The Merchant of Death Read online

  Everything stopped. The musical notes ended so abruptly it was like somebody threw a switch to cut the power. The dazzling light show ended also. The only thing that didn’t stop was Mark’s pounding heart. Whatever had just happened, it was over now and Mark tried to calm down. He took his hand away from the door and looked back into the bathroom. What he saw was the ring on the floor, right where he had thrown it. It was back to its normal size and the stone had returned to its original solid gray color.

  But something else was there too. Lying on the floor next to the ring was a scroll of paper. It was yellow parchment that had been tightly rolled and tied with a thin leather strap. Whatever the event had been with the ring, the result was that it had deposited this scroll here on the bathroom floor.

  Mark approached the scroll cautiously, bent down, and picked it up with a sweaty hand. It was indeed rolled paper. Nothing scary about it. Just odd. Mark tugged on the leather cord that kept it together and gently unrolled the paper. There were four sheets, all filled with writing. Mark looked at the first line of the first page, and what he read hit him like an electric charge. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. This strange parchment was a letter…to him.

  It began:I hope you’re reading this, Mark.

  Journal #1

  (continued)

  Denduron

  There wasn’t much I could ask Uncle Press from the back of a speeding motorcycle. Between the whine of the engine, the blast of wind rushing by and the fact that both of us were wearing these high-tech helmets, conversation was impossible. So I was left with my own imagination to try and figure out where we were going and why.

  One thing was clear though. We were leaving town. I lived in a quiet, peaceful, okaydull suburb of New York City. I’d been into the city a few times with my parents, mostly to go to events like the holiday spectacular at Radio City or the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Then there was that one time you and I, Mark, hopped the commuter train to catch that James Bond flick. Remember? Other than that, the city was pretty much a mystery to me.

  On the other hand, it didn’t take a New York cabbie to realize Uncle Press was steering us into a section of the city that by anybody’s standards would be defined as…bad. This was not the New York I’d ever seen, except maybe on a TV news report about some nasty crime that had just gone down. Once we shot off the Cross Bronx Expressway we were smack in the middle of the badlands. Burned-out buildings were everywhere. Nobody walked on the streets. It all looked empty and desolate, yet I had the eerie feeling that many sets of eyes were locked on us from the dark windows of the derelict buildings as we cruised by. And of course, it was nighttime dark.

  Was I scared? Well, judging by the fact that I wanted to puke and I held on to Uncle Press so hard I expected to hear one of his ribs crack, I’d say yeah, I was scared. Uncle Press guided the motorcycle toward one of those old-fashioned kiosks that marked the stairs leading down to the subway. We bounced up onto the curb and he killed the engine. As we glided to a stop, suddenly everything became quiet. Granted, I’d been riding on the back of a motorcycle for the past half hour and after thatanything would seem quiet. But this wasreally quiet, like a ghost town. Or a ghost city.

  “This is it,” he announced and jumped off the bike. I jumped off too and gratefully removed my helmet. Finally, I could hear again. Uncle Press left his helmet on the bike and headed for the subway entrance.

  “Whoa, hold on, we’re going to leave the bike and the helmets?” I asked with surprise. I couldn’t believe it. He didn’t even take the keys out of the ignition. I’m no expert on crime, but I could pretty much predict that if we left this gear here, it would be gone before we blinked.

  “We don’t need it anymore,” he said quickly and started down the subway stairs.

  “Why are we taking the subway?” I asked. “Why don’t we just stay on the bike?”

  “Because we can’t take the bike where we’re going,” he answered with a matter-of-fact tone. He turned and headed down a few more steps.

  I didn’t move. I wanted answers, and I wasn’t taking another step until I got some. Uncle Press sensed that I wasn’t following him, so he stopped and looked back at me.

  “What?” he asked, with a little bit of frustration.

  “I just blew off the most important game of my life, my team is going to crucify me tomorrow, and you want me to follow you into the subway in the worst part of New York City? I think I deserve to know what’s going on!” This had gone far enough and if I didn’t get some answers, I was walking. Of course I wasn’t exactly sure of where I would go if Uncle Press left me there and went on alone. I figured it was a safe risk, though. After all, he was my uncle.

  Uncle Press softened. For a moment I saw the face of the guy I’d known all my life. “You’re right, Bobby. I’ve asked you to do a lot on faith. But if we stop for me to explain everything, we may be too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “There’s a group of people who are in trouble. They’re relying on me to help them, and I’m relying on you to help me.”

  I was flattered and freaked at the same time. “Really? What kind of trouble?”

  “That’s what would take me forever to explain. I’d rather show you.”

  I didn’t know what to do. Even if I wanted to run away, I had no clue of how to get out of there. And here was this guy, my uncle, staring me straight in the eye and saying he needed me. There weren’t a whole lot of options. I finally decided to divulge the single overriding thought in my head.

  “I’m scared.” There, I said it.

