"That's another story."
"There's more?" He rubbed his hands together. "Goody."
So Jack gave him a rundown of the Kuroikaze and Rasalom ending up with Dawn.
"A busy night you had." Abe opened the Post and began flipping pages. "So that's what happened downtown."
Jack broke off another piece of pretzel.
"What does it say?"
"First page it would have made if not for your party. They're blaming some 'yet-to-be-identified toxin' that made people weak and sick. Might be related to a strange cloud a few folks saw, might not."
"Any deaths?"
"A couple. They don't know how many yet. They were still canvassing at press time. They say the dead folks were old, so it could have been natural."
"Or accelerated by the Kuroikaze."
"After what you say it was like, I shouldn't be surprised." He looked up. "What now?"
Jack lifted the katana and hefted it.
"In a little less than an hour I'm meeting with the guy who hired me to find it. I'm going to hand it to him and say, 'Sayonara.' If I knew how to say 'good riddance' in Japanese, I'd say that instead. This thing has been nothing but trouble."
"There's a guy here says you want to meet with him."
Rage bloomed in Hank as he looked up to see Darryl standing at the door to his room.
"I want to meet him? Didn't I tell you I didn't want to see anyone? Any- one?"
"Yeah, I know, but it's that weird Lodge guy and he won't take no for an answer. Says he can help us out of this mess."
"Which one?" Hank could think of so many.
Darryl pointed to the window. "That one."
Hank didn't need the window to know what was out there, but he forced himself to his feet and made his way over to peek around the edge of the shade.
Below, the near and far sidewalks were packed with reporters. They'd have been blocking the street if not for the cops there.
He staggered back to the bed and sat, cradling his head in his hands. He just wanted to be alone, but he couldn't stiff the Septimus Order's point man—its "actuator." Couldn't risk getting kicked out of this place.
"Send him up."
"He's got someone with him."
"Send them both up, but it turns out the other guy's a reporter, your ass is grass."
As Darryl left, Hank closed his eyes and swallowed against a rising gorge. He felt like a warmed-over cow pie. Wanted to puke so bad, but had nothing left in his gut. What had happened last night? That wind, those feelings of hopelessness and helplessness… they went entirely against the take-control message of the Kicker Evolution.
The only good thing was it was gone and it hadn't sucked all the life out of him. Just some.
His thoughts drifted further back, to that insane building on Staten Island and all the men he'd led into it—well, not in to, but to—who wouldn't be coming back. They'd given as good as they'd got until those hit men showed up.
Thirty men gone… and what had he to show for it? Not a goddamn thing. The hit men probably had the sword, and the guy with the infinity eyes had Dawn.
Thirty dead Kickers, and the cops and the press wanted to know how and why. Hank hadn't the faintest idea what to tell them.
A vaguely accented voice from the doorway: "Mister Thompson?"
Hank looked up and saw a hawk-faced Ernst Drexler. The white of his suit in the morning light hurt his eyes. Hadn't Darryl said he had someone with him? Hank didn't see anyone else.
"Come in, Mister Drexler. What can I do for you?"
Drexler glided to the window and tapped it with the silver head of his black cane.
"It's more a matter of what I can do for you."
"In particular?"
"We have people."
When Drexler didn't go on, Hank said, "So do I."
"Not the kind of people we have. Allow me to introduce Mr. Terrence McCabe."
Hank turned as a true-blue, briefcase-toting suit came through the doorway. A gray business suit, black shoes, white shirt, and striped tie. The guy inside it all was short, with shiny black hair, a round face, and a rounder body. He reminded Hank of an actor he liked… from a movie about a giant alligator. Oliver somebody.
He strode forward, hand extended. The guy seemed to fill the room.
"An honor to meet you, sir," he said in a booming voice
Remaining seated on the bed, Hank raised his hand and shook. McCabe's grip was like a vise.
"Don't call me 'sir.' It's Hank."
"Very well. Calling a man I admire by his first name… that won't be easy."
"Work on it. Just not so loud. Lower the volume." McCabe's voice was worsening the pounding ache in his head. "So who are you?"
"I have a law degree and I'm a member of the bar, but my work—my forte, you might say—is public relations. A famous director gets caught DUI, a big-name actor gets caught with an underage fan, a country singer gets caught with his best friend's wife—or worse yet, his best friend—who do they call?" He jabbed a thumb against his chest. "Yours truly. Because my subspecialty in PR is damage control."
Damage control… Hank had known he'd needed it but hadn't wanted to think about it now, hadn't wanted to think about anything. But somebody had to, and he'd been it.
Until now.