn’t the management give you one?”
“No. I was planning on using yours.”
“I don’t have one. Only Osala and his people have keys. Didn’t they tell you?”
“No.”
Dawn hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. Maybe she didn’t know. They hadn’t let her leave the place.
Damn.
Okay. Time to improvise. He looked at the lock: small keyhole, no brand name. He didn’t have a bump key for this. These mini-locks could be a royal pain to pick because of their tiny pins. Then too, Mack could be lying.
He held out his hand. “Give me your keys.”
Mack looked at him like he’d grown another head. “You on crack? I ain’t giving you my keys.”
Jack really didn’t want to do this, but time was running out. He pulled the Glock from the small of his back and pointed it between Mack’s eyes.
“Please?”
Mack pressed back into the corner. “Easy with that! I’m telling you I ain’t got a key!”
“I’m not convinced. Hand them over.”
Mack straightened, steely determination hardening his eyes and setting his jaw.
“No.”
Jack couldn’t believe this.
“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a hollowpoint-loaded semiauto aimed at your head. You have any idea what one of these rounds will do to your brain?”
“Go ahead. Shoot. You’re not getting my keys.”
Aw no. He did not need this.
“Look. If, as you say, you don’t have the key, then what’s the harm in letting me check?”
Listen to me. I’ve got the gun, and I’m reasoning with him.
“Got the keys to other people’s apartments on that ring. They trust me with them. I can’t let you have them.”
Jack bared his teeth and leaned closer, looking as tough as he could.
“Would they want you to die for that key ring?”
He shook his head. “Don’t matter. This ain’t about them. This is about me. You can’t have it.”
“What if you don’t die? What if you just get your kneecaps blown off?”
Mack kept shaking his gray head. “I ain’t giving it to you.”
Jack wanted to break something. Of all the doormen in the city, he had to run into one with a sense of duty.
Jack pulled him from the wall and forced him down till he was face-first on the floor of the cab. Pinning him with a knee in the center of his back, he holstered the Glock and pulled out his lockpick gun. Using that and a small tension bar, it took him only a few seconds to turn the lock.
The doors closed and the elevator started up.
“Do you really not have the key?” Jack said, pulling Mack back to his feet.
He dusted off his uniform. “I told you I didn’t.”
Jack helped brush him off. “Sorry about the dirt. But you didn’t answer the question. You got a key or not?”
“Yeah, I got a key. Fire regs say I gotta have one.”
Jack inspected the ornate ceiling of the cab.
“They have video surveillance here?”
“Of course.”
Of course. That meant someone could be watching them right now. Dawn had mentioned a big driver and all-around helper named Georges. Maybe him? Maybe Osala himself? Or maybe no one because no one knew the elevator was in operation.
The cab stopped and the doors opened into a tiled foyer. With one hand behind him on the grip of the Glock, Jack used the other to push Mack out ahead of him. He followed and glanced around.
Empty.
He looked for something to stick between the elevator doors to keep them from closing, but found nothing. The foyer was bare of furnishings. In fact . . .
“How many home right now?” Jack whispered as the elevator doors slid closed behind them.
“No one.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. They all moved out last night. The movers finished hauling out the last of the furniture just before you showed up.”
Shit.
“You could have told me.”
Mack smiled, showing a gold tooth. “Would you have believed me?”
“Guess not.”
“Besides, ain’t none of your beeswax.”
Jack suppressed a laugh. “ ‘Beeswax’? How old are you?”
“Older than you’ll ever be.”
Jack stared at him a moment. “You might be right about that, but let’s hope not.”
Jack wandered up and down the central hall. Not a stick of furniture anywhere. And it felt empty.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“You were supposed to be fixing an elevator. Didn’t matter who was home. What do you want here anyway? You come here to kill someone?”
That surprised Jack. “What makes you think that?”
“Well, you’re carrying.”
“I always carry. You wouldn’t have happened to notice a baby being taken in or out, would you?”
“Never.” He stared at Jack. “You’re not a cop. So what are you?”
“A nobody.”
Mack pressed the elevator button and the door opened.
“Well, Mister Nobody,” he said as they got in, “you gotta work on your tough-guy act.”
Jack hid a smile. “Yeah? Where’d I fail?”
Mack hit the DOWN button.
“Shoulda bashed me with your gun the first time I said no. Real tough guy woulda dented my skull for that. When you didn’t, I knew you was mostly show.”
Jack shrugged. “Not many jollies in pistol-whipping a skinny old man just for doing his job.”
“Ain’t old.”
“So . . . when you told me to go ahead and shoot, you knew I wouldn’t.”
