"Low-Hanging Fruit"

Wilmington, Delaware – 1984

The bar was a sorry little thing.

No, it was more than that: it was actually a testament against the whole idea of human evolution. The dive was little more than a dirty cave, hidden from the light, with foul-smelling biker thugs standing in for cavemen and half-lit neon beer signs on the wall in place of mammoth drawings. The place was right off I-95, near the stinking waters of the Delaware, and its foundation shivered with every passing semi on the Interstate, causing dirty glasses to rattle on the countertops.

Noirbarret braved the dingy tavern, and he stopped at a bar seat next to another man. He stared down at the filthy seat with disdain. After a sizeable pause he rested the crook of his umbrella on the side of the bar and let it dangle there, and then he pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped down the seat. Then, very slowly, as if climbing into a hot bath, he sat down on the wobbly stool. Once he did so the man beside him spoke:

"Funny. The way I remember things you never seemed to mind getting a little dirty, did you, Black Hat?"

The man chuckled into his glass of bourbon. He was rakish thin, and he had the appearance of a 40-year-old, give or take a few years. Mediterranean blood flowed in his veins, and a strong roman nose jutted out under a pair of expressive cinnamon eyes. His eyebrows were bushy— luxurious— and his raven hair smooth and pulled back, glistening with a coat of fine oil.

Noirbarret scowled at him:

"Unless that's supposed to be some kind of clumsy metaphor I might say you've gone senile, Medici."

"Then you really didn't need to call for help, did you?" The man took a long pull from his drink, and then he rapped it down on the bar. "Point of fact, I've forgotten more in my time than you've ever managed to learn in yours, kid."

"Granted. Why do you think I'm here?"

The bartender shuffled over to the pair, wiping his fingers on the side of a stained vest. Medici motioned to Noirbarret with a hand, and the bartender nodded at him:

"What'll you have?"

Noirbarret shook his head, and he flashed the bartender a scowl so black that it made the man wince in surprise. He tried to cover this by giving Noirbarret a little scowl of his own, and then he wandered back down to the other side of the bar, muttering to himself.

"You really won't have a drink?" Medici asked.

"No. I quit."

"Ridiculous!"

"Sad, but true. Not long after we last crossed paths, I think."

"Now when would that have been?" Medici leaned back in his stool, and he ran his fingers up and down his jaw. "Ah! Germany. Coburg, right? Back in '45. Seems like it was only yesterday, doesn't it? Has it really been that long?"

"Time flies," Noirbarret muttered.

"Especially when you're crushing Nazi skulls with a Sherman tank." Medici sighed, shaking his head. "You know that's one of the things I miss these days. We don't seem to have any 'proper' wars, anymore. Great country to great country, I mean. Nowadays everything's 'asymmetrical', they call it, and all the fighting takes place down in the rancid taint of the Earth. Used to be a proper war took place in glamorous city capitals— fate of the civilized world at stake each and every time— and now it's all just jungles and napalm and vague threats of 'dominoes' falling." The man scoffed, taking another sip of bourbon. "War used to be a fine game of chess, Black Hat, and now it's all about dominoes." He looked over at the man: "You do anything over in 'Nam?"

Noirbarret shook his head:

"Kept myself out of the system for that. My warring days are long behind me; it doesn't hold my interest, anymore."

Medici smiled shrewdly:

"And what about your 'Gaming' interests, these days?"

"That," Noirbarret said, "is why I'm here. You still following everyone's movements on this continent?"

"As best I can. That's always been my little hobby. I like to keep very through accounts. Looking for anyone in particular, kid?"

"Yes. The Highlander."

Medici puckered his lips over his glass of bourbon. He looked at Noirbarret with a quizzical frown:

"Really? You wanna go after MacL—"

Noirbarret shook his head, holding up a gloved hand:

"No. Not that Highlander."

Medici stared into his drink for a moment, and then he nodded, chuckling:

"Ah! Then you must mean the little 'Rabid Fox', huh? Well, sorry to disappoint you, kid, but my little directory service doesn't include children. Obviously. So I couldn't tell you where—"

"He's in Philadelphia," Noirbarret muttered. "For now, at least."

Medici looked over at the younger man and he clucked his tongue:

"Really? Just right up the road, is he? How interesting..."

Noirbarret looked over at Medici's glass, watching the liquid slowly ebb about, pulsing in time with traffic from the interstate. He slowly moved his hand up the bar and over the handle of his umbrella. Instantly Medici twisted himself to one side; the man reached one hand into his black overcoat, and his eyes burned with dark fire. Noirbarret slowed his movement; he moved his hand past his umbrella and gripped Medici's glass. All at once he knocked back the rest of the man's drink, hissing with satisfaction like a pit viper.

Medici slowly removed his hand from his coat. He sighed, shaking his head:

"Thought you said you didn't drink anymore, Black Hat."

"Old habits," Noirbarret said. "History repeats itself, you know." He flashed Medici a threatening look: "And don't you even think about acting on your own 'interest' in this information. That boy isn't yours to have."

Medici scoffed:

"Ah, don't worry about that. No, if I were more involved in the Game, maybe. Perhaps if it were a few hundred years ago, or so, I'd think about going after him. And, of course, if I didn'tknow his reputation. I'm just gonna assume you do know his reputation, Black Hat?"

Noirbarret rested his chin over clasped hands; he stared forward with no expression on his face:

"I am intimately familiar with the child. His toes, his head, and all parts in between..."

