by Timothy Zahn
"Make it fast," Ingvar told him, glancing around.
"Right." Lengthening his stride, Bergan marched off down the sidewalk.
Caroline looked around. There was a cafe on the corner, but it appeared to be closed. The only moving cars were the ones she could see zipping past back on Greenwich Avenue a block away, and all the apartment windows below the level of their umbrella were blank. Bergan and Ingvar had certainly picked a nice quiet spot for their kidnapping.
"Where exactly did you park?" Roger growled as Bergan disappeared over a slight rise. "New Jersey?"
"We got as close as we could," Ingvar said, nudging Caroline toward the connecting side street.
"Let's walk down here a little, shall we?"
This street was also one-way, in the direction they were currently walking, and narrow enough to allow for only one curb's worth of parked cars. Two blocks ahead, Caroline could see the steady traffic of a major street angling across it. "Sorry for the extra exercise," Ingvar apologized. "There was someone sitting in a window back there watching the rain."
"And you'd like there not to be any witnesses," Caroline murmured.
"What we'd like is not to be noticed at all," Ingvar countered. "So far, that's not working too well."
"What do you expect?" Roger countered. "You didn't have to kill that old woman, you know."
"That was an accident," Ingvar said, stretching his arm out and opening his hand. Like a reversed movie, the weapon came apart into silver tendrils and flowed back down his palm to disappear up the sleeve of his gray jacket. "Bergan was just trying to get her to back off. But she'd Shrieked us, and his aim was a little too scrambled."
"So she is dead?" Caroline asked, her stomach tight.
"Afraid so," Ingvar conceded. "For whatever it's worth, Father was as mad about it as you probably are."
They had reached the cross-street midway down the two-block length now, and Ingvar brought them to a halt. To their left, Caroline could again see the traffic on Greenwich Avenue, and for a moment she wondered what would happen if she and Roger made a break for it. Would Ingvar chase them, or simply bring out his gun again and shoot them down in cold blood?
"So how does Melantha fit into all this?" Roger asked, turning to face the other.
Ingvar frowned at him. "Velovsky didn't tell you? Figures. I assume that's one of the things Father wants to discu—"
And right in the middle of a word, Roger dropped the umbrella and drove his fist hard into Ingvar's stomach.
Ingvar didn't fall. He didn't even grunt. For all the effect Caroline could see, Roger might as well have hit a three-hundred-pound hanging bag.
She looked at Ingvar's face, fearing the worst. But there was no anger there, only a faintly mocking look of amusement. "Come on, Roger," he admonished. "You can do better than that."
Roger was staring at him, his breath coming fast and ragged, his fist opening and closing as if he was gauging his chances of getting the punch to work the next time. "But let's not even try," the Gray added before Roger could make up his mind.
From the corner behind them came the sound of an engine, and a dark blue sedan turned carefully around the parked cars onto their side street. "Where are you taking us?" Caroline asked.
"Brooklyn," Ingvar told her, giving Roger a last appraising look and then turning toward the approaching vehicle. "About half an hour's—"
He broke off as the car suddenly leaped forward, accelerating straight toward them. As Caroline watched, an arm and shoulder came through the driver's side window and leveled another of the gray guns at them.
"Shee!" Ingvar bit out, shoving Roger out of his way toward the line of parked cars. Jumping toward the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, he twisted his wrist and snapped his own gun back into his hand.
But he was too late. Even as he brought the weapon to bear, a white line shot out from the driver's hand and landed squarely in the center of his chest.
Roger's desperate punch hadn't even rocked Ingvar back on his heels. The white line hurled him three feet backward to sprawl onto the pavement. He rolled up onto his side, twisting his wrist over again—
"Come on!" Roger's voice snapped in Caroline's ear. Before she could even turn around, he had grabbed her wrist and was dragging her between the parked cars and down the cross-street toward Greenwich Avenue. It took two staggering steps for her to catch up to his stride; and then they were sprinting together down the sidewalk. Caroline heard the sudden change in engine noise as the car behind them shot past their cross-street and kept going.
