He wondered what his own face looked like. He had to compose his expression, look calm, casual.
He took a deep breath, let it out. Tossing the key ring casually in his hand, he headed for the counter.
"Sorry," the clerk said as he approached. He tapped the owl clock before him on the counter. "I can't get it working."
Jack shrugged. "I'll take it anyway." He knew a clock-smith who'd have it ticking in half a minute. "What's your name, by the way?"
"Kevin."
"I'm Jack, Kevin." They shook hands. "You're new here, aren't you."
"Fairly."
Chalk one up for me, he thought. He'd got the impression on Sunday that this fellow was new.
"Well, good luck here. It's a great store. Oh, yeah," he said, as if suddenly remembering. He tossed the key ring onto the counter. "I'll take this as well."
Kevin picked it up and turned it over, examining it. "Never seen this before."
Jack let out a breath. He'd been counting on that. Even if Kevin had been working here awhile, he might not have paid attention to the contents of a cabinet he couldn't open.
"I found it on a shelf back there."
"Where?"
Jack jerked a thumb to the right. "Back there."
"Hmmm. Trouble is, there's no price on it. I don't even think we carry anything like this."
"I'll give you, oh, say, ten bucks for it."
Kevin reached for the phone. "I'd better just check with Mr. Bellitto first."
Jack stiffened. "Hey, don't bother Eli. I'm sure he needs his rest."
"No, it's okay. He told me to call if I have any questions."
Jack suppressed a groan as Kevin tapped in the numbers. He'd wanted to slip away with the key ring—no fuss, no hassle. That might not be possible now. But if he had to grab it and walk out over Kevin's objections, that was what he'd do. One way or another, Jack and Roger were leaving together.
Apparently Kevin called Bellitto's room directly because seconds later he said, "Hello, Mr. Bellitto, it's Kevin. Sorry to bother you, but I've got an item here with no price tag and I was wondering—"
Even from his spot across the counter Jack could hear the angry squawking from the ear piece.
"Yes, sir, but you see—"
More squawks.
"I understand. Yes, sir, I will." He hung up. "I'm afraid this is going to take a while. I'm going to have to go through the inventory and find similar items and price this accordingly." He shook his head as he gazed at the key ring. "Trouble is, I'm pretty sure we don't—"
"Let me make it easy for both of us," Jack said. "I'll pay for the clock and give you ten bucks for the key ring. If it comes to more, I'll settle up. If it's less, I get a refund. Sound fair?"
"I guess so…"
Jack picked up the key ring and dangled it between them. "Hey, let's face it, Kev, we're not talking about a Ming vase here. Just find some paper and write down, 'Roger Rabbit key ring—ten bucks—Jack.'"
"I'll put it in the sale book," he said, opening a black ledger. Kevin dutifully wrote it all down, then looked up. "Just Jack?"
"Sure. Eli will know."
Maybe not right away, Jack thought as he pulled out his wallet. But soon. Very soon.
Jack wanted Bellitto to know the key ring was gone. Because that was when he would begin wondering and worrying.
Jack planned to give him lots to worry about.
6
Morphine might help pain, Eli Bellitto thought as he pressed the PCA pump's button for another dose, but it does nothing for anger.
Imagine Kevin calling him in the hospital with a question like that. Why couldn't you get good help?
He wondered if it might have been unwise to castigate Kevin as severely as he had. With Gert off today and not answering her phone, he was minding the store on his own. No telling what untold damage a disgruntled clerk might do.
Eli was reaching for the phone to call him back when Detective Fred Strauss made his second visit of the day. Strauss managed to be lean and yet paunchy. He wore a green golf shirt under his wrinkled tan suit. As he closed the door behind him, he removed his straw fedora, revealing thinning brown hair.
"It's safe to talk?" Strauss said in a low voice as he pulled a chair closer to the bed.
Eli nodded. "Did you learn anything?"