  “I know. But please believe me, Bobby, as long as it’s in my power, I won’t let anything happen to you.” He said this with such sincerity, it actually made me feel better…for about a second.

  “What happens when it’snot in your power?” I asked.

  Uncle Press smiled, and said, “That won’t be for a while. Are you with me?”

  They say that just before you’re about to meet your doom, your life flashes before your eyes. Surprisingly, that didn’t happen. I didn’t think of the game. I didn’t think of my family. I didn’t even think of Courtney Chetwynde. I just thought about me and Uncle Press. Here and now. I took that as a good sign. So I mustered all the bravura I could and said, “Hey, ho, let’s go.”

  Uncle Press let out a laugh like I hadn’t heard from him in a long time, then turned and rushed down the stairs. As I watched him disappear into the dark hole of the subway, I did my best to pretend I wasn’t being an idiot by going along with him. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I saw Uncle Press standing in front of a wall of graffiti-covered plywood that blocked the entrance. The station was closed and by the looks of the old wood, it had been closed for a long time.

  “Well, that’s a problem,” I said glibly. “No go, right?”

  Uncle Press turned to me and with the sincerity of a sage teacher imparting golden words of wisdom, he said, “There are no problems, only challenges.”

  “Well, if the challenge is to catch a subway at a station that’s closed,” I countered, “then I’d say that’s a problem.”

  But not for Uncle Press. He casually reached toward the wall with one hand, grabbed one of the boards and gave it a yank. It didn’t seem as if he pulled all that hard, but instantly four huge boards pulled loose in one piece, opening up an avenue into the darkened station.

  “Who said anything about catching a subway?” he said with a sly smile.

  He effortlessly dropped the large section of boards on the stairs and stepped inside. I had no idea Uncle Press was that strong. I also had no idea why we were stepping into a closed subway station, at night, in the worst section of the city.

  Uncle Press then poked his head back out. “Coming?”

  I was half a breath away from turning, running up the stairs, and giving myself a crash course in motorcycle driving. But I didn’t. Chances are the bike was already stolen anyway. I had no choice, so I followed him.

&n
bsp; The station had been closed for a long time. The only light came from street lamps that filtered down through grates in the sidewalk. The soft glow cast a crisscross pattern against the walls that threw the rest of the station into darkness. It took a while for my eyes to adjust, but when they did I saw a forgotten piece of history. At one time this was probably a busy station. I could make out ornate mosaic tile work on the walls that must have been beautiful when new, but was now a mess of grimy cracks that looked like a giant, dirty spiderweb. Garbage was everywhere, benches were overturned, and the glass around the token booth was shattered. In a word, it was sad.

  As I stood on top of the cement stairs, the derelict station began to show signs of life. It started as a faint rumble, that slowly grew louder. The station may have been closed, but the subway trains still ran. I saw the headlight first as it beamed into the opening, lighting up the track and the walls. Then the train came—fast. There was no reason to stop at this station anymore so it rumbled through like a shot, on its way to someplace else. For a brief moment I could imagine the station as it had looked in better days. But just as quickly, the image was gone, along with the train. In an instant, the place was deathly quiet again. The only sign that the train had been through was the swirling pieces of crusty paper caught in its slipstream.

  I looked to Uncle Press to see if he were appreciating this forlorn piece of old New York history the same as I was. He wasn’t. His eyes were sharp and focused. He quickly scanned the empty station looking for…something. I didn’t know what. But I definitely sensed that he had just notched up into DefCon 2. He was on full alert, and it didn’t do much to put me at ease.

  “What?” was all I could think of asking.

  He started quickly down the stairs. I was right after him. “Listen, Bobby,” he said quickly, as if he didn’t have much time. “If anything happens, I want you to know what to do.”

  “Happens? What do you mean happens?” This didn’t sound good.

  “Everything will be fine if you know what to do. We’re not here to catch a train, we’re here because this is where the gate is.”

  “Gate? What gate?”

  “At the end of the platform are stairs that lead down to the tracks. About thirty yards down the track, along the wall, there’s a door. It’s got a drawing on it, like a star.”

  Things were going a little fast for me now. Uncle Press kept walking quickly, headed for the far end of the platform. I had to dodge around pillars and overturned garbage cans to keep up with him.

  “You with me?” he asked sharply.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Stairs, door, star. Why are we—”

  “The door is the gate. If for some reason I’m not with you, open the door, go inside and say, ‘Denduron.’”

  “Denda-what?”

  “Den-du-ron. Say it!”

  “Denduron. I got it. What is it, some kind of password?”

  “It’ll get us where we’re going.”

  Okay, could this have been anymore mysterious? Why didn’t we just say “abracadabra” or something equally stupid? I was beginning to think this was all some kind of big old joke.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked nervously. “We’re going together, right?”

  “That’s the plan, but if anything—”

  “Stop right there!”

  Uh-oh. We weren’t alone. We both stopped short and whipped around to see…a cop. Busted. For what I’m not sure. Trespassing, I guess.

