Chapter 75: Detain Someone
Chapter 75: Detain Someone
Day Five. Kyle sat in the chair. The door was shut, the deadbolt turned twice in its slot. Two knives pressed against his spine at the small of his back—one his own, one taken from the short guy. The metal had warmed to match his body heat.
His phone lit up on the coffee table. He grabbed it. [He sent another one. Just one. Tonight.]
A few lines down: [He said—you won't be able to keep this one.]
Kyle stared at the screen and typed. [We'll see.]
He set the phone back down.
He barely moved all day. Once, midday, he stood and walked to the window, pulling the curtain aside. The corner was empty. Afternoon light glared white-hot off the asphalt. Nothing. He let the curtain fall and sat back down. No water. Didn't go upstairs. Door stayed locked.
Eleven p.m. An hour later than last time. Footsteps approached from the corner, dress shoes on asphalt, each step evenly spaced, like someone counting in their head. They stopped at the door. Three knocks. Soft. Knuckles on wood—dull, clipped.
Kyle stood and walked to the door, hand on the knob. Cold metal against his palm. He turned the lock and pulled the door open. A man stood on the step below, three or four down. Black trench coat, collar turned up, hands at his sides. Empty. The streetlight hit him from the side. He lifted his head—fortyish, narrow face, high cheekbones, a scar slashing from his left brow down to his right jaw, cutting across his nose and mouth. Brown eyes. Dark. "Raven." His voice wasn't loud, but every word carried.
"Who are you?"
"He sent me."
The man pulled his hand from the slit in his coat, palm up for a second, then tucked it back. "He said you won't be able to keep me."
Kyle walked down the steps into the middle of the street, drew one knife, flicked his wrist. Blade out. Streetlight crawled up the edge. The man watched Kyle's knife. His mouth twitched. Brief. Not a smile. He drew a long blade from inside his coat—narrow, straight, longer than his forearm. Under the streetlight it threw back a blinding white glare.
Kyle didn't speak. He took a step forward. The man took a step forward. About four steps between them now. The streetlight smeared their shadows together, then pulled them apart.
The man moved first. The blade came down hard, cutting the air. Kyle blocked. The knives crashed together, sparks flying—tiny white flecks flashing in the dark. Kyle's wrist sank. The man's blade was longer, heavier. Force drove down through the steel. His old arm injury throbbed. He shifted. The long blade skimmed past his shoulder, slicing through fabric. Didn't touch skin. His left hand shot out, grabbed the man's wrist, fingers finding the pulse point. The vein jumped under the skin. His right hand flipped the knife handle around and swung. The man dodged. The handle cracked into his shoulder. Bone made a dull thud. The man didn't back off. His knee drove up. Kyle pulled his stomach in. The knee hit his outer thigh. His leg went numb for a second.
They collided. The man's blade was too long for close quarters. He switched hands, left grabbing Kyle's wrist, right fist swinging. Kyle turned his head. The punch landed on his old injury. Blunt pain burrowed up from the bone. He didn't make a sound. His right hand brought the knife up. The tip pressed against the man's throat, touching skin. He could feel the thin layer of flesh over the Adam's apple rising and falling with each breath.
The man stopped. They were close. Their breaths collided. "You won't be able to keep me. You stab me, he sends another. You can't stab them all."
Kyle looked at him. The man's eyes were dark. No fear. No challenge. Just stating a fact.
Kyle pulled the knife back, stepped away. The tip left a faint white line on the skin. It faded fast. He slid the knife back behind him. Metal touched his spine. Cold. The man stood there, blade still in hand, hanging at his side. He watched Kyle for a long moment.
"Go back and tell him. Next time, send someone else. Every time you come, I'll beat you. You can't win."
Something shifted in the man's eyes, like he was trying to read Kyle's face. He sheathed the long blade inside his coat, turned, and walked away. His footsteps sounded the same as when he arrived—steady, unhurried, fading. A car door opened, then shut. Headlights swept the corner and disappeared.
Kyle stood in the middle of the street. The streetlight burned. No blood on the ground. Wind rushed in from the corner, lifting the torn fabric at his shoulder, then dropping it. He stood there awhile, then turned and went home. Pushed the door open, stepped inside, shut it. Locked it. Walked back and sat down. Irene came down from upstairs, barefoot, and stopped in the middle of the living room. She looked at him for a moment.
"Kyle. You let him go?"
"Yeah. He couldn't win. He'll go back and tell Klaus. He comes again, same thing."
She nodded. Stood there a moment. Turned and went back upstairs.
Morning came. He dropped Amy off. She ran through the school doors without looking back. Kyle walked home. At the corner, he saw a white envelope on the ground, blown against the curb. He bent down, picked it up, tore it open. One printed line inside: 'You won't be able to keep him. You let him go.'
He folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket. Pushed the door open. Dorothy sat at the dining table knitting, red yarn threading through her fingers. Irene stood by the window holding a cup. She wasn't drinking.
Kyle walked to the coffee table and picked up his phone.
[Tell him. I let him go because he couldn't win. Next time, send someone else.]
Send. The screen went dark, then lit up. Seer replied instantly: [He said—there won't be a next time. He's not sending anyone. He's coming himself.]
Kyle stared at the line. Read it three times. He reached into his pocket, fingers finding the key. The metal edge dug into his fingertip. Hard. Cold.
He typed: [Come.]
He set the phone down. Klaus was coming himself. He sat in the chair. The door was shut. Locked. Two knives pressed against his back. Cold. Outside, the sky had lightened. The corner was empty. Nothing there. He sat. Waiting.