Strauss worked Vice in Midtown South. He, like Adrian, was a member of Eli's Circle.
"I checked with every emergency room from the Battery into the Bronx. No guy with the kind of stab wound you describe. Are you sure you nailed him?"
"Of course, I'm sure." Eli knew what it felt like to drive a steel blade into human flesh. "He may think he can take care of the wound himself, but he'll need professional care."
"Yeah, but if he knows the right people, he won't need an ER."
How different things would be, Eli thought, if the stranger hadn't rolled aside at that last instant. The knife would have sliced into his lungs once, twice, many times. Eli would now be sitting comfortably at home, and Strauss's only concern would be how to dispose of the stranger's body.
"Nothing else?"
"Well, they found a witness who says she saw a guy running with a child-size bundle in the area, but with the dark and the rain she couldn't even give the color of his hair."
Eli tried to dredge up some distinguishing feature about his attacker but came up empty. What little light had been available had come from behind, leaving his face in darkness. His hair had been drenched with rain. Dry, it could have been brown or black.
But he remembered the voice, that cold, flat voice after he'd driven Eli's own knife into his groin…
Next time you look at a kid—every time you look at a kid—remember that.
Eli ground his teeth. He thought I was a child molester! A common pervert! The idea infuriated him. It was so wrong, so unjust.
"All I can tell you," he said, "is that he wasn't blond."
Strauss leaned close and lowered his voice even further. "That's not what you told the local guys. You said he was blond."
Eli leaned back from the onions on Strauss's breath. Everything he'd told the local detectives had been false. He'd sent them looking for a six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound bruiser with long, bleached-blond hair. He hadn't mentioned a word about wounding him.
"Exactly. Because we don't want him caught, do we. At least not by anyone outside the Circle. He might start babbling about the lamb. Fibers from the blanket might be linked to me or Adrian or the car."
"Speaking of cars, the witness said she saw him dump the bundle in a doorway and run back to a car."
Eli stiffened. The movement stabbed a spike of pain through his morphine curtain. "Tell me she didn't see the plates."
"She thought she did. Wrote down the number, but when we traced them we found they belonged to Vinny the Donut."
"Who's he?"
"Vincent Donate A Brooklyn wise guy."
"You mean mafia?" The thought terrified Eli.
"Don't worry. It wasn't him."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because Vinny doesn't leave witnesses. Our lady must've missed a number or two in the dark. I'm checking other possible combinations but it's not looking good."
"What about his phone? Someone called EMS about the lamb. It had to be him. Don't those switchboards have caller ID?"
"They do. And they got the number, which looked like a pretty good lead until we found out he used a Tracfone."
"What's that?"
"A pay-as-you-go cell phone. The only personal information you have to give when you sign up is the zip code you'll be calling from most frequently. The one he gave was for Times Square."
"Damn!"
"It's like the guy is some kind of ghost."
"I assure you he's not a ghost," Eli said. "Can you get his phone number from EMS?"
Strauss shrugged. "Sure. Why?"
"I don't know yet. I just want it. It's our only link to him." Eli shifted—very carefully
—in the bed. "What about Adrian? What did he see?"
"Adrian's useless. He gets dizzy every time he makes a quick move and won't believe it's August. The last things he remembers were in July."
"Just as well, I suppose," Eli said. "That way he can't contradict my story."
"Never mind your story," Strauss said, rising and pacing at the foot of the bed. "Who is this guy? That's what I want to know! From what you tell me, he knows how to handle himself. Took out Adrian one-two-three. And it sounds like he came prepared, which means he must have been following you two."
"If he was following anyone, it must have been Adrian," Eli said. "He must have spotted Adrian while he was researching the lamb."
All that work, Eli thought. All wasted.
Adrian was such an excellent scout, always keeping an eye out for the next lamb. When the time for a new Ceremony neared, everyone in the Circle began watching the sidewalks. But Adrian was always on alert, even when a new Ceremony wouldn't be necessary for almost a full year, he kept watch. He'd been so excited with this latest find: the right age, adhering to a predictable schedule. The perfect lamb.