"Fine. Then you know what you're getting yourself into. But I am a little confused. See, if you already know where the boy is then why come to me?"

"I need the lay of Philly," Noirbarret explained. "Who's where, and who's doing what. I don't want to be bothered by any challengers while I'm up there looking for him."

Medici nodded:

"Well, there's at least a few of us up there. I believe The Hunter is still active in Philly, unless his bosses transferred him somewhere else. He's a beast of a player, so I assume that he'll want a piece of you as soon as you arrive in the city. Fasil was there, too, I think, although he's been moving up the coast ever since he got over here from Damascus; it's very likely he's no longer in the city. Oh, and Kastagir passed through Philadelphia a few months back, too, but he's certainly not there, anymore. He was also moving north, I believe. As for the rest, well..." Medici ran one finger along the rim of his glass. His firm, marble-like face quickly sagged, and he scratched at his chiseled chin.

"What about the rest?" Noirbarret demanded.

"Uh, it's out in Trenton, actually, not Philly— just north of the river, in fact— I have information that one last of us is there. It's...well, probably Carlin Gay."

Noirbarret— so emotionless for their whole conversation— suddenly twisted his lips together. He recovered, but looked over at Medici with suspicion.

"Carlin Gay? Are you sure about that?"

"Pretty sure." Medici shrugged. "Now, that means that there's no real danger to you, as long as you keep your distance, but—"

"But if I want Penance, then I need to move fast."

Medici scoffed.

"Get yourself to a church if you want that. Granted, for you it's probably a bit too late, anyway. But if you wanna catch that little Rabid Fox then yes, you'll need to hurry. Of course I wouldn't go too fast, Black Hat; the kid's got a face like a choirboy, but in his time he's managed to rack up— what is it, now?"

"Thirteen heads," Noirbarret nodded.

"No. Eighteen. At least."

Noirbarret scoffed and shrugged:

"Penance and I have been out of touch for too long, I guess." The man stood up, and he very slowly retrieved his umbrella from the side of the bar. Medici watched this movement with grave attention. "Oh, and just to help make those records of yours more complete: add Lone Horn to Penance's list of kills. He got him in Baltimore."

"That's who it was, eh? I felt that quickening dearly, even from up here in Wilmington. Felt like a lightning bolt burning my loins. I was on a ladder in my library at the time, reaching for a book. The feeling nearly knocked me right down to the ground. I could've broken my neck!" Medici chuckled and ran his finger along the rim of his now-empty glass. "Funny thing, isn't it? Children his age are supposed to be 'gimmies', aren't they? They're the low-hanging fruit of our little immortal Game. Easy kills. Well, when it comes to 'low-hanging fruit', this kid hangs about as low as his testicles." He looked up at Noirbarret, shaking his head. "I can count the number of immortals with that many kills on one hand. He's a genuine monster, Black Hat."

Noirbarret set the tip of his umbrella on the dirty floor; he ground it into the rotted floorboards and shook his head.

"No, Medici. Penance isn't a monster. In fact, he doesn't even know what a monster really is." Noirbarret buttoned his overcoat, becoming much more businesslike. "Thank you for the drink, and the information."

He managed two steps before Medici called out to him:

"We gonna talk at all about what's really going on, here, Black Hat?"

Noirbarret looked back at the man with slit eyes:

"All due respect: my business with Penance Cameron is none of yours, Medici."

"Not that." Medici motioned to the bartender, who quickly brought the man another bourbon. "No, I'm talking about the other thing."

"What 'other thing'?"

"I told you that Faisal was here, but he's moved on up north. Kastagir, too. I, myself, have been happy with my lot in Wilmington, but lately I've been feeling a certain yen to move further north. Now I learn that you're following the Rabid Fox, and he'sleading you north, too..."

"What's your point, Medici?"

"Strange, isn't it, that all of us seem to be traveling in the same direction? Black Hat: I stare at the map these days, and when my eyes look north and I look across the bay, along the banks of the Hudson, I practically salivate with some kind of longing—"

"You're thinking about moving? Then do it, and keep your travel plans to yourself—"

"I think," Medici gravely mumbled, "that the days of all of us 'moving' are nearing an end. Something's singing in my very bones. Do you not feel it? The Source is stirring, and if I were the type to prophesize, I'd say it may nearly be time for the Gath—"

"You wanna move up north, Medici? Fine. As a matter of fact you do it soon, within a week. I prefer to have the breathing room. Otherwise I'll be coming back here and taking your head. You got it?"

Medici shook his head and clucked his tongue:

"I'll give you all the 'breathing room' you want, kid, but something tells me that you're gonna end up in the same place as the rest of us, in the very near future."

"Maybe," Noirbarret whispered. "That's possible, but very doubtful." He leaned forward and snarled in Medici's ear: "but one thing I can promise: Penance Cameron won't be there to play with any of you. He won't be leaving Philadelphia, one way or the other!"

Noirbarret stormed off, his dress shoes slamming down on the dirty floor like horse's hooves. He burst into the light of day and vaulted into his black mustang. With a tortured squeal the engine thundered to life and the car careened out of the tavern parking lot. Noirbarret barreled down the interstate, his hands strangling the wheel in a vice grip. A sign met his eyes and it made him smile, teeth grinding together like coarse sandpaper.

"Philadelphia – 35 miles."