"Indian as in the subcontinent?"
"Right. Told me it was tea with milk, plus sugar and spice and everything nice."
All true. The woman ahead of him at the coffee shop this morning had ordered a chai and he'd asked about it. He'd figured what the hell, try anything once. Anything to give him a break from thinking about Tara Portman and Gia and Duc Ngo, and all the possible interconnections.
"I got you a skinny."
Abe's frown deepened. "A skinny what?"
"It means they use skim milk instead of regular—'cause I know you're watching your waist."
Yeah, Jack thought. Watching it grow.
Abe continued to stare at the cup. It seemed to have mesmerized him. "How do you spell it?"
"C-H-A-I.";
Abe shook his head. "You're pronouncing it all wrong." He repeated the word his own way, hardening the "ch" to a raspy sound that originated in the back of his throat. "Like Chaim or Chaya or Chanukah."
"Not according to the girl who sold it to me."
Abe shrugged. "Whatever. And I should be drinking this why?"
"I read where it's the new fave drink of all the cool, contemporary, contemplative people. I decided I want to be cool, contemporary, and contemplative."
"For that you'll need more than a drink. What's in the other bag you brought in? The one you put on the floor?"
"Never mind that now." Jack lifted his cup. "Let's give it a go. Chai away."
Abe toasted with his. "Lochai."
Jack took a sip, swirled it across tongue, then looked around for a place to spit. Finding none, he swallowed.
Abe's sour expression mirrored Jack's sentiments. "Like an accident in a clove factory."
Jack nodded as he recapped his cup. "Well, now that I've tried chai, I can tell you that I feel cool and contemporary, but I'm also contemplating why anyone would want to drink this stuff."
Abe handed his cup to Jack. "See if you can get a refund. Meanwhile, have you got in that second bag what I hope?"
Jack retrieved the bag from the floor and produced two coffees. "Just in case the chai sucked."
Jack took a quick sip to rinse the chai taste out of his mouth, then settled over the Post, flipping the pages in search of a particular name.
"Have you seen any mention of Carl and Elizabeth Foster, or Madame Pomerol?"
"The psychic lady?" Abe shook his head. "Neither of them made the news today."
Jack closed his paper. "Didn't expect anything so soon." He sipped his coffee, grateful for the familiar flavor. "Come up with any ideas on making me a citizen?"
"Nothing yet, but I'm thinking."
He told Abe his idea about assuming a dead man's identity.
Abe shrugged. "As a plan it's got possibilities, but God forbid a long-lost sister should come looking. What do you do then?"
"I improvise."
"Not good. If that plan's going to work, you've got to find a dead man with no friends and no living family."
"Tall order."
Very tall. So tall it was bringing Jack down.
Abe looked at him. "How do you feel about getting out?"
Jack shrugged. "Not sure. Maybe it's time. I've been lucky. I've mined this vein for years without getting myself killed or crippled. Maybe I should take this as a sign to stop stretching my luck and call it quits. I've had a good run, saved a decent amount of money. Maybe it's time to kick back and enjoy the fruits of my labors."
"Before forty? You'll do what with your time?"
"Don't know yet. I'll think of something. Hey, need a stock boy?"
"Oy!"
"No? Well then how about you, Abe? How do you feel about me getting out?"
Abe sighed. "With fatherhood looming, it's a good thing. Overdue, even."
The remark took Jack by surprise. This was the last thing he expected to hear from Abe.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you're mellowing."
Jack laughed. "That chai must be potent stuff. It's affecting your brain. Me? Mellowing? Never."
"You are. You think maybe I'm blind? I've watched it. A slow process, it's been, but it's happening. Ever since you and Gia got back together. Almost a year now, right?"
"A year ago this month."
"You see? I'm right. Before last summer you were a lobster—a spiny lobster."
"And what am I now? A softshell crab?"