His smile was sheepish. “You don’t look like you have it in you, so I was pretty sure.”
“ ‘Pretty sure’? Tell me the truth: Would you have taken a bullet for that key ring?”
“Don’t know. I would’ve hoped whoever was on the other end of that gun wouldn’t shoot.”
“But you weren’t going to give up that key ring.”
He shook his head “Uh-uh.”
Jack pressed him. “It’s only a set of keys.”
Mack held his gaze. “I think you know what I’m talking about.”
“I think I do, Mack. I think I do.”
He really liked this old guy.
“What’s the ‘Mack’ stand for? I’ve got a feeling your mother didn’t name you that.”
“Yeah, she kind of did: McKinley’s on my birt
h certificate.”
“Last name?”
“First.”
“Oh, right. Next you’ll be telling me your last name’s Morganfield.”
He gave Jack a look. “You a blues hound?”
“Better believe it.”
He smiled. “Well, the last name ain’t Morganfield, but I am the Hoochie Coochie Man.”
“That you are. No question about it.”
The doors opened onto the lobby and they both stepped out.
“All right,” Jack said. “Osala’s gone, left the building for good. You’ve got no obligation to him anymore. So what can you tell me about him?”
Mack looked around the empty lobby, then shrugged. “Ain’t much to tell. Strange duck, I can tell you that. Not like I’d know from anything he ever said, because I don’t think he ever spoke to me. Had his people do it for him. Usually his housekeeper, Gilda, did his talking. Lemme tell you, there’s a lady with a face I wouldn’t want to come home to every night. And if it’s not her, it’s his driver-gofer. Used to be a guy named Henry, but he quit or got fired last year. Liked him. Now it’s Georges who’s got this kinda French accent. Won’t miss either of them. Come to think of it, I ain’t sure Mister Osala’s ever even looked at me. Not once.”
“What’s he do?”
“For a living? Damn if I know. Got lotsa money, that’s for sure. Need a ton to own this place and have all that plastic surgery.”
“Whoa-whoa-whoa! Plastic surgery?”
“Well, it’s gotta be. His looks changed last year. He started off this lily-white guy somewhere like forty or so, and now he’s darker, like a Latino or something, and younger. Even looks smaller, though I don’t know how he did that.”
“You mean he darkened his skin?”
“Yeah, though not as bad as Michael Jackson lightened his. Sort of like a good tan. And grew a mustache . . . like he was going for the Latin-lover look or something.”
Dawn hadn’t mentioned that. Maybe because she’d grown used to it.
“Where’d he go?”
Mack shrugged. “Never said.”
“Well, he must have left a forwarding address.”
“Not with me.”
“What happens if a package arrives?”
“I don’t know. I suppose he’ll have Georges stop by now and then and pick it up.”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Jack pretended to reach behind him for the Glock. “Don’t make me use this.”
Mack waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure you will. I’d tell you if he left a number, but I wouldn’t give it to you.”
Jack laughed and offered the man his hand. “I don’t know what these folks pay you, Mack, but it can’t be enough.”
Mack gave his hand a firm shake. “You got that right.”
As Jack pushed through the door into the tiny vestibule before the sidewalk, he glanced at the directory of tenants, listed in order of their floor. He froze when he saw the top name.
MR OSALA
Again . . . something about it . . .
And then he knew.
“Holy shit!”
He turned and slammed back through the door and strode toward Mack. The man turned at his approach and backed up two steps when he saw him.
“Jesus God! What—?”
“Osala,” Jack said. “You work for him?”
“N-no. I work for the building.”
“And you don’t have any idea where he’s gone?”
“No, I told you. And I take back what I said about you.”
The remark surprised Jack.
“What?”
“About you not having it in you to kill someone. You do. What happened?”
“Why do you think something happened?”
“Your face. You look ready for murder.”
Jack realized he was.
Mack stepped closer. “What set you off?”
“An anagram,” Jack said. “A lousy goddamn anagram.”
7
“You really think this is necessary?” Weezy said.
Despite the gravity of the situation, Jack had to suppress a smile. Weezy looked ridiculous in the oversize worn cloth coat, babushka, and huge sunglasses he’d picked up in a secondhand shop on his way over.
“You’ve been made, Weezy.”
“You really think they’re watching?”
“I didn’t see anyone outside, but they could have someone parked in an apartment across the street keeping an eye on the front entrance. We can’t risk leading them to Veilleur.”
She distastefully inspected the rubber tips of the four-footed cane he’d picked up along with the clothes. “Why don’t I just teleconference the meeting? I don’t have to be there in person.”
