The Gift of Fury

  The Gift of Fury

  Richard Jackson

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Bonus Story: The Path Taken

  About the Author

  Other Books by Richard Jackson

  Copyright © 2010 by Richard Jackson

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic of mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any other information storage and retrieval system, without the express written consent of the author.

  Acknowledgement

  The city skyline used on the cover of this book is a modified photo of the Manhattan skyline. It was shot from a car on the Williamsburg Bridge. The original photo and licensing / copyright information can be found at

  http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:NewYork-SkyscrapersAndProjects.jpg

  Prologue

  I open my eyes to see an orderly standing close to my bed. I didn't hear him enter the room or approach my bedside. Kara, my guardian angel, is urging me to move when I notice two things that tell me exactly how much trouble I'm in: the pillow in his left hand and the knife in his right. Not standard issue hospital equipment even for “difficult” patients.

  I let him take a take a step closer before I am all over him like a pit bull on a pork chop. I can't be nice or sporting about this. He’s got a lot of things going for him, too many for me to take any chances or to hold back. He's armed and I'm not. I’m hurt and he isn’t. I plan on changing that in the near future. I guess now would be a good time to mention I’m no stranger to violence. We aren’t close personal friends and to be honest, I try to avoid it. When it drops by for an unexpected visit, I try to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  I ignore the searing pain in my right knee and the damage I am probably doing to it. I focus on the matter at hand. I think and act. A technique I learned over four years ago is used to immobilize his arm and gives me control of the knife. A blow I have thrown countless times in the air and in sparring class drives the wind out of my attacker. The driving elbow strike I’ve used to break boards now breaks bones. Just like that, the fight is over.

  With my blood pumping, I feel the rush, the thrill of victory. Maybe it's the way the adrenaline affects me or maybe I’m just a little nuts but every breath is that much sweeter. It feels good to be alive. I become aware of Kara again. Her comforting presence fills me with warmth. The only thing better would be sex.

  "You're bleeding,” she says via the magic of our link. Even after all this time together, I don’t know how or why it works. All that matters to me is that it does.

  I shrug, looking down at my arm and the rip in my hospital gown. That’s the problem with knife fights. Someone always gets cut. Still, it doesn’t look bad if you can ignore all the blood. “I’m alright.”

  "You're a bad liar," she says.

  She’s worried but I can’t help but smile. Nothing can touch me. I’m alive despite someone’s best efforts. "Don't worry. I'm in a hospital."

  Kara doesn’t laugh. Instead, she whispers "This isn’t over. Others will come for you."

  That brings me crashing down to earth. Someone wants me dead in a big way, big enough to send someone to kill me. Big enough to try it in a hospital filled with potential witnesses and guards. The pain, no longer content to be ignored, returns with a vengeance and my knee buckles. As I fall to the floor, I hear Kara say "Rest....”

  I nod and close my eyes with Kara’s thoughts to keep me company as I descend into the darkness.

  "You'll be free soon,” she says.

  Act One: The Gift of Fury

  Chapter One

  I open my eyes and immediately, I regret it. I think hospitals and infirmaries have bright lights to torture their patients. At least that's what it feels like. I close my eyes again.

  "Rise and shine."

  Ordinarily, I like hearing Kara's voice. This time is no exception. I smile and focus on her instead of the pain in my head. I can tell she’s relieved. For several moments, I just lie there basking in the feeling before I ask the first of many questions troubling me. "How long have been out?"

  "Two days" She says.

  That throws me. I must have been worse off than I had thought. It shouldn’t surprise me. It’s been a rough week. Rough enough for me to spend time in a hospital. My buddy with the pillow and the knife didn’t help matters.

  "They had to operate on your knee and stitch you up. I didn’t want to wake you unless it was an emergency."

  Nothing I can say to that. I know how much she worries about me. Sometimes it scares me that she cares so much about me. It goes beyond just being my guardian angel.

  “You said that I would be free soon? Are they going to let me walk out here?”

  Kara doesn’t answer immediately. She’s holding something back, deciding what to tell me. Sometimes it bothers me but I’ve learned to trust her. When she does answer, she sounds tired. More tired than I have ever heard her.

  “Trust your feelings. They won’t lead you astray.”

  Cryptic but sound advice for most occasions, I’m not sure how much it will help me in this situation. Maybe, she will tell me more later on, after I rest and heal. I resist the urge to press her for details. She’s always done right by me.

  “Get some rest. I’ll be fine.”

  Kara doesn’t argue. I would bet my last dollar she’s probably been watching over me since the attack. I can sense her nodding off before she is gone, off to wherever she goes when she is not with me.