"S'teitsh! Let me finish. Lobsterman Jack kept to his shell. With all his spines sticking out, people kept their distance. Nobody touched him. Such a hair trigger he had. Now…" Abe gave one of his major shrugs, palms turned up, lips turned down. "Now, I should dare say, you've opened a few windows in your shell. You take a longer view. That's the result of the love of a good woman."
Jack smiled. "She's that, all right."
"Until Gia, you never had anyone you cared about. Like a daredevil you were. Completely reckless. Now, you've got someone you want to get back to, someone you know is waiting for you. That changes everything. Makes you more careful."
"I've always been careful. It's essential in my business."
"But you can be too careful," Abe said. "And that's why I'm glad you're getting out. Because having a child will make you way too careful."
"No such thing as too careful."
"In your field of work, there is. I know you, Jack. Once that child is born, it's going to be the center of your world. You'll feel responsible for its welfare and well-being. Beyond responsible. You'll obsess about it. You'll want to be there for it, want to get home safe every night so it shouldn't have to grow up without a father. That's going to push you past too-careful into cautious. Ultimately it's going to make you hesitant in a field where an instant's hesitation can kill you. I'll miss Repairman Jack, but at least Daddyman Jack will still be alive to come around for breakfast, and maybe bring the little one with him."
"You're overstating this just a little bit, don't you think?"
Abe shook his head. "Unless you quit or drastically limit the types of jobs you take on—jobs that will be no fun for you—I don't see you surviving a year after your baby is born."
Jack went silent, thinking about that. Didn't buy it, didn't believe it, but it shook him to know Abe did.
In the long run, though, what did it matter? He was getting out. He was going to become Citizen Jack.
Talk about a bowel-clenching thought.
This life he'd been leading had had more than its share of hair-raising moments, and flying below the radar twenty-four-seven could be exhausting at times, and there were many days he wearied of looking over his shoulder, but damn he loved getting up in the morning without knowing what the day would bring.
Going straight was going to be so strange.
But it would pay the dividend of allowing his child to be able to stand anyplace with anyone and point to him and say, That's my dad.
2
The ride home hadn't been so bad, and getting in and out of the car had been bearable, but the steps… even with Adrian helping him, negotiating the narrow staircase up to his apartment above the store was agony.
Finally he was able to ease himself into a recliner, close his eyes, and catch his breath.
Good to be out of the hospital and free of all those tubes—although his belly still quivered at the memory of Nurse Horgan removing his catheter this morning. Good to be back in his home which, in sharp contrast to the cluttered store below, was furnished in a spare, minimalist style with bare walls, naked hardwood floors, and light, spindly furniture. The recliner was a blatant anomaly; a home needed at least one comfortable chair.
"Here. Take this."
Eli looked up and saw Adrian standing before him with a glass of water and two Percocets in his huge hands.
"You're a good man, Adrian. Thank you. How is your leg?"
He flexed his knee. "Much better. But the headaches are terrible. And I still can't remember Monday night. I remember having dinner…"
"Yes-yes," Eli said, thinking, Please let's not hear tha
t again. "The doctor said you might never remember what happened. Perhaps you should count yourself lucky you don't."
"I don't feel lucky," Adrian said. He crossed his long arms over his chest and hugged himself. Eli wondered if his hands touched in the back. "I feel scared."
Odd to imagine that such a big man could be frightened. But Adrian wasn't a thug. He had a law degree and assisted Judge Marcus Warren of the New York State Supreme Court.
"You're afraid this man is going to attack us again?"
"I'm not afraid of that. In fact I almost wish he would." Adrian balled his hands into giant fists. "I'd love to make him pay for what he did to me. No, I'm afraid that we won't get the Ceremony done in time… you know, before the equinox."
"We will. I haven't missed one for two hundred and six years. I'm not about to start now."
"But what if we don't?"
The possibility spilled acid through Eli's chest. "The consequences for you will be minimal. You'll merely have to start a new cycle of Ceremonies."
"But I've already invested five years."
