Chapter Thirteen

Waiting was the hardest part.

It was completely dark, yet it was lighter at night than Fakir had ever seen it. The industrial park was filled with lampposts, as well as various windows in the different office buildings that remained lit.

Were there still people in all of them? Fakir cursed to himself. If there were, then there were many chances for unsuspecting innocents to wander outside and end up killed.

The guard tapped him on the head. "You'd better have your writing pad ready," he growled. "The instant something goes wrong, you're going to fix it."

"If something goes wrong it's your mistake," Fakir retorted. "I shouldn't have to clean up after you."

The thug swore. "After all this, you're still talking like that?" His eyes narrowed. "I would've thought you would have learned a little respect by now, especially considering what you know we can do."

"I'd never respect any of you," Fakir snarled. "You're not worth it. You haven't done anything to earn respect, from me or any other decent person."

The guard shook his gun at Fakir. "You're just lucky we need you, punk," he said. "If you were expendable, I wouldn't waste any time using this on you."

"And then you'd bring the whole neighborhood down on you," Fakir said. "It looks like there's people still working."

"Most of those lights are just security precautions," the sentry sneered. "The workers have all gone home now, except for maybe a night watchman here and there."

"I just wonder what the von Schroeder night watchman will think if he catches Heimbrecht in all this," Fakir said.

"If he does, that's Heimbrecht's problem," was the reply. "Until you conveniently alter the guy's memory of what he saw."

Fakir's eyes widened. "I'm not going to do that!" he cried. It was too much like Drosselmeyer. He had long ago vowed never to write like his crazed ancestor. And he was determined to keep that promise.

The guard brought his gun level with Fakir's forehead. "What did you say?" He waved the weapon in a threatening manner, back and forth in front of Fakir's eyes. "I hope this isn't the next sight that stupid girl sees."

Fakir clenched his teeth. Ahiru. He had to think of Ahiru, and Charon as well. As much as he wanted to defy the gang, he could not, at least not out loud. He would have to control his feelings while he tried to find a way out of this.

The thug nodded in approval at Fakir's silence. "Good," he said. "That's what I want to hear from you. All you're needed for is to write. Anton's going to be watching you too, you know."

"And also Heimbrecht," Fakir said. He smirked at the gangster's visible surprise. "That's right, I already know. You can't shake me up with that news."

The man quickly recovered. "If you know that, then Heimbrecht must have got in your face about making sure you don't let us down," he said. "If something goes wrong, Heimbrecht will be called on the carpet as well as you."

"I don't care what happens to Heimbrecht," Fakir retorted. "I care what happens to my family."

"Then it sounds like another indication that you're not as noble as you think," the guard smirked.

"I don't have to answer to you," Fakir shot back.

While they had been talking, Heimbrecht had been making certain the security system at the largest warehouse was deactivated. Now he was slowly opening the large doors with help from some of the others. They filed inside, Heimbrecht going last.

"Come on," the sentry ordered, pushing Fakir ahead of him. "We have to watch everything that happens. You won't know what you need to write otherwise."

I know what I need to write, Fakir thought bitterly to himself. But he moved forward, stepping towards the open doorway. His shadow was right behind him, gun in hand.

Inside the warehouse, the gang members were loading crates into a van that was parked near the doors. So far everything seemed to be going as planned. Neither Fakir nor his guard was supposed to assist, unless things began to go wrong.

Of course, that was exactly what started to happen.

"Hey! Hey, you! What are you doing?"

The voice rang out of the night, sending a frozen arrow into Fakir's heart. He whirled at the same moment as every other member of the gang. What looked like a bewildered worker was running towards the warehouse, his flashlight bearing down on them.

"Don't take another step!" Fakir's guard snarled, pointing his gun at the hapless man. "Okay, punk. Write!"

No one's attention was on Fakir. He dipped his pen in the ink, frantic to scratch out a sentence in which to save the innocent bystander. And maybe, he thought, just maybe, if he had enough time, he could write himself out of this mess altogether.

But there was really no time to write. It only took seconds for Fakir to realize that this had been an absurd plan. Some things happened far too quickly to allow for Fakir to warp reality with his pen.

The man was angry. He was not stopping. "You're robbing one of Siegfried von Schroeder's warehouses!" he yelled. "I've got a gun. Don't make me use it!"

