by Timothy Zahn
Still talking together, the Whittiers turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Setting his folded newspaper onto the seat beside him, NYPD Officer Jeff Smith turned the key in the ignition. He'd known that coming back this afternoon and staking out the neighborhood had been a long shot, especially after so many hours had passed. But he hadn't had anything particularly interesting planned for the day anyway, and sometimes long shots paid off.
This one just had.
Checking his mirrors, he pulled the car slowly away from the curb, steering with one hand as he punched the buttons of his cell phone with the other. "Powell," Powell's voice answered on the third ring.
"It's Smith, Detective," Smith said, smiling tightly as he turned in the direction the Whittiers had gone. "I've got them."
20
Powell was in the squad room, his phone pressed to his ear, when Fierenzo arrived. "About time," he said, waving Fierenzo to his own chair across their paper-strewn desk. "Smith is on four. You want to talk to him?"
"Absolutely," Fierenzo said, dropping into his chair and punching the extension as he scooped up the phone. "Fierenzo. You still on the Whittiers?"
"For what it's worth," Smith's voice came. "They've spent the last hour and a half walking around the Upper East Side, checking out every cross-street and driveway."
Searching for Melantha? "Are you on foot?" Fierenzo asked.
"Not yet," Smith said. "I've been trying to stay with my car in case they suddenly decide to grab a taxi."
"Is there any particular pattern to their search?" Powell asked.
"Just that they're focusing entirely on the streets," Smith said. "No apartments or shops, just the streets."
"Looking for something parked," Fierenzo murmured. "Did they go into their friends' place before they started their walking tour?"
"Yes, but they didn't stay long," Smith said. "Right after they came out they went back to the courtyard. The wife went to the south end and looked at several of the trees, while the husband went and talked for a minute to the landscapers who'd come by to fix the gash on that tree."
Fierenzo looked sharply across the desk at Powell. "There was a Parks truck there last night picking up the branch."
Powell nodded. "That was my thought, too," he said. "I've checked, and they say no one was out last night."
"So someone borrowed one of their trucks?"
"One of their trucks is missing," Powell confirmed. "I've got an alert out to watch for it."
Fierenzo scowled. "So in other words, someone just waltzed out from under our noses with something they didn't want us to find."
"Yeah, but what?" Powell objected. "CSU had already been all over that area. They wouldn't have let anyone take the branch otherwise."
"Unless the men in the truck asked them nicely," Fierenzo said. "Like the super at the Whittiers'
building."
"Right," Powell said slowly. "But Umberto freely admitted what he'd done when Smith and Hill questioned him. As far as I know, no one in CSU has come forward to announce they let someone walk off with evidence."
"Has anyone asked them?"
Powell's forehead wrinkled. "Well... no, probably not."
"Maybe somebody should," Fierenzo said. "Smith, you didn't happen to bring a camera with you, did you?"
"Actually, I did," Smith said. "I've got a telephoto lens, too."
"Good," Fierenzo said. "If they talk to anyone, get a picture of it. And call me right away if anything changes."
"Yes, sir," Smith said.
"Talk to you later," Fierenzo said, and hung up. "What's happening with our Mr. Green?" he asked Powell.
"He and Carstairs finished a while ago," Powell said, picking up a file folder and sliding it across the desk. "Here's what they came up with."
Fierenzo opened the folder and spread the papers in front of him. There were four drawings, each giving a front or a side view of one of the suspects, all of them far more detailed and refined than the vague sketches Carstairs was usually forced to turn out. Green apparently had an excellent memory for detail. "Like pre-Matthew Brady mug shots," he commented.
"Pre-who?"
"Civil War photographer," Fierenzo explained. "Very famous."
Powell made a face. "Let me guess. American history unit?"
"Very good," Fierenzo complimented him. "Nineteenth-century, to be specific."
"Yeah, whatever," Powell said. "Just try to go easy on that stuff around the others this time, will you? They were starting to call me Professor during that English lit unit last year."