“You know we’re not set up for that. And besides, I need you there with the Compendium.”
“Gonna give me a hint of what it’s about?”
“Has to do with the One. I’ll explain the rest when we’re all together.”
“You looked upset when you showed up. Still do.”
He’d been kicking himself for missing the anagram.
“You’ll understand later—if we ever stop talking and get you out of here.”
“Okay, okay. I’m ready. But . . .” She looked at the warning on the exit door before them. “It’s alarmed.”
He’d scouted her apartment building’s rear before approaching her with the plan. They now stood before the exit door that opened onto an alley that led to the neighboring street.
“That’s okay.” He held up a rectangular metal wafer. “We have this.”
“And that is . . . ?”
“A magnet. All I—”
“What kind?”
“NIB. I don’t know what that stands for but—”
“Neodymium, iron, and boron. Those things are powerful.”
He stared at her. “How do you . . . ? Never mind.”
She looked up at the magnetic contact on the doorframe. “You’re assuming that’s a closed circuit sensor.”
He sighed. Was there anything she didn’t know?
“It’s too new not to be. I’m going to—”
“—slip it between the magnet and the sensor to keep the circuit closed. Cool. Let see.”
He did just that and the NIB wafer snapped up against the sensor. Jack pushed on the door but it wouldn’t budge.
Weezy pointed to the handle labeled PULL. “Another Midvale graduate, I see.”
Jack sighed as he pulled on the handle. “Class of eighty-seven. We’re everywhere.” He opened the door an inch. When no alarm sounded he said, “Vy-oh-la.”
“My hero.”
A slew of memories peppered him.
“You used to say that to me when we were kids.”
“I didn’t mean it then.”
Jack let that slide.
“Okay . . . time to get into character.”
Weezy hunched her back, knocked her knees so she was flat-footed, then stepped through the door into the alleyway. Jack watched her wobble toward the other street, then closed the door and removed the magnet. She’d catch a cab while he went out the way he’d come in. They’d meet at the Lady’s.
8
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”
Mr. Osala . . . Rasalom.
Jack still hadn’t forgiven himself for missing that anagram. Jerk.
Rasalom . . . the Adversary . . . the One . . . right under their collective noses.
“Neither did I,” Weezy said. “Because we weren’t seeing it. We were only hearing it.”
“But I wrote it down.”
“You only wrote ‘Osala.’ Kind of hard to scope out an anagram without all the letters present.”
Veilleur spoke from the end of the table. “Failing to recognize the anagram is of little importance now. But its simple existence is important—and instructive.”
Jack had called Veilleur and then Weezy as soon as he’d lef
t Mack. They’d rushed to the Lady’s apartment and settled into their usual positions around her big table.
“How so?” Jack said. “I thought using anagrams of his name was his MO.”
“It has been. For millennia. In fact it was an anagram—Molasar—that allowed me to track him to Wallachia and eventually imprison him in the keep.”
“He could name himself anything,” Jack said. “Why’s he so fixated on that one?”
Veilleur leaned back. “I guess you could say it’s cultural. Names were important back in the First Age, especially to those serving the Otherness. He has three names. The first was given by his parents and that one is lost to antiquity. The other two he acquired when he was elevated to the Seven.”
“I’ve read about the Seven,” Weezy said, patting the ever-present Compendium of Srem. “They were sort of the Otherness’s joint chiefs of staff.”
Veilleur nodded. “Correct. But they were more than that. They were rulers as well. They governed the land controlled by the forces of the Otherness. The man who later became the One was the last to join, and the others lived to rue the day they allowed him in.”
“I also read about how he became known as the One,” Weezy said. “Because of him, the Seven were eventually reduced to . . . One.”
“Exactly. But when he was inducted he was allowed to choose a seven-character name by which the world would know him.”
Jack said, “What’s with all the sevens?”
Weezy patted the Compendium again. “According to this, I gather the Otherness uses a base-seven counting system.”
“In an arcane ceremony,” Veilleur said, “the Adversary was also given a name by the Otherness—again, seven characters. Each of the Seven had a similar name—their Other Name—composed of the same seven characters. That name was kept secret from the world and known only to the other members of the Seven.”
“I see the hubris,” Weezy said. “He can’t use his Other Name because that one must remain secret. But the R-name is entwined with his identity as the One, so he refuses to drop it for another.”
Veilleur smiled. “Exactly the way I see it. It’s not that he can’t break an old habit—he won’t break it. Hubris is at work. And hubris is a very human failing.”
“So?”
“So never forget that: He is human.”
Jack remembered his encounter with Rasalom in Florida, and here in the city last winter.