Free Sorcerer by Greg F. Gifune Page A

floor.  “Yes,” she whispered.  “God forgive me…but yes.”
    *  *  *  *
    Moments later Jeff was back in Boston.  There was a slight break in the stifling heat as an enormous bank of storm clouds slowly rolled in off Boston Harbor.  The cab moved through the streets between the theater district and Chinatown, then finally pulled onto a side street and lurched to a stop near a vacant lot strewn with garbage and debris.  The driver pointed to a rotting shell of an apartment building just beyond the lot.  “That’s it.”
    “Crazy,” he mumbled, “no one could actually live  here.”
    “That’s the address you gave me.  You want me to wait again?”
    “No.”
    Jeff paid him and stepped out.  As he crossed the lot thunder rumbled in the distance and a cool breeze provided an unexpected chill.  He reached the base of the steps and looked up at the dilapidated, graffiti-covered structure.  Most of the windows were blown out and the front doors were missing.  He glanced around.  The neighborhood was deserted.
    A drizzle began to fall, startling a congregation of blackbirds perched along the roof into flight.  Jeff watched until they disappeared into the dark clouds overhead.  He slowly forced himself up the front steps.
    As he entered what had once been a lobby his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in light.  A variety of lurid smells wafted all around him, and rain trickled in through several cavities in the high ceiling.  A timeworn staircase stood to his right.  Jeff ascended it cautiously, testing each step with his weight before continuing.
    When he reached the top he followed a long hallway filled with garbage and the splintered remains of furniture to the first apartment.  The door had rotted from its hinges and collapsed just inside the entrance.  He climbed over the door and into an open area.  Broken pallets and a few discarded empty crates lay scattered about, and upon seeing him, a covey of plump rats scurried off, seeking refuge in corners or small portals previously gnawed in the decaying walls.
    A rustling sound diverted Jeff’s attention.  A large piece of tattered plastic hung over one of the windows, rippling in the mounting breeze, and on the floor just beneath it sat a pile of spent liquor bottles.  
    “Hello?”  The only reply was the echo of his voice.  “Is anyone here?”
    “Joint’s taken,” a voice behind him said suddenly.
    Jeff spun round to see a man standing a few feet away.  “Jesus,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath.  “You scared the hell out of me.”
    “What do you want?”  Keeping a wary distance, the man produced an enormous hunting knife from his belt and brandished it about between them with a slow and threatening arcing motion.
    “Take it easy,” Jeff said putting his hands up.  “I don’t want any trouble.”
    His eyes widened, as if he were losing sight of him.  “Who are you?”  
    It was difficult to tell the man’s age.  His clothes were soiled and worn, his hair and face needed to be washed and he was clearly exhausted.  “McGrath.”
    “I don’t know nobody named McGrath.”
    “I’m looking for Steven Wychek.”
    The man stared at him, dumbfounded.
    “Are you Mr. Wychek?” Jeff asked, already wondering if he could outrun this man if need be.  “Do I have the right person?”
    The man slowly lowered the knife to his side.  “Nobody knows where I am.  How did you find me?”
    “Your wife told me you were hiding here.”
    “My…wife…”  His hostility turned to terror.  “My God,” he muttered.  “You…You’re one of them.”
    “No, I’m not, I—I’m caught up in this the same as you.”  Confused, Jeff continued to hold his hands up to assure the man that he harbored no bad intentions toward him.  “A man named Foster Hope hired me, he’s forcing me to work for him.”
    Wychek raised the knife a bit higher, ready to use it if need be.  
    “That’s not necessary, OK?”  Jeff