Fierenzo shrugged. "Wait till you have a kid or two asking for help with their homework," he warned. "That stuff just sinks straight into your brain, whether you want it to or not. Anyway, that was Greek classics and mythology, not English lit. The English lit unit doesn't come until spring."
"I can hardly wait," Powell murmured.
"Me, too," Fierenzo said, picking up the two front-view drawings for a closer look. One of the subjects was definitely a young, probably preteen boy. The other was a man in probably his midfifties, with a wide face and weight and height estimates consistent with a short, wide body type. The boy's face was thinner, but Fierenzo could see the same squat build starting to appear in his own numbers.
And there was something else about him, too. Something Fierenzo couldn't quite put his finger on.
"Where is Green now?" he asked, looking up again.
"In the lounge," Powell said, gesturing back over his shoulder.
"Not alone, I hope."
Powell shook his head. "I've got Wong and Abramson tag-teaming him."
"Good," Fierenzo said. "Has anyone tried to get in to see him?"
Powell frowned. "Not that I know of. Who are we expecting?"
"Anyone who doesn't want these getting out," Fierenzo told him, collecting the drawings back into the folder and standing up. "I have to drop something off at the lab, then I'll go talk to him."
"You want me there?"
"No need," Fierenzo said casually. In actual fact, he definitely did not want his partner sitting in on this one. "I'd rather you tackle CSU about the branch, and then see if you can chase down that missing Parks truck."
He smiled tightly. "Call it pride, but I'd rather we find it before the Whittiers do."
They'd covered probably twenty blocks when something deep inside Caroline finally gave up. "This isn't going to work," she said with a sigh, gazing at the miles of traffic swirling through the streets like a swarm of determined bees. "The truck isn't here. And if it isn't here, neither is Melantha."
"I wish I could disagree with you," Roger admitted. "I guess I was wrong about them dropping the truck nearby."
"But how could they keep her in the branch?" Caroline objected.
"They didn't have to," Roger said, sounding disgusted with himself. "All they needed to do was drive a couple of blocks, get Melantha out of the branch and into the cab, and then go anywhere they wanted. Stolen or not, who's going to stop and question a Parks truck?"
"But how would they get her out?"
"I don't know," he said. "But remember what Fierenzo said about the Grays on our balcony trying to cut down our trees with their—what did Velovsky call them? Hammerguns? Maybe they thought Melantha was in there and were trying to draw her out."
"Yes," Caroline said, shivering at the thought. Would shooting at the tree feel like someone hitting her body? "And of course, if it was Greens who took her, they could probably just reach in and pull her out."
"Which means we need a new strategy," Roger said, looking at his watch. "And personally, I don't think well on an empty stomach."
Caroline suddenly realized how vacant her own stomach felt. Preoccupied with her hopes and fears, she hadn't even noticed. "We missed lunch again, didn't we?"
"Yep," he said. "Let's find a restaurant and discuss it over dinner."
"You don't need a restaurant," a man's voice said from behind them.
Caroline spun around, nearly tw
isting her ankle in the process. A young couple was standing there, both of them dark-haired and olive-skinned. "I'm sorry," the man apologized quickly, lifting his hands with his palms outward. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"How long have you been following us?" Roger demanded.
"Only a block or two," the man assured them. "And we weren't following you so much as we were trying to catch up."
"Well, now you have," Roger said warily. "What do you want?"
"To invite you to our homestead for dinner," the man said. "My name is Vasilis; this is my wife, Iolanthe."
"Greens, I presume?" Roger asked.
"Of course," Vasilis said, as if it should have been obvious. "We live over in Carl Shurz Park, just a couple of blocks from here."
"Convenient," Roger growled. "And what comes after dinner?"
Vasilis's forehead wrinkled. "I don't understand."
"Thumbscrews?" Roger suggested. "Hypnosis? Because we're still not going to tell you where Melantha is."
"Oh, no, nothing like that," Vasilis protested. "Just dinner and conversation, and you can leave whenever you want."