An initiate had to participate in an unbroken chain of twenty-nine annual cycles before the aging process stopped and invulnerability was conferred. Once the chain was broken, the count went back to zero and had to be started again.
"And that's all you will lose—five years of Ceremonies. Nothing. For me, on the other hand, the consequences will be catastrophic. All the ills, all the injuries, all the aging the Ceremony had shielded me from for the last two centuries will come crashing back at once."
His dying would be long and slow and exquisitely painful. These stab wounds would seem mere pinpricks.
"But after you're gone," Adrian said, "who will perform the Ceremony?"
Eli shook his head. He wanted to ask, Do you ever think of anyone but yourself? But he held his tongue. Adrian was no different from any of the others in the Circle. No more self-centered than myself, Eli supposed.
"No one," Eli said, relishing the growing dismay in Adrian's expression. "Unless the one who attacked us wishes to accept you as an initiate."
Adrian frowned. "I don't understand."
Eli sighed. They'd discussed this already, but Adrian's short-term memory still wasn't up to snuff.
"I believe the one who attacked us is an adept like myself who knows the Ceremony. That is the only way he could harm me."
"Yes," Adrian said. "Yes, I remember."
"But I believe his real purpose is to destroy my Circle. He has a Circle of his own and does not want competition."
"Then I think I should stay here with you," Adrian blurted. "Until you're well enough to protect yourself, that is."
Eli considered the idea and liked it. He could certainly use some assistance for the next few days—he could take care of his dressing changes himself, but help with meals and running errands would be most welcome.
No use appearing too anxious, though. Adrian seemed scared half to death that something would happen to him before the next Ceremony. Nothing wrong with making him sweat a little.
"I don't think so, Adrian," he said. "I'm used to living alone. I don't think I'd do well with constant company."
"I'll stay out of your way. I promise. Just let me stay through the weekend. I'm not going back to court until next week. I can watch over things until then."
Like a puppy dog. Or a huge Great Mastiff, rather. Time to throw him a bone.
"Oh, very well. I suppose I could put up with it for a few days."
"Wonderful! I'll go home, pack a few things, and be back in an hour."
He turned and limped toward the door.
"Wait," Eli said. "Before you go, could you hand me the phone?"
"Of course. Expecting a call?"
"Freddy is supposed to call when he's identified that woman who was quoted on TV last night. I don't want to miss that call." He smiled. "I do hope she's having a nice day, because as soon as I learn her name, her life will go in the shitter."
"I don't like Strauss," Adrian said. "He said things about you last night."
"When?"
"As he was wheeling me back to my room. He said he was beginning to wonder about you, whether you're really as old as you say you are."
"Did he now?" This was interesting.
"He said he did some background on you years ago, and found you were born in the 1940s—I forget the year—to a pair of Italian immigrants."
"Yes, he confronted me with that early on, and I explained to him that it was a false identity. I searched out and contacted a number of poor couples named Bellitto until I found a pair who agreed—for the appropriate sum—to register my name as a home birth. They're dead now and cannot back me up, so I fear you'll just have to trust my word."
"Oh, I do," Adrian said. "Don't get me wrong, I'm just repeating what Strauss told me. He said he could never prove one way or the other whether you were as old as you say you are or just plain crazy—again, his words, not mine. He told me last night that now that you've been wounded, he's starting to lean more toward crazy."
"Is he now," Eli said. "How ungrateful. I believe I shall have to have a word with Freddy."
"Don't tell him I told you."
Eli stared at Adrian. For a bright man he could be so naive at times.
"Why do you think he said any of this to you? He knew you'd tell me. He wanted you to tell me. He's having second thoughts and hopes I will ease his doubts. What he doesn't understand is that I don't care what he thinks. However, his police contacts are valuable to the Circle so I suppose I must confront him and settle this."
"Wait till you're feeling better," Adrian said.