"Don't make me laugh," Fakir's guard responded. His finger started to wrap around the trigger.

By the time Fakir could write even a word, it would be too late. In his panic, all thoughts of everything other than the current situation were driven from his mind.

"No!" he screamed. In the next instant his paper holder was on the ground and he was diving at the guard in desperation.

The frantic tackle sent the shocked man tumbling off-course. The gun fired harmlessly into the air.

"Get out of here!" Fakir yelled to the worker as he struggled with his captor. "Call the police. Do something; just go!"

The worker stared at the scene, not certain what to make of it. But then he obediently turned and fled.

The gang had given up on gathering any more crates. They were scrambling into the van, preparing to drive it through the doorway.

Fakir's guard had no intention of being run down by the escape vehicle. He swore vilely as he got the upper hand in the fight and thrust Fakir away to stumble and crash into a stack of crates just to the right of the door.

There was no time to gather his bearings. Fakir pushed himself upright, shaking the stars from his vision. He had no idea that at that moment people other than the gang were watching him.

xxxx

By the time Charon drove into the industrial park, havoc was already ensuing. The sound of the gunshot chilled his blood, as well as that of the kids'. Ahiru leaned forward, gripping the seat in front of her.

"What was that?" she cried. "They're shooting! Maybe they shot Fakir! Maybe he's hurt! Maybe he's . . ."

"Maybe nothing happened," Autor cut in. But the strain in his own voice bespoke of his similar fears.

Charon clutched the steering wheel. Maybe someone other than Fakir was shot. And would Fakir be arrested as an accessory to murder? This was getting worse all the time. He sped around the next corner, silently praying for his son.

"Look!" Ahiru suddenly cried. "That's Fakir there! I know it's him!" But she only pointed ahead at a dark-haired figure for a brief moment before undoing her safety belt and practically flying out of the car while it was still moving. She had no eyes for the stragglers in the gang who were still loading themselves into the van, nor for the guns each one was clutching. She only saw Fakir as he stood up where he had been pushed, wiping red from the side of his mouth.

"Fakir!" she wailed at the same moment the van's doors closed and the vehicle gunned ahead. "Fakir!"

But he could not hear her. The van roared out of the warehouse at that instant, with Ahiru right in its path.

Until without warning arms wrapped around her waist and tackled her out of the way just in time. Struggling and screaming, she fell to the ground with her rescuer.

"What are you doing?" she cried. "Fakir's right there! I have to get to him! Let me go!"

The arms held fast. "Ahiru, you were almost killed!" Autor responded. "Didn't you even see that van?"

Ahiru wrenched away, pushing him back. Her heart pounded in her ears. The van had gone past now and was screeching down the road. And Fakir was nowhere to be seen.

"Now they have him again!" she wailed, too emotionally distraught to really hear or focus on what Autor had told her at all. "You just let them take him! We could have saved him and now he's gone. He's gone!"

"We couldn't have done anything!" Autor said, an agonized edge coming into his voice. "Don't you understand, Ahiru? We couldn't have saved him this time! You would have only gotten yourself killed, right in front of his eyes!"

Ahiru flinched. That reached her, but the anguish that had been building throughout this horrible experience was still spilling out.

"You don't know that!" she snapped. "You said that to save Fakir we had to take risks! You didn't really mean it! You didn't mean anything! What kind of a friend are you?"

With that she turned and fled down the street. Autor stared after her, too shaken to even speak. He reached to push up his glasses, his hand trembling.

"She didn't mean that, Autor."

He did not turn to look back at Charon. "She meant it," he rasped. "And she's right. I did let them take Fakir again. She'll never forgive me. I can't believe you will, either."

Charon's heart had already been pierced by the horrifying events of the past few minutes. Autor's words only sank the sword deeper.

"That isn't true!" he said, harsher than he had intended. "Autor, you didn't do anything wrong. You were forced into a situation where you had to make a choice. You had to let Fakir go because of a more immediate problem. Ahiru didn't see the van at all. She would have been killed if you hadn't pulled her away."

"You don't know that," Autor said quietly, echoing Ahiru's words. He turned away, walking towards a different warehouse.