"We're told you haven't been shown a very good side of our people," Iolanthe added, sounding a little embarrassed. "That's why we were asked to invite you. We were hoping to remedy that."
Roger leaned his head over to Caroline's. "What do you think?" he asked quietly.
For a moment she studied the couple, trying to get a feel for them. "At least this time we're being asked," she said. "I don't see why not."
"Wonderful," Vasilis said briskly, gesturing behind him. "Then this way, please."
They turned around and headed back east. "So what are you two?" Roger asked, looking them up and down. "Pastsingers? Warriors?"
"I'm a Laborer at one of our restaurants," Vasilis told him. "Iolanthe's a Manipulator, though right now she mostly stays home to help with our group's child-rearing."
"You have your own restaurants?" Roger asked. "I sort of assumed you'd keep more to yourselves."
"We have to earn a living like anyone else," Vasilis said. "Apartments and food cost money, even when you spread the costs out the way we do. Fortunately, Green cooking is close enough to Greek for us to safely bill ourselves as Mediterranean or southern European."
"Do you have children of your own?" Caroline asked.
"Yes, we have three," Iolanthe said, a note of pride in her voice. "Xylia, thirteen; Phyllida, eleven; and Yannis, seven. Xylia's visiting one of her friends in Central Park tonight, but you'll get to meet the others."
"You'll meet a few of the others in our homestead, too," Vasilis said. "Most of them are working or otherwise out tonight, though."
"How many of you are there?" Roger asked.
"In our homestead, six families," Vasilis said. "Mostly couples with young children, like us."
"We came here five months ago from Washington Square," Iolanthe added quietly. "The Grays were moving into the neighborhood, and we were worried about our safety."
"But we can't retreat forever," Vasilis said, his voice dark. "Somewhere, we're going to have to draw a line in the dirt and make our stand."
They arrived at a modest apartment house on the edge of Shurz Park, and Vasilis led the way inside and up the stairs to one of the corner apartments. A young boy was standing at the door with an air of expectation. "This is our youngest, Yannis," Iolanthe said, and once again Caroline could sense the almost-words as the two adults communicated silently with their son. "He'll be performing the ancient pass-warder ritual tonight."
There was another almost-word, and the boy straightened up. "Who comes to this homestead?" he asked, his voice proud and strong.
"The master of the homestead and his wife," Vasilis answered.
"And who comes alongside you?"
"Honored guests of the Greens," Vasilis said, holding his right hand out, palm upward, toward Caroline.
"Take it with your right hand," Iolanthe murmured in her ear. Hesitantly, shooting a glance at Roger, she complied.
"And does the mistress of the homestead concur?" Yannis asked, looking at his mother.
"I do," Iolanthe said, taking Roger's right hand in hers.
"Then you may enter," Yannis intoned. Bowing from the waist, he stepped to the side, turning the doorknob and pushing open the door. The aroma of cooking food wafted out as he did so, an aroma rich in lamb and vegetables that made Caroline's empty stomach growl. Still holding her hand, Vasilis stepped past the boy into the apartment, Iolanthe and Roger following.
"I guess we should have warned you about that," Vasilis said, letting go of Caroline's hand. "The holding of knife-hands is supposed to guarantee that no one is readying a weapon as they pass. I hope you weren't offended."
"Not at all," Roger assured him. "It's not much different from our own custom of shaking hands."
"Normally, it would be a Warrior who would challenge guests that way," Iolanthe said. "Since our group doesn't include any Warriors, Yannis asked if he could do it."
"I thought your roles were rigidly enforced," Caroline said.
"They are," Iolanthe agreed. "But Yannis isn't old enough for the testing, so we don't yet know what his Gift is. Until we do, it's permissible for him to play at any role he wishes."
"The loopholes of a modern society," Vasilis said, grinning at Roger. "As a paralegal, I'm sure you can appreciate that."
"All too well," Roger conceded. "It's certainly a lot friendlier than the reception I got at Aleksander's place yesterday."
"You weren't an invited guest then," Iolanthe reminded him.