No one stopped them or shot at them. A taut half minute later, they emerged onto the avenue.
"Wait," Caroline gasped as Roger turned them to the right and slowed to a fast walk. "What about Ingvar?"
"What about him?"
"Did whoever was in that car run him down?" Caroline clarified. "We can't just leave him back there."
"He'd probably have left us there."
"You don't know that."
Roger hissed an annoyed sigh. "We'll go over to St. Vincent," he said, pointing to the hospital across the street. "There are bound to be some cops there. They can go check it out."
"I suppose that'll—" Caroline broke off, jumping as a vehicle suddenly squealed to a halt at the curb beside them.
She spun toward it, expecting to see the blue car with Bergan glaring at her through the windshield.
To her relief, it was only a taxi. "Cab?" the driver shouted out the window at them.
"No, thanks," Roger said.
"Actually," a soft voice said from behind Caroline, "you should."
Carefully, Caroline turned. But again it wasn't Bergan. Instead, it was a pair of slender young men with black hair and eyes and dark, Mediterranean features.
And long, slender knives held inside their open coats.
"Oh, no," she murmured.
"Get in," the Green ordered. His voice was still quiet, still civilized, almost pleasant.
Caroline looked at Roger. He nodded, his posture drained of all its earlier energy. Too many shocks, she realized, coming too quickly on each other's heels.
Silently, she slid into the backseat. The driver, she saw now to her complete lack of surprise, also had black hair and olive skin.
Roger climbed in after her, one of the Greens getting in beside him as the other Green took the front passenger seat. "Just sit back and relax," the driver said over his shoulder as he pulled away from the curb. "It's a nice day for a drive."
16
"So," Fierenzo murmured aloud, parking his fists on his hips as he stood by the iron fence at the mouth of the alley. "This is the place."
There was no answer. Not that he'd expected one, of course. Aside from the usual assortment of trash, the alley where the Whittiers claimed to have been accosted was pretty much empty.
For a minute he gazed over the fence, taking it all in. Alleys were alleys, as far as he was concerned, but this one at least had the virtue of an interesting layout. Three different buildings faced into it, with a six-foot concrete wall along the right cutting off a small courtyard that didn't seem to serve any purpose he could see. A door led from the courtyard into the building on that side, a door the Whittiers' mugger might have found useful if he'd been able to get over the wall.
Of course, if he'd gotten up on the wall, he could just as easily have gone up the fire escape at the back end. Alternatively, he might have made it up the concrete steps beyond the fire escape, gone across the platform that filled the back quarter of the alley, and climbed over the chain-link fence at the far end. Whittier claimed he'd only turned his back for a second, but Fierenzo knew how unreliable witnesses were at judging times and distances.
One thing that was certain was that this whole thing was becoming as frustrating as hell. On the one hand, he had the Whittiers and their wild story, which sounded almost plausible until you started poking at its various corners. On the other hand, he had a collection of equally improbable stories from such d
iverse sources as the Whittiers' building manager and the cops who broke up whatever the hell was happening in Yorkville last night. On the third hand, he had his own observations, ranging from the strange marks on the Whittiers' trees to whatever had made him drive his car up the side of a lamppost this morning.
And on the fourth hand, he had not a single shred of tangible evidence to tie any of it together.
He shifted his attention to the fence in front of him. The lock on the gate was good and solid, and looked new. A key type, too, which meant it could be picked by someone who knew what he was doing.
"Can I help you?" a deep but courteous voice called.
Fierenzo looked up. A smallish woman was standing on the landing just outside the building to the right, half hidden behind a large black man with the word "Security" embroidered on his shirt.
"Yes," Fierenzo told him, digging his badge wallet out of his pocket and holding it up for the other's inspection. "You have the key to this gate?"