Charon reached after him in vain. "Autor. . . ." He looked in the direction Ahiru had gone. "Ahiru. . . ."

He felt like sinking to his knees in despair. His son was gone again. His daughter was heartbroken and unable to cope with it. And Autor was likewise devastated. If anyone would never forgive Autor for his decision, it was Autor.

"Excuse me, sir?"

He looked up in surprise. An unfamiliar man was coming towards him, his face sheet-white. His hand shook as he gripped a flashlight.

"Do you work here?" he asked.

It was Charon's turn to be surprised. "No," he said. "I came . . . looking for someone."

"I work here," said the man. "I just called the police about a robbery at one of the warehouses. I was working late and I saw it. . . ."

"Did you see a teenage boy with dark hair in a ponytail?" Charon demanded.

The other man blinked in surprise. "Yes, I did," he said. "I was being foolish, thinking I could be a hero, and . . . well, that boy saved my life."

A smile spread across Charon's worn features. "Tell me exactly what happened," he said. "From the beginning."

xxxx

Fakir hissed as he was thrown against the wall of the speeding van. Several crates shook back and forth, threatening to break free of their bindings and fall on him. The gang members who had dragged him into the back of the vehicle did not seem to notice or care. The motion did not appear to bother them, either. They only had attention for Fakir. As the van continued to bounce down the road, they kicked and hit and struck the boy in rapid succession, never once allowing him the chance to get up.

"Anton saw everything," Heimbrecht snarled. He had been the ringleader in the beating. Fakir could imagine what sort of terrible fate awaited him once they stopped.

"How do you know he did?" Fakir managed to get out. "It's not like there's been time for a phone call."

"There was a call, but that's irrelevant. He said he'd be watching. He always is!" Heimbrecht's eyes flashed. "And even if he wasn't, there's not a man in here who'd keep quiet about this if asked."

Fakir pushed himself up on his hands and knees. "So you're all traitors to each other," he said. "Each one of you just cares about himself. The whole group of you is pathetic."

That remark landed him a harsh kick in his ribs. He hissed, falling onto his side as he grabbed for the injured spot.

Heimbrecht bent down, murder in his eyes. "If Anton hadn't made it clear that you're not expendable, you'd be dead right now," he said.

"Does he care if you beat me up so bad everyone will know something's wrong when they see me?" Fakir retorted.

The killer snatched a handful of Fakir's thick hair, digging his fingers in painfully. "No one's going to see you now," he said. "Not unless Anton says so. After we deliver the goods, you're getting out of Munich tonight. Anton doesn't want to take a chance on you being here right now. He's going to take you someplace else and then make sure you use your powers to help us. He won't tolerate another scene like tonight's."

Fakir gritted his teeth against the pain. "You're staying here?" he said. "You're not even going to try to get away from Anton?"

Heimbrecht called him a foul name and struck the side of his head with the butt of the gun. Fakir fell back in pain. Crimson was already trickling down his temple and over his cheek.

"I'd be shot dead the minute I'd try to leave," Heimbrecht said. "Anton would kill anyone here who didn't try to stop me."

"What a rotten life," Fakir said.

"You can lay there and say that. You're going to live after tonight." Heimbrecht stood, pressing his foot unbearably on the side of Fakir's back.

The boy gasped, clawing at the floor. From his current position he still could not try to defend himself. And it was his right side where his sore ribs were. The added pain from the pressure against them was enough to force him to squeeze his eyes shut. He could scarcely stop from crying out. But that was one satisfaction he refused to give his enemy. Instead he gripped at the floor and held on tight.

"Okay, that's enough of that. Don't break anything . . . yet."

Fakir's eyes opened at these words. Two other gang members were dragging Heimbrecht back by the arms. Instantly the pressure eased. Fakir gasped, breathing heavily at the release.

"Anton will decide if he should be beat up any more," the first of the two said. "I say he should have got the point by now. It's enough punishment."

Fakir stiffened, his eyes widening in shock at those words. Enough punishment? After all the threats against Ahiru and Charon, the beating was enough punishment? But . . . what did that mean?

His heart pounded in his ears. Of course, he could not know for sure until Anton saw him, and maybe not even then, but . . . were they not going to kill Ahiru or Charon? Why?