"Speaking of whom," Vasilis added, his eyes flicking over Caroline's shoulder, "here's our other guest for the evening."
Caroline turned to see a tall Green with an age-lined face and short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair step into the living room through an open doorway. "Roger and Caroline," Vasilis said, gesturing toward him, "may I present one of the leaders of our people. This is Persuader Aleksander."
"Good evening," Aleksander said, his voice calm and cultured and resonant, his eyes glittering as he looked back and forth between them. "I'm so very pleased you could join us."
"Did you get any pictures of this couple?" Fierenzo asked into his phone.
"About half a dozen," Smith said. "You want me to stay with them?"
"Definitely," Fierenzo said. "I want to know how long they stay in there, and whether they come out alone, with this first couple, or with someone else."
"Got it," Smith said. "Talk to you later."
Punching off his phone, Fierenzo pushed open the door beside him and stepped back into the lab.
"Secret conference all done?" the short redhead in the lab coat asked blandly, straightening up from her microscope.
"Just trying to give you a little room to work," Fierenzo told her in the same tone as he returned the phone to his pocket. "Anything?"
"Well, it's definitely blood," she said. "Whether it's human or not—" She shrugged. "I don't know."
"Why not?" Fierenzo asked. "Can't you do a DNA or something?"
"Sure," she said. "I can also do glucose levels, tox screens, and about a hundred different tests for various genetic diseases. But you asked for something fast and cheap. Are we changing our instructions?"
Fierenzo made a face; but there was no way he was going to get the lieutenant to pop for a whole battery of expensive tests and the personnel to run them. "No," he conceded. "So what can you tell me?"
"Like I said, it's blood," she said. "The sample you gave me was pretty minuscule, but there were definitely red cells in it. Where did you get it, anyway?"
"Off the wall of an alley near 101st and Broadway," Fierenzo told her. "What makes you think it's not human?"
"Mainly, because I can't get it to type," she said.
"Could it be something rare?" Fierenzo suggested. "AB negative or something?"
She shook her head. "The test should work with anything, and I can usually do it with even less than I've got here.
A few days' exposure to the elements shouldn't have messed it up, either."
"Any guesses?"
She shrugged. "Could be animal blood," she said. "I can't tell without further tests; and I'm out of time for any more freebies. You get me an official request, and I'll put it in the stack with all the rest."
"Pass," Fierenzo said, heading for the door. "By the time you got to it, it'd probably be too late to do me any good anyway."
"So get me more personnel," she suggested.
He snorted. "You must be kidding. We get more people in the department and I'm taking them.
Thanks, Kath."
He left the lab and headed for the lounge, a creepy feeling shivering along the surface of his skin. So Jonah's blood wasn't human. It was a thought that had been trying to force its way into his mind ever since he'd found the injured man at the end of that vertical blood trail. But up to now he'd been reasonably successful at tap-dancing his way around it.
Now, the dance had come to an end.
So who were they? A lost Neanderthal colony? A vampire nest? An alien invasion?
Of more immediate concern, what should his response be to the situation? Alert the mayor? Call out the S.W.A.T. team?
He grimaced as he strode down the hallway. No. So far, no one seemed to be doing anything dangerous to the city or its inhabitants. True, a girl was missing, but he still had no proof that any crime had been committed.
So he would sit on this, and wait until such time as he could determine that such a threat did exist.
Sergeant Abramson was chatting with a young, dark-haired man when Fierenzo reached the lounge.
"You must be Oreste Green," Fierenzo said, nodding to him. "I'm Detective Fierenzo. We appreciate you giving up part of your Saturday to come here today."
"More of it than I'd expected," Green said pointedly as he stood up.
"I know, and I apologize," Fierenzo said, glancing at the other cops sitting around the lounge. "Let's go someplace where we can have more privacy," he suggested, backing toward the door.
"Why?" Green asked, making no move to follow. "I gave my statement, and I gave the descriptions to your artist. What more do you want?"
"I'd like to go over all of it with you," Fierenzo said.