  One of the nurses gives me a curious look. It’s the sort of look someone might give a wild animal or crazy person. I must have been talking out loud again. At least this time, I can blame it on the meds and my injuries. As the nurse leaves my room, she gives me another look. I can’t help but wonder what she might have heard. No. I have more important things to think about. I need some answers to the questions that are going to be tossed my way. It’s only natural. Someone tries to kill you, people ask questions. You beat someone down; people ask why even if the reason is blatantly obvious. Hell, I’m surprised the police weren't at my bedside waiting for me to wake up. No worries. They'll be here, it's only a matter of time and they’ll ask the same questions I am asking myself. Who wants me dead and why?

  I admit I have a few enemies. You can’t go through life without making at least one enemy. The problem is that none of my enemies hate me enough to pull a stunt like this. Sure, some of them would like to see me hurt or dead but they want to either do it themselves or in a way that won’t attract attention. The only one that comes to mind has been dealt with. No, this has to be someone or something else. It has to be. Maybe, answering the ‘why’ might give
me a clue as to who wants me dead but I’m coming up empty. If Kara was here, I could bounce a few ideas off of her head.

  ***

  It’s just after I finish a blander than usual lunch when I learn my assailant is in a lot worse condition than I am. I should feel bad but I don’t. Don't get me wrong, I’m not jumping for joy either. Hurting people isn't something I enjoy but I can only feel so broken up about someone who tried to murder me. He pissed away any goodwill that I might have had towards him the moment he decided to kill me. Granted, I’m assuming he meant to kill me but it’s a safe bet. Call me silly but knives and pillows aren’t the sort of tools you use in any civilized conversation even in New York. Some touchy feely types might not agree with me or call me a Neanderthal. I’ll be the first to admit my views aren’t main stream when it comes to a number of things. That doesn't mean I’m a nutcase who goes out of his way to pick fights. Violence is a last resort. The problem with last resorts is that if it doesn’t work, you’re officially out of options; that’s why anything you are saving for that moment has to work. After all, it is your last resort. If you use it and it fails, you’re done. There’s nothing left. It’s one of the reasons why I learned the martial arts. If that makes me a throwback or worse, so be it. What really bothers me is how much I have had to fall back on my last resort within the last few days.

  I look up as the authorities arrive, trying to hide my surprise. They definitely aren’t NYPD. Anyone can see that. The three of them, two men and a woman, look too clean cut and regular as if carved from the same mold. Their look and demeanor scream the word “Fed”. I’m not sure if it is a good thing or not.

  They introduce themselves: Special Agent Lynch, Special Agent Marino and Doctor Bolland. I’ve never been good with names. In this case the names aren’t as important as the titles: two special agents and one doctor. Despite popular belief, FBI special agents aren't called in for just any case. Sure they investigate a lot of crimes but most of their work deals with national security and cases where local law enforcement need assistance.

  After some meaningless chitchat about my stay here and my health, we get down to brass tacks. They’re all business and little warmth especially Agent Lynch. It seems like he is going out of his way to distance himself from me as he verifies my contact information. It’s nothing he says but what he does. He stands there at the foot of my bed with his arms folded across his chest. No, it goes deeper than that. Something is bothering him. Not just him, all of them. I see it in the little things they do and the looks they give one another. Whatever game plan or strategy they had went out the window some time ago.

  Even without Kara being here, alarm bells start to ring. They didn’t come here about the orderly. No, they had scheduled this visit before I was attacked. That puts things in a new and dangerous light. I take a chance and break the routine to ask a question.

  “What’s this all about?”

  Who knows, I might even get a straight answer. The main thing is to get them talking. I need to know what’s going on. I can’t afford to be in the dark. Several moments go by before one of them speaks, the woman. I struggle to remember her name, Marino. That was it.

  “Mr. Albritton, are you acquainted with Scott Dorward?”

  I could lie but what’s the point? Lying to federal agents carries a lot more risks than rewards. Odds are they already know the answer. It’s an interviewer’s trick. You ask a question you already know the answer to. It gives you the opportunity to gauge the person you’re talking to and measure their response. It’s a tactic I’ve used from time to time when I’m working a case. More often than not, it opened up a line of investigation that hadn’t occurred to me before. I decide to go with the truth. “Yes.”

  Most people would be a bit surprised that I know Scott. Granted, he gets a lot more press coverage in Europe but his name and face pop up from time to time either in the tabloids or on one of those entertainment programs. What he lacks in looks, he makes up for with his sharp wit and killer British accent. Not to say he is ugly or anything like that but he's no golden boy. A bit too pale, his hair and eyes are just a little too dark to be considered attractive in most circles. Personality goes a long way and Scott has plenty of that. It and his father's connections helped him become a minor celebrity.