They'd watched and waited, and last night they knew the time had come: a rainy night near the new moon. The pickup had gone off perfectly, they'd been almost through Eli's door, and then…
"Doesn't matter who he was following," Strauss said. "He knows about you and Adrian now. Who else does he know about?"
Eli didn't want Strauss feeling too comfortable, so he said, "And if he's been watching this room, he probably knows about you as well."
Strauss stopped his pacing. "Shit! I thought it was safer than the phone."
"It is. You did the right thing. Let's face it, for all we know, he may already know about all twelve members of the Circle. But I have a bigger concern: Why didn't he turn us in? We know he had a phone. Adrian and I were helpless. All he had to do was simply step back and call 911."
"But he didn't," Strauss said, rubbing his neck with his jittery, skinny fingers. "He carried the kid away and then called. Could've been a hero, but he just faded away."
"Taking the knife with him," Eli added. "Why? It was covered with my prints, not his."
"But his blood was on it, along with yours."
A wave of cold rippled up Eli's spine. My blood… did he want a sample of my blood… for some ceremony of his own, perhaps?
Strauss tapped his fist on the footboard of Eli's bed. "None of this makes any sense. Unless…"
"Unless what?"
"Unless the guy knows about the Circle, and how connected we all are. I, for one, would not want to get on the wrong side of us."
True. The twelve men—Eli rather liked the idea of having twelve disciples—who made up the Circle were a diverse lot, with their hands on strings that ran to and from very high places—media, judicial, legislative, even the police. Only Eli lacked civic influence. But Eli had started the Circle, and he controlled the Ceremony.
"What about the lamb?" Eli said. "Will he be a problem?"
Strauss shook his head. "Remembers being grabbed, a smelly cloth pushed against his face, and that's it." He glanced toward the closed door and lowered his voice. "And speaking of lambs, do we have a backup?"
"Gregson has one under watch but he didn't think it was ready for pickup."
"Maybe he can accelerate things. If we miss this window—"
"I know. Only one more new moon before the equinox." The Ceremony had to be completed each year during the phase of a new moon between the summer solstice and the autumnal equinox. "But we still have time."
What a catastrophic shame to lose the little Vietnamese lamb. He'd been ripe for picking, everyone in the Circle had been on standby; the Ceremony could have been completed last night, and they'd all have been set for another year.
"But you know what bothers me the most?" Strauss said.
"You, here, in a hospital bed. Because of the Ceremony you're supposed to be protected, immune to harm. At least that's what you've been telling us." He waved his hand in the direction of Eli's IVs. "How do you explain all this?"
The same question had tortured Eli since the blade of his own stiletto had cut into his flesh.
"I can't," Eli said. "In the two hundred and six years that I have been performing the Ceremony, nothing like this has ever happened. I have come through wars and floods and earthquakes unscathed. Yet last night…"
"Yeah. Last night you were anything but protected. Care to explain?"
Eli didn't like Strauss's tone. A note of hostility, perhaps? Or fear?
"I believe the problem is not with me but with the man who attacked me. After personally experiencing his superior strength, and after what you've told me about his elusiveness, I'm beginning to believe that we were not attacked by an ordinary man. I—"
Eli stopped as he experienced an epiphany. Suddenly it was all clear.
"What's wrong?" Strauss said, leaning forward, his expression tight.
"The only way to explain last night's events is to assume that we are dealing with someone who is using the Ceremony himself."
Yes, of course. That had to be it. It explained why the attacker had moved the child away, why he didn't turn in Eli and Adrian to the police; it might even explain his taking the knife. He didn't want to expose the Circle—he wanted to control it. He wanted to usurp Eli's position, and he probably thought some of the leader's blood would aid him in accomplishing that.