  “You boys want to tell me what you’re doing down here?” The cop looked confident—no, cocky. He was a clean-cut guy, with a perfect khaki-colored uniform, a big badge, and an even bigger gun. At least it was still in its holster. Even though we were busted, I was actually kind of relieved to see him. To be honest, Uncle Press was starting to freak me out. I didn’t think he’d gone off the deep end or anything, but this adventure was getting stranger by the second. Maybe now that a cop was here, he’d have to explain things a little better. I looked up to Uncle Press, expecting him to answer the cop. I didn’t like what I saw. Uncle Press was staring the cop down. I could sense the wheels turning in his head, calculating. But what? An escape? I hoped not. The gun on the cop’s hip looked nasty. There was a long moment of silence, like a standoff, and then somebodyelse joined the party.

  “Can’t you leave me in peace?”

  We all shot a look over to a dark corner where a pile of garbage sat. At least it looked like a pile of garbage, until it moved and I saw that it was a homeless dude. Correction, he had a home and we were standing in it. He was a big guy, and I had no idea how old he was because all I saw was a tangle of hair and rags. He didn’t smell so good either. He pulled himself to his feet and shuffled toward us. When he spoke, it was with a kind of slurred, crazy-speak.

  “Peace! That’s all I want! Little peace, little quiet!” he jabbered.

  Uncle Press squared off and stood firm, glancing quickly back and forth between the cop and the homeless guy. He was thinking fast, calculating.

  “I think you two better come with me,” the cop said to us calmly. He wasn’t rattled by the new arrival.

  I looked to Uncle Press. He didn’t move. The homeless guy got closer.

  “Castle! This ismy castle! I want you all to—”

  “What?” asked Uncle Press. “What do you want us to do?” I couldn’t believe he was trying to talk to this crazy guy. Then the platform started to rumble. Another subway train was on its way.

  “I want you all to go away! Leave me alone!”

  For some reason this made Uncle Press smile. Now I was totally confused. Whatever he was trying to calculate, he had his answer. He turned away from the homeless guy and faced the cop.

  “You don’t know this territory, do you?” he said to the cop.

  Huh? What was that supposed to mean? Behind us, the light from the subway train started to leak into the station. It would be here in a few seconds.

  The homeless guy started waving his arms for emphasis. “You! I’m talkin’ to you! I want you out of my castle!” he yelled at the cop.

  I was afraid the cop would pull his gun on the guy for his own protection. But he didn’t. He just stood there, staring at Uncle Press. They looked like two gunslingers, each waiting for the other to blink. Then he gave a little smile and said, “What was your first clue?”

  “The uniform. City cops in this territory wear blue, not khaki,” answered Uncle Press.

  This guy wasn’t a cop? Then who was he? The train horn blared and the screeching of metal wheels on track grew closer.

  “I’m flattered though,” said Uncle Press calmly. “You came yourself.”

  Uncle Press knew who this guy was! The homeless guy kept getting closer to the cop, or whoever he was.

  “That’s it! That’s it! If you don’t git now I’m gonna—”

  Suddenly the cop snapped a look to the homeless guy. It was a cold look that made me catch my breath. It stopped the homeless guy in his tracks. The cop stared at him with an intensity I’d never seen. The guy froze, and then began to shake like he had a fever.

  The subway horn blared. The train was almost in the station.

  The homeless guy looked as if he wanted to get away, but the cop’s laserlike gaze had him locked in place. Then, something happened that I won’t forget as long as I live, though I wish I could. The homeless guy opened his mouth and let out a horrifying, anguished cry. Then he ran. But he didn’t run away, he ran for the tracks! The train entered the station in a blur, and this guy was running toward it.

  “No! Stop!” I shouted. But it didn’t matter. The homeless guy kept running…and jumped in front of the train!

  I turned away at the last second, but that didn’t stop me from hearing it. It was a sickening thud, and his scream was suddenly cut off. The train didn’t even stop. I’ll bet no one onboard knew what had happened. But I did and I wanted to puke. I looked to Uncle Press, who had a pained look. He wiped it away in the next instant and looked back to the cop, wh
o stood there with a smug little smile.

  “That was beneath you, Saint Dane,” said Uncle Press through clenched teeth.

  Saint Dane.That was the first time I heard the name. I had the grim feeling it wouldn’t be the last.

  The cop, Saint Dane, gave an innocent little shrug and said, “Just wanted to give the boy a taste of what is in store for him.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  And then Saint Dane began to transform. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but it was real. His face, his clothes, everything about him changed. I watched in absolute, stupefied awe as he became a different person. His hair grew long and straight till it was over his shoulders. His body grew until he was nearly seven feet tall. His skin became ghostly pale white. His clothes changed from the khaki brown cop uniform, to an all-black suit that vaguely reminded me of the Far East. But none of that mattered as much as his eyes. His eyes grew icy blue and flashed with an evil intensity that made me understand the sheer force of will he possessed that could make someone jump to their death in front of a speeding train.