Knight didn’t want to say anything, but since Friday afternoon, he felt strange. He worked through it on Saturday, keeping his mind on the tasks at hand.
He felt claustrophobic. He would stand outside in the back alley, taking big gulps of air. Valko looked concerned but Knight said there was nothing wrong.
Saturday night, he had met Arash and Scott, and that sense of claustrophobia was even worse. He felt the real need to get out of the place, to go running.
Sunday afternoon, at the top of the sixth, the Dodgers and the Braves, when Knight stumbled and fell to his knees in the kitchen. The pain in his wrists, his head, was sudden and quick – and he knew where it was all coming from. Valko immediately ran to his side, a hand on his back, his other hand on his arm, “Knight, what’s wrong?”
“Mal,” he whispered, and then the pain was gone. The link, the soul link he had with Mal, was suddenly gone.
“Mal!” He grabbed a hold of the side of the counter, and hauled himself up, even with Valko helping him. “Mal–” he yelled, and and dove out the back door. Valko heard the roar of the engine as Paulie came running into the kitchen.
“What the hell–?”
Valko said, “Something’s wrong with Mal!” He ran to the rear door and threw it open, but Knight, still in his cook’s uniform, tore off down the alley and onto the street.
Paulie ran his hand through his hair. “Dammit.” He pointed to Valko. “You stay here.”
Valko had no where else to go.
Knight rode back to the house. Nothing. To Caprice. Nothing. To Mal’s place. Scott’s place. He didn’t know where the strippers lived so he couldn’t go there. Back to Caprice. No one had seen him today. He could be anywhere…
Flux-Carson. He roared to the gleaming glass building, jumped up onto the sidewalk and parked the bike there. He went to the glass doors, but they were locked tight, and a pair of security guards were at the front desk. Knight yanked on the doors. The security guard got up. Knight yanked hard, rattling the lock, and then he growled and pulled again. This time the door handle came free in his hand. He raised his hand to shatter the glass.
“Wait!” yelled the security guard and dashed across the lobby. Knight waited, not patiently. He tossed the steel handle down. The guard opened the door.
“Malcolm King. I’m lookin’ f’r Malcolm King.”
“He’s not here–”
“Then get me Carson.”
“I’m sorry, Mister…?”
“Knight. Malcolm’s his personal fucking assistant, so he should know where he fucking is!”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Fuckin’ better,” Knight growled, and the door shut. Knight kicked at it, stomped around outside, waiting. He tried to calm down, to collect himself, to reach out to try and feel him, but the connection was gone. Mal had told him that happened only if…
Knight gasped and looked up at the sky to stop the tears. The door opened, and he whirled around. “There’s no answer, Mr. Knight.”
“Gimme th’ number an‘ I’ll try.”
“I’m sorry I can’t do that–”
Knight reached through the door and grabbed the security guard by the shirt. The security guard looked down at Knight’s hand, and said in a very low voice, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” When he looked up at Knight, the security guard’s eyes were a deep crimson. Knight’s own eyes went cat-slitted, and he growled, his hands turning into claws. “I still wouldn’t do that.”
“…a true warrior uses only necessary force” came Mal’s voice in his head. Knight dropped his hand, slowly bringing it to his side. Both men exhaled slowly, knowing what had just been defused.
“Will y’ keep tryin’? Mal’s my mate an’ he ain’ been home f’r days now.” He wanted to blurt out, I think he might be dead. You people would let me know, wouldn’t you?
“I’ll try again, Mr. Knight,” said the security guard, his eyes going back to a dark brown. “Do you have a number?”
Knight gave it to him, and the man nodded, putting it on a piece of paper from his pocket. The sun was starting to go down. Other than heading back home, he might as well head back to the pub.
Let’s check Caprice one more time…