"Oh, that's great!" Strauss said, his voice rising. "Just fucking great! How are we supposed to handle something like that?"
Eli kept his tone low and even. This was no time for panic. "The way you would handle anyone else. You have at your disposal the resources of one of the greatest police departments in the world. Use them to find this man. And when you do, bring him to me."
"But I thought you were the only one who knew the Ceremony."
"What I can discover, so can others. You are not to worry about that. Your task is clear: Find him, Freddy. Find him and bring him to me. I will deal with him."
7
Gia stepped out of Macy's with a loaded shopping bag in each hand and headed for the curb to look for a cab. She'd picked up some good bargains that Vicky could wear back to school next month.
She wondered if the driver on the way home would give her the same strange look as the one who'd brought her down here. Probably. She couldn't blame them: Women who lived on Sutton Square did not go to Macy's for a Red Tag sale.
Probably thinks I'm a live-in nanny, she thought.
My address may be one of the best in the city, guys, but I'm living on the income of a freelance commercial artist. I have an active little girl who wears out what she doesn't outgrow. So when Macy's advertises a sale, I go.
As she moved toward the curb she noticed a black woman with a microphone; a burly fellow stood beside her, peering through the lens of the camera on his shoulder. The woman looked familiar but she was oddly dressed—the blouse and jacket on her upper half did not go with the denim shorts on her lower half. Herald Square was jammed and the crowd seemed even thicker around this woman.
Then Gia recognized her as one of the on-the-scene reporters from a local TV station—channel two or four, she couldn't remember which. The woman spotted Gia and angled her way with the cameraman in tow.
"Excuse me," she said, thrusting the microphone ahead of her. "I'm Philippa Villa, News Center Four. Care to answer the Question of the Day?"
"Depends on what it is," Gia said, still edging toward the curb.
"You heard about the kidnapping and return of little Due Ngo?"
"Of course."
"Okay." Ms. Villa pushed the microphone closer. "The Question of the Day is: Should child molesters get the death penalty?"
Gia remembered how she'd felt this morning, imagining what it would have been like if Vicky had been abducted. Or if someone ever molested the baby growing inside her…
"You mean after they've been castrated?" she said.
The
woman blinked as a couple of onlookers laughed. "We're just talking about the death penalty. Yes or no?"
"No," Gia said through her rising anger and revulsion. "Death's too good for anyone who'd hurt a child. The guy who snatched that little boy should be castrated. And after that he should have his hands cut off so he can never touch another child, and then his legs cut off so he can never stalk another child, and then his tongue ripped out so he can never coax another kid into his car, and his eyes put out so that he can never even look at a child again. I'd leave him his nose so he can breathe in the stink of his rotten body."
The surrounding gaggle cheered.
Did I just say that? Gia thought. I've been hanging around Jack too long.
"You seem to have a lot of support," Ms. Villa said, glancing around at the crowd. "We might want to air your comments on the news tonight." She smiled. "The late news. We'll need you to sign a release to—"
Gia shook her head. "No thanks."
She didn't want to be on TV. She just wanted to get home. She turned as a cab nosed in toward the curb to drop off a passenger.
"Can I at least have your name?" Ms. Villa said as she and the cameraman followed Gia to the cab.
"No," Gia said over her shoulder.
She slid into the rear of the Cab as soon as it was empty. She closed the door and told him to head uptown. She didn't look back as the cab pulled away.
What had possessed her to say something like that? On camera, no less. She'd been telling the truth—those had been her exact feelings at the moment—but they were nobody else's business. She certainly didn't want her face on the tube. If she had fifteen minutes of fame coming, she wanted it through her paintings, not from flapping her gums on local TV.
8
Can I handle fatherhood? Jack thought as he knocked on the door to Madame Pomerol's Temple of Eternal Knowledge.
He'd dodged bullets and been punched, stabbed, sliced, and gouged during the years since he'd moved to the city. He should be able to handle fatherhood. At least he hoped he could.