  What the media doesn't know is that Scott Dorward is probably one of the most knowledgeable men on the planet when it comes to the occult and magic. If it's been researched or studied, Scott knows something about it. He believes the old adage knowledge is power and it's something he has plenty of. Scott is a sorcerer, meaning he is able to use magic and cast spells.

  Sorcerers are a lot like doctors. Most are general practitioners. They know a little bit about everything. Others are specialists who choose to concentrate on or study one area. Witches and warlocks study witchcraft. Ritualists are sorcerers who specialize in ritualistic magic. Necromancers perform necromancy. You get the idea.

  Marino smiles, it’s the same sort of smile I wear when I am working on a case and feel like I am on the right track. I think I know where she might be going with this. This isn’t my first time being interviewed by the authorities.

  “How would you characterize your relationship with him?”

  “We’re friends but not close,” I reply. It’s true enough. I had the good fortune to met Scott back when I got started in this business. We've been friends ever since. Not best friends but good enough to be able count on one another. Sometimes, he tosses work my way, extremely well paying work though I prefer to work for Solomon the Wise. Even sorcerers of Scott and Sol’s caliber need a little help from time to time. When Scott needs help, he is willing and able to pay well for it. Such jobs are never dull but after everything is said and done, you feel like you were underpaid. The last little favor I did for him resulted in this hospital stay and a few other far reaching consequences.

  “And what is his involvement with Meredith?” she says.

  I open my mouth then close it. Meredith is someone I would like to forget. By all rights, he should be in no position to do no harm. He was the first person to come to mind when I was thinking about who wanted me dead. Now, the Feds are here asking questions about him and Scott. It’s no coincidence. What and how much do they know? They probably know more than they should. It also means I could be in a lot more trouble than I thought. They could probably figure everything out but odds are they will jump to the wrong conclusion. So what do I tell them?

  I look at Agent Marino and try to get a feel for her. My instincts battle with the cold rational part of me. I should ask for a lawyer and keep my mouth shut. It would be the smart thing to do but it doesn’t feel right. Marino and her partners are here for answers, no matter how strange they might sound. If they don’t get them then no lawyer in the world will be able to save me.

  “Maybe I should start at the beginning.”

  “Go on” She says.

  “First off, I’m not crazy. Okay, I know it looks bad and that popular opinion is probably against me but what I have to say is the truth. It all started last Tuesday……”

  Chapter Two

  My last case paid surprisingly well. For the first time in weeks, my creditors are not a problem. I can actually afford to take a night off and relax. As I get ready to go out, the evening news plays in the background. The news of the day washes over me, not making an impact. It is seen and heard but not felt. I’m not sure if it’s just me or if this is something we’re all guilty of. No matter the source of the news, be it television, radio, the newspaper, internet or word of mouth, I receive it with a sense of detachment. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism to cope with all the information at the tip of our fingertips. I’m desensitized to the news and its relevance unless it affects me in some tangible way. Is it human nature or is it just a character flaw too many people possess.

  Tragedy mixes with peppy human interest stories designed to put a happy face on another all too bleak day. An earthquake rocks the Philippines. A fire guts
an apartment building in the Brooklyn. Another body turns up in Alphabet City. It’s the second one this week and it’s only Tuesday. The Mass Transit Authority announces more cutbacks making the threat of a transit strike all the more likely in the not too distant future. Entrepreneur Jack Meredith is being interviewed about his plan to revitalize the South Bronx. You learn something new every day. I never knew revitalizing a neighborhood meant kicking people out onto the street and turning their homes into condos. If that wasn’t bad enough, he makes a point to mention all of his accomplishments and his plans for the future. He calls it a better tomorrow, one where he is undoubtedly richer and more powerful. It goes on and on. I nearly miss it, a break in at 25 Sutton Place.

  Kara catches it a second before I do. “Isn’t that Scott’s building?”

  I turn up the sound as a picture of Scott at a recent charity event is flashed across the screen. He seems completely at ease, standing amid some of New York’s other philanthropists in one of his Neo-Victorian suits. The newswoman recites a blurb about Scott before moving on to details about the attempted robbery. She doesn’t have any real details, just enough to peak one’s interest. If I want to learn anything, I need to get over there. Calling Scott won’t work. He has this thing about phones, he doesn’t like or trust them. It’s one of the quirks that make him Scott Dorward. I remember asking him about it, He merely said anything important enough to tell someone is better done in person or by messenger. In a day and age where communication on the go is getting easier and easier, Scott clings to the habits of the past. Course, he isn’t stupid. He does have a cell phone which he will only use in the direst of emergencies. I have the number. Thankfully, I’ve never had to use it.

  I finish pulling on my long coat and check my pockets for the few tools I always carry before I head out the door. At this time of night, I shouldn’t have any trouble getting a cab cross town.