"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.
"And you want me to hire you?"
He grinned. "No need. The rest of the world pays an arm, a leg, and rights to all earnings of their firstborn. For you, it's all taken care of."
"Yeah? Who by?"
McCabe glanced at Drexler.
Drexler said, "We have a wealthy sponsor who's willing to do that."
"Who?"
"He wishes to remain anonymous for now."
Hank looked at McCabe. "And how are you going to control all this damage?"
"Spin, Hank. I'm going to spin it in another direction."
Spin… yeah, what had happened since midnight was going to need major, major spin. But…
"I'm not a spin guy. It is what it is—that pretty well sums up my approach."
"And it's an admirable approach, Hank, but the Kicker Evolution has grown too big for that, and it's growing bigger by the day. 'It is what it is' isn't going to work in this case because everyone can see what it is, and what they see isn't good. I'm going to get them looking the other way."
"I was thinking of playing dumb," Hank said. "I mean, I can truthfully say that I don't keep track of every Kicker's every move. They're all free men and women who act on their own, and what led them to become involved in this terrible tragedy is anyone's guess. I'll say I'm just praying the perpetrators will be brought to justice."
"Lack of firsthand knowledge will definitely be part of the game plan, but we need more. We need to play the blame game as well. We must paint your fallen followers as victims. Any idea as to whom we may point to?"
"Well, the Dormentalists and Scientologists have it in for me." In fact, the three groups were waging an Internet war, crashing each other's sites and all. "They're losing members left and right to the Kicker Evolution and—"
McCabe jabbed a finger in his direction. "Perfect! Perfect!"
He started wandering around the room, waving his arms in the air as he riffed about older, more established, more organized belief systems—little more than corporatized cults, really—becoming increasingly jealous and finally desperate as their numbers dwindled…
As Hank listened he remembered how he'd been feeling the need for a right-hand man, a smart, loyal second in command. Darryl fit the loyal part and, despite appearances, was no dummy, but he'd never cut it. He needed someone who was into spin and details. Hank hated details. He was a big-picture guy.
And in walks Terrence McCabe, a detail man and spinmeister if he ever saw one. He had a feeling Terry was going to work out just fine. Not just in spin, but in cleaning up the Kicker image, and maybe getting things in order, getting operations organized. Right now everything was helter-skelter.
Yeah. Terrence McCabe was just what the Kicker Evolution needed.
He glanced at Drexler and found the man's piercing blue gaze fixed on him.
"Excuse me, Terry," Hank said, holding up a hand. "But I'd like to ask Drexler here what's his angle in all this?"
Drexler smiled—sort of. "As I've mentioned in the past, the Order's Council of Seven senses a certain commonality of interests. We wish to explore that further. But to do so we first must remove your organization from the limelight. Once that is done, we shall initiate certain ventures that will be to our mutual benefit."
"Like what?"
"We shall discuss them soon. I assure you they will be in line with the tenets of the Kicker movement. And they will happen. I shall see to it."
He seemed pretty confident. But then his card said he was an "actuator." Wasn't that what an actuator did—made things happen?
He had awakened with the future looking pretty grim. It had brightened quite a bit in the past few minutes.
Thanks to Drexler… and his bosses in the Septimus Order.
Strange how things happened. Almost as if there was a plan. Daddy had had his Plan, but this seemed bigger. Much bigger.
But who was behind it? The Septimus Order, obviously. But who or what was behind the Order?
Naka Slater was staying at the Grand Hyatt on 42nd. The taxi took the high road and dropped Jack off at the Park Avenue entrance that admitted him onto one of the mezzanine levels. He looked around, spotted some elevators, and headed that way.
"Hey, honey," said a sultry voice. "Is that a sword or are you just glad to see me?"