"Yes, sir," the security guard said.
"I'd like to take a look inside," Fierenzo told him. "Tell me, how new is this lock?"
"I put it on Thursday morning," the guard said, pulling a key ring out of his pocket as he came down the steps.
The morning after the Whittiers had allegedly found the gate standing wide open. "What happened to the old one?"
"Someone broke it," the guard said. "Looked like they took a sledge hammer or something to it."
"Did you keep it?"
The other shook his head. "May I ask what you're looking for?"
"Evidence of a possible crime," Fierenzo told him. "Do you mind if I go inside?"
The guard's lips puckered. He'd undoubtedly been carefully drilled in the laws regarding building searches and when and where warrants were and weren't needed. But he'd probably never had anyone ask to inspect his alley before. "You can come in with me if you want," Fierenzo added, trying to smooth over his uncertainty.
"No, I need to get back," the other said, reaching down and unlocking the gate. "Can I trust you not to try opening any of the windows or doors?"
"Scout's honor," Fierenzo assured him. "If there's anything at all, it'll be out here."
"All right," the guard said, pulling open the gate. "I'll be inside if you need me."
"Thanks," Fierenzo said. "By the way, anything unusual happen Wednesday night besides the broken lock?"
The guard shrugged. "I wasn't on duty then, but the night man didn't say anything the next morning. I can get you his name if you want."
"Not just yet, thanks," Fierenzo said. "I'll let you know if I need him."
"Okay," the other said. "Lock up when you're done, please." Turning, he lumbered up the steps, and he and the woman went back inside.
Fierenzo spent the first minute in a low crouch, examining the area around the lock. The lad with the sledge hammer, he decided, had been remarkably accurate. There was a fresh-looking indentation where the previous lock might have been shoved into the metal behind it, but aside from that there didn't seem to be any damage to the gate itself. Straightening up, he went inside, his eyes fixed on the sloping pavement beneath his feet, and walked back to the stone steps.
Nothing.
He walked the route again, eyes tracking slowly back and forth, covering every inch of the ground.
But if there had ever been anything there, the morning's drizzle had apparently obliterated it. He finished back at the gate, then retraced his path one more time down to the bottom of the slope and the black metal fire escape zigzagging its way upward.
He stopped beneath it, shading his eyes against the mist still drifting out of the sky and trying to recall everything the Whittiers had said. They had been accosted on Broadway by a short, wide man with a hacking cough who had stuck a .45 Colt in their faces. He'd brought them here, shown them a girl named Melantha, and told them to take care of her. He'd then handed Whittier the gun and staggered away toward the rear of the alley, disappearing the moment Whittier's back was turned.
And sometime along in there, the dimmed-out streetlights had come back on.
Fierenzo frowned, his thoughts flicking back to when he'd left Broadway and started down 101st Street fifteen minutes ago. He'd been preoccupied at the time with locating the alley; but he vaguely remembered seeing that half a block north...
He left the alley and walked back to Broadway. There it was: a ConEd cherry picker with someone in the basket working on one of the streetlights.
The crew foreman standing beside the truck turned a New York glare his direction as Fierenzo walked up. "You want something?" he asked in a pronounced Brooklyn accent and a tone that made the question a challenge.
"Just a little information," Fierenzo said, holding up his badge. "What's wrong with the lights?"
"Now? Nothing," the foreman said, the glare softening a little. "But we got a bunch of complaints Wednesday night from here down to 86th that something was screwy with them."
"What time was this?"
The foreman shrugged. "Ten, eleven o'clock. Something like that."
Roughly the same time the Whittiers claimed they'd seen the streetlights go dim, then come back on.
"And you're just getting on this now?"
"Hey, like I said, there's nothing wrong with 'em," the other protested, the attitude starting to come back. "Anyway, it took us the last two days to clean up the mess over on Riverside Drive."
"Yes—the big power outage," Fierenzo said, nodding. "That was Wednesday night, too, wasn't it?"