There was only one reason that Fakir could think of. The gang had lost track of them. In that case it would be impossible to kill them . . . at this point, anyway. And since Ahiru's life had just been threatened during the robbery, they must have learned about the stalker's lack of success since then, perhaps through a call from Anton.

Fakir curled his right hand into a fist. If that were so, then he no longer had to fear for Ahiru and Charon's safety quite as much. He could think of ways to fight the gang. Maybe he actually would be able to get out.

The van ground to a halt. Fakir jerked to attention, looking up from where he was still laying on the floor. Had they arrived? Or was there some kind of delay?

The back doors creaked open. Judging from the way Heimbrecht had begun to shake in the grip of his two captors, this was a planned stop. It must be Anton or some other gang members opening the doors.

In spite of himself, Fakir tensed. Heimbrecht had been nothing but cruel and evil towards him and his loved ones. Nevertheless, he did not want to see a man killed in cold blood.

He glanced towards the doorway. A broad form was silhouetted there, with the moonlight glinting off of a shiny object in his hand. At the moment it was cocked over the figure's shoulder. But even as the intruder spoke, in Anton's matter-of-fact, uncaring tones, the weapon was pulled down and forward to be aimed directly at the horrified Heimbrecht.

"You've disappointed me, Heimbrecht. I expected better things of you." The gun clicked.

"Wait!" Heimbrecht cried, his voice strangled. "Spare me! It's the fool you assigned to be the boy's guard that you should kill. He was right next to him and couldn't stop anything!"

"Shifting the blame, Heimbrecht? Not to worry; he will be dealt with shortly. Right now, however, it's your life that's on the line. And I'm afraid your time is up."

"No!" Heimbrecht's scream came at the same time the gun fired. Blood splattered in every direction. Fakir stared in horror, his eyes wide. He could not see exactly where the bullet had entered, but as Heimbrecht sank lifelessly to the floor and was released by the other gangsters, it was clear he was dead.

Anton returned the smoking pistol to his position above his shoulder. "Remove the body," he directed. "Then begin unloading the van. It has to be disposed of before it can be traced to our location."

He leaned further inside, turning his attention to the stunned Fakir. "I hope that was a satisfactory lesson for you, young Fakir," he said. "I'm sure you won't forget it."

Fakir swore, pushing himself to his knees even as he trembled from the effort. "I'm sure I won't, either," he said. "I've never seen a man murdered before."

"Take him in the house," Anton said, only studying his battered appearance for a moment before looking to the gang members. "Leave him to his devices until the van is unloaded. Then we will prepare for the journey to Frankfurt."

It should not be a surprise, Fakir supposed. He had already been told they were leaving Munich. And Frankfurt was another large city where they could hide and plan robberies. But some part of him was still consternated anyway.

"Frankfurt?" he repeated.

"And I trust you will give us a correct display of your skills once there," Anton continued, nonplused as he watched two thugs drag Fakir up under his arms.

Over my dead body, Fakir retorted in his mind.

But outwardly he just gave his nemesis a dark glare.

xxxx

The industrial park had been madness ever since the robbery. The police had arrived, sirens wailing, only minutes after Charon had spoken with the worker Fakir had saved. According to the officer with whom Charon had spoke, a couple of officers had been assigned to the park but had been on its opposite side. Charon was frustrated and unhappy with the amount of attention they had paid to his call. Now they were milling around, taking pictures and jotting down notes and talking with whomever they could find.

Charon had already given his account. Autor and Ahiru were both expected to tell their versions as well—once they could be found. At the moment Charon was wandering through the area, searching in fear and concern for them both.

Ahiru was a very emotional girl. Charon had been certain that an outcry such as tonight's would have come sooner or later if the agony had dragged on. He had to admit that he had not predicted the possibility of her lashing out at Autor, but now that it had happened it did not surprise him.

But he had never seen Autor so broken. It worried him just as much or more than Ahiru's state. Even though Charon had known that Autor concealed so much of his pain, he had not thought he would ever see the boy like this.

He called for them both as he wandered deeper into the maze of buildings. For an agonizingly long time, he heard nothing in reply. But then at last came a sobered answer.

"I'm here."

He followed the sound of Autor's voice around the side of another set of warehouses. He found the boy sitting on an overturned crate, slumped forward with his hair slipping down to help conceal his eyes. His cravat was loose; even the top button of his shirt had been undone. Both were highly unusual, considering Autor's penchant for neatness.