It was so much easier in the old days, Eli thought. I didn't need the Circle. Once a year I'd simply find a wayward child, perform the Ceremony, and go my way. But things have become so complicated these days. With crime detection techniques what they are, one needs backup, connections, networks to safely secure a child year after year.
He needed the Circle as much as the Circle needed him. But they needn't know that.
Eli loosed a drawn-out sigh and rubbed his eyes. "Maybe I should disband the Circle and go it alone. That was how I began… alone."
Eli peeked through his fingers to see if his little speech had had the desired effect. The look of horror on Adrian's face confirmed that it had.
"No! Eli, you mustn't even think that! I'll talk to the others. We'll—"
"No. I shall handle it. I'll give it one more chance. Now, you run off and get your things while I make some calls."
After Adrian was gone, Eli leaned back in his recliner and closed his eyes.
… he could never prove one way or the other whether you were as old as you say you are or just plain crazy…
Sometimes, Eli admitted, I wonder about that myself.
He had memories of his early years in eighteenth-century Italy, his discovery of the Ceremony in a stone vault in Riomaggiore among the Cinque Terre along the Liguorian coast, and then the long trail of hundreds of years and hundreds of sacrificed children, but they were vague, almost as if he'd dreamed them. He wished he could recall more detail.
What if Strauss's suspicions were correct? What if he were no more than a murderous madman trying to turn back the clock, who'd told his mad stories to himself and others so many times he'd come to believe them?
No! Eli slammed his fist against the armrest of the recliner. What was he thinking? He wasn't mad or deluded. It was the pain, the drugs…
… the wound…
Yes, the wound. There lay the wellspring of his doubts. He shouldn't have been wounded at all. That was the legacy of the Ceremony—life and personal impregnability. It didn't make an adept invulnerable to petty injuries like papercuts and such. But a stab wound… the blade was supposed to glance off the skin.
Unless it was wielded by another adept.
Uneasy, Eli took out the number Strauss had given him last night and tapped it into the phone. And just like last night, his attacker was "not availab
le at this time."
Eli broke the connection and simmered. He would put the number into speed dial and keep calling. The man had to turn his phone on sometime, and one of those times Eli would connect. And then they'd talk, and Eli would learn about his attacker, induce him into a slip of the tongue, and then he'd have him.
3
Lyle suppressed a yawn as he went through the preliminaries with a new sitter. Not that he was bored talking about his spirit guide—how could Ifasen feel anything but excitement about communing with his ancient mentor Ogunfiditimi? Lyle was dead tired. He felt as if he'd spent the night completing an ironman triathlon.
Tara Portman or whatever it was had rested easy last night after the spirit-writing display. No noises, no blood, no breakage. Still sleep had eluded Lyle. The mere expectation of noise, blood, or breakage had turned his mattress into a bed of nails.
Charlie, on the other hand, looked fresh and fully rested this morning. That Bible of his, no doubt.
But Lyle's malaise went beyond fatigue. He couldn't pin it down. Not so much a matter of feeling bad as not feeling right. He felt… changed. The world looked and felt different. Shadows seemed deeper, lights brighter, sharper, the air felt charged, as if something momentous was in the offing.
He shook it off. He had work to do.
With the Channeling Room repaired, they'd begun rescheduling sittings. Lyle had adjusted the day's appointments to leave room for the meeting with Konstantin Kristadoulou. He'd called the old real estate agent first thing this morning and set up a meeting at one o'clock. He'd left a message for Jack about the time and place.
But that would be this afternoon. This was now, and Lyle wasn't happy with now. Melba Toomey was a far-from-ideal sitter. Lyle blamed his distracted state for allowing her to slip past the screening process. She would not be a good subject at any time, but especially not as the first of the day.
But she'd paid her money for a private sitting and now faced him across the table in her housedress and flower-decked straw hat, dark eyes bright with expectation in her black face.
According to the information on her questionnaire, Melba was fifty-three and cleaned houses for a living. Not at all typical of Ifasen's clientele, and certainly not the social class he was courting.