"Yeah." The foreman shook his head. "Hell of a thing. The people up there said the lights went dim, then a couple seconds later blew up like a six-block fireworks show."
"And what do you say?"
"What do you mean, what do I say?" the other retorted. "They blew up, all right. Dim, I don't know about."
"What caused it?"
"Damned if I know that, either," the foreman said. "It was like something overloaded 'em, only there wasn't any sign of something that coulda done that. Mostly, we just checked the cables and brought in a spitload of new bulbs."
" 'Spitload'?"
The foreman shrugged. "The wife wants me to cut back on the language. The kids are starting to pick it up."
"Mm," Fierenzo said. "Thanks."
He turned and went back to 101st. So there was some marginal confirmation to at least part of the Whittiers' story. Unfortunately, it was once again purely anecdotal. If the Whittiers had been up on Riverside Drive, at least they'd have some blown-out bulbs they could point to. Here on Broadway, there wasn't even that much.
He reached the alley and once again headed down the slope. All right. Whittier had said he'd seen what looked like blood on the gun when the mugger handed it over. An injury might explain the staggering he'd also reported; and if the wound was in the man's chest, it could also explain the wetsounding cough.
But if he was bleeding on the gun, maybe he'd bled on the ground, too. Bending low, his eyes panning back and forth across the dirty pavement, Fierenzo went slowly down the alley one more time, wishing he'd thought to bring a Luminol kit with him.
He reached the stone steps without spotting anything. The man's clothing had probably absorbed most of the leaking blood, at least long enough for him to get out of the alley.
He straightened up, wincing at a sudden kink in his back. Time to cut his losses and get back to the more promising thread of the investigation. By now Powell should have tracked down the cab the Whittiers had blown out of Yorkville in this morning and gotten their destination. Turning around, he glanced one last time up at the building beside him.
And froze. There, on the wall, was a faint patch of darkness on the brick, like the mark left by a man with a blood-saturated shirt who had pressed tightly to the wall trying not to be seen.
Only the spot was eight feet up.
Fierenzo stepped back from the wall, shading his eyes against the drizzle. There were more of the stains, smaller than the first and more smeare
d out, as if the bleeder had been moving up and sideways along the wall.
He swore gently under his breath. Finally, some tangible evidence. Unfortunately, it made no sense.
If the mugger had had a block and tackle setup on the rooftop for a quick getaway, why bother going sideways along the wall? Why bother hugging the wall at all, for that matter? And Whittier's own testimony said the streetlights had been back on by then. How could he possibly have missed seeing someone pressed against a wall twenty feet away?
But logical or not, the evidence trail itself was clear. Assuming the dark stains were indeed blood that had managed to survive the rain, the man had definitely been moving up and sideways along the wall.
Heading straight for the fire escape.
The wall blocking off the tiny courtyard was a good six feet high, and it had been years since his academy days when Fierenzo had routinely had to climb such things. But he wasn't as out of shape as he'd feared, and he made it to the top with a minimum of sweating and hardly any cursing at all.
From there it was a simple matter of hauling himself up onto the fire escape.
There were no bloodstains on the bottom two landings. But then, he hadn't expected there to be. The pattern on the wall had been angling upward, toward the third or possibly the fourth of the seven landings.
He found the expected stain on the third-floor railing: a small one, wrapped halfway around the bar as if the bleeder had barely had the strength to pull himself up and roll over onto the landing. For a moment Fierenzo studied the mark, then crouched down to examine the grating that made up the landing's floor.
He was still searching for bloodstains when he heard a faint noise from above him.
He looked up. There was nothing on the next landing, and the interference between the grating meshes made it impossible to see anything higher than that. But he had definitely heard something.
Moving as quietly as he could on the metal steps, he continued up.
He had passed the fourth landing and was halfway to the fifth when the noise came again. This time it was loud enough for him to identify as a suppressed cough.