"Are you alright?" Charon asked.

Autor stiffened as though he had been caught in some illegal act. "Yes," he said with impatience. "I'm fine."

They both knew he was not.

Charon came closer, lowering himself onto another crate. Autor glanced to him, then away. "Where's Ahiru?"

"She had better be somewhere in this industrial park." Charon shook his head with a sigh. "It's been a rough day on you both."

"And on you as well." Autor still would not look back at him. His voice was pulled taut, but Charon could hear the quaver in it.

"We're going to get Fakir back." Charon's tone was firm. "We caught up to him once. We can do it again."

Autor's shoulders trembled now. "You don't understand. I've failed again." He clenched a fist. "I've failed Ahiru, Fakir, and you. I vowed to not let myself be outwitted by that gang another time. If only I could have kept Ahiru from leaping out of the car and into the path of the van, maybe then we could have saved Fakir.

"It was horrifying enough to have fallen off that balcony, seeing Fakir trying to save me and hearing Ahiru screaming. The gang got away with Fakir when we went there to get him back. Ahiru realized that our failure had badly shaken me. I'm not sure even I discerned how much until it happened once more tonight."

He shook his head. "All my life I've felt like such a failure," he said bitterly. "I wasn't shrewd enough to understand that those older children—those supposed friends of mine—were making a fool of me until they tossed me away.

"I couldn't Story-Spin, despite all of my research and all of my love of Drosselmeyer's works.

"I told Fakir to be careful of his powers. Yet when I discovered my own at long last, I was overcome with the powerlust that had built in my heart for years.

"I told him not to get over-confident. But after we managed to handle so many strange cases, I started to believe we could win against whatever came at us.

"And now this has happened, dragging me firmly back to reality once more." He sat up straighter. "We can't always win. I've led us to defeat on every leg of this journey."

Charon's eyes narrowed. "That isn't true," he said. "It was your idea to come to Munich. Because of you, we've found Fakir."

"And lost him again. They might not even stay in Munich. They're probably already gone."

"We don't know that." Charon's voice took on a gruff tone. "We're going to keep looking. I won't give up until Fakir is back with us."

Autor clenched a fist. "Don't get me wrong," he said. "I'm not giving up. I . . . I just . . ." Again his voice shook, more prominently this time. "I don't know what to do any more. I don't know how to be strong."

Suddenly Charon realized why Autor had refused to meet his gaze. The boy was crying.

He moved closer, laying a large and callused hand on Autor's shoulder. Autor froze, but did not try to shrug away. He respected Charon, but more than that, he needed and wanted this right now.

"No one can be strong all of the time," Charon said. "Not me, not Fakir . . . not you."

Autor choked on a sob. "I'm tired of letting everyone down," he said. "When I saw Ahiru's eyes after we lost track of Fakir in the bedlam, my heart shattered. I know she blamed me, since I was holding her back from running after him. She as much as said that she blamed me. She asked what kind of friend I was."

"You saved her life," Charon interjected. "You're the greatest friend she or Fakir could have. Ahiru knows that. She loves you; she spoke out of heartbreak and anguish."

Autor trembled. "But . . . I can't see her look like that again. I can't stand thinking about how Fakir looked when I fell. I can't . . ."

There were times when Charon was at a total loss with parenting. More times than he liked to remember, he had made foolish mistakes. Those occasions were sometimes enough to make him want to quit.

Yet in the midst of it all there were other times, glorious times when he did something right. Those incidents dulled the memories of all the mistakes, at least for a while.

This time he was certain he knew what needed to be done.

He stood, walking around to be in front of Autor. Slowly he reached out, pulling the despairing boy into a firm, warm embrace.

Again Autor froze, both stunned and unsure what to make of this. But then he clutched at Charon in desperation.

In the morning he would more than likely be embarrassed by his display. He would probably request that Charon never tell Ahiru or Fakir—not that Charon ever would think of it anyway. He would want to don his perfectly calm, unruffled façade and be his usual aloof self.

Tonight, however, he was a lost and frightened boy in urgent need of some parental comfort.

And to Charon, by now Autor was practically his son anyway.