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  He paused. The sudden, listening silence was remarkable.

  "My fellow creatures," Esteban continued, "you have demonstrated the courage of your convictions. Now we will turn around and march back to our gathering point. There we will talk, we will make speeches, and we will show the entire city what is happening here! We will bring justice — even to those who show none themselves!"

  The crowd seemed to be waiting for Plock to affirm Esteban. At long last, Plock raised his hands in a slow, almost unwilling gesture. "Our point is made!" he said. "Let us go back — for now!"

  The press crowded forward, the evening news cameras running, boomed mikes swinging about, but Esteban waved them off. D'Agosta watched amazed as — at Esteban's urging — the mob reversed direction, flowing back up the road, slowly subsiding into the same peaceable group as before, some even picking up signs that had been discarded along the way during their blitzkrieg toward the Ville. The transformation was shocking, almost awe inspiring. D'Agosta looked on with astonishment. Esteban had fired up the crowd and put it in motion — and then, at the last possible moment, he had thrown cold water on it.

  "What's with this guy, Esteban?" he asked. "You think he chickened out at the last minute, got cold feet?"

  "No," murmured Pendergast, his eyes fixed on Esteban's retreating back. "It is very curious," he said, almost to himself, "that our friend eats meat. Lamb, in point of fact."

  Chapter 46

  When D'Agosta showed up at Marty Wartek's office, the nervous little bureaucrat took one look at his angry demeanor and rolled out the red carpet: took his coat, escorted him to the sofa, fetched him a cup of tepid coffee.

  Then he retreated behind his desk. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" he asked in his high, thin voice. "Are you comfortable?"

  Actually, D'Agosta wasn't especially comfortable. He'd felt increasingly lousy since breakfast — flushed, achy — and wondered if he wasn't coming down with the flu or something. He tried not to think about how poorly Bertin was supposedly doing, or how the animal control officer, Pulchinski, had left work early the day before, complaining of chills and weakness. Their complaints weren't related to Charrière and his magic tricks… they couldn't be. But he wasn't here to talk about comfort.

  "You know what happened at the march yesterday afternoon, right?"

  "I read the papers."

  In fact, D'Agosta spied copies of the News, Post, andWest Sider on the deputy associate director's desk, poorly concealed beneath folders of official — looking paperwork. Clearly, the man had kept up on what was happening at the Ville.

  "I was there. We came this close to a riot. And we're not talking a bunch of left — wing agitators, Mr. Wartek. These are regular law — abiding citizens."

  "I had a call from the mayor's office," Wartek said, his voice even higher. "He, too, expressed his concern — in no uncertain terms — about the inflammatory situation in Inwood Hill Park."

  D'Agosta felt slightly mollified. It seemed Wartek was finally getting with the program — or at least getting the message. The man's mouth was pursed more tightly than ever, and his razor — burned wattles quivered faintly. He looked exactly like someone who'd just been administered a Grade A reaming — out. "Well? What are you going to do about it?"

  The administrator gave a small, bird — like nod and removed a piece of paper from his desk. "We've consulted with our lawyers, looked into past precedents, and discussed this issue at the highest levels of the housing authority. And we've determined that the right of adverse possession does not apply in this case, where the greater public good might be compromised. Our position is, ah, bolstered by the fact that the city is on record as having objected to this occupation of public land as far back as a hundred forty years ago."

  D'Agosta relaxed deeper into the sofa. It seemed the call from the mayor had finally lit a fire. "I'm glad to hear it."

  "There are no clear records as to exactly when that occupation began. As best we can tell, it was shortly before the outbreak of the Civil War. That would put the city's initial objection well within the legal window."

  "No problems, then? They're going to be evicted?" The man's legal circumlocutions had a slippery feel to them.

  "Absolutely. And I haven't even mentioned to you our legal fall — back position: even if they had gained some sort of rights to the property, we could still acquire it by eminent domain. The commonweal must take priority over individual needs."

  "The what?"

  "Commonweal. The common good of the community."

  "So what's the timetable?"

  "Timetable?"

  "Yeah. When are they out?" Wartek shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We've agreed to put the matter before our lawyers to draw up the legal case for eviction, on an expedited schedule."

  "Which is?"

  "With the legal preparation and research, then a trial, followed by an appeal — I can only assume these people will appeal — I would think we could have this case concluded within, perhaps, three years' time."

  There was a long silence in the room. "Three years?"

  "Maybe two if we fast — track it." Wartek smiled nervously.

  D'Agosta rose. It was unbelievable. A joke. "Mr. Wartek, we don't have three weeks."

  The little man shrugged. "Due process is due process. As I told the mayor, keeping the public order is the function of the police, not the housing authority. Taking away someone's home in New York City is a difficult and expensive legal process. As it should be."

  D'Agosta could feel the anger throbbing in his temples, his muscles tensing. He made an effort to control his breathing. He was going to sayYou haven't heard the end of this, then decided against it — no point in making threats. Instead, he simply turned and walked out.

  Wartek's voice echoed out into the hall as he exited the office. "Lieutenant, we're going to have a press conference tomorrow to announce our action against the Ville. Perhaps that will help calm things down." "Somehow," D'Agosta growled, "I doubt it."

  Chapter 47

  Laura Hayward stood in the ladies' room on the thirty — second floor of One Police Plaza, examining herself in the mirror. A grave, intelligent face looked back. Her suit was immaculate. Not a strand of blue — black hair was out of place.

  Except for the year she'd taken off to complete her master's at NYU, Hayward had been a police officer her entire career — first with the transit police, then NYPD. At thirty — seven, she was still the youngest captain — and only female captain — on the force. She knew that people talked about her behind her back. Some called her an ass kisser. Others said she'd risen so high, so quickly, precisely because she was a woman, a poster girl for the department's progressive stance. She'd long since ceased to care about such talk. The fact was, rank really didn't matter that much to her. She simply loved being on the job.

  Glancing away from the mirror, she consulted her watch. Five minutes to twelve. Commissioner Rocker had asked to see her at noon.

  She smiled. All too frequently, life was a bitch. But every now and then it had its moments. This promised to be one of them.

  She exited the ladies' room and walked down the hall. While it was true she didn't care much about promotions, this was different. This task force the mayor was putting together was the real thing, not some bit of fluff cobbled together for the media. For years there had been too little trust, too little high — level cooperation between the commissioner's office and the mayor's. The task force, she'd been assured at the highest levels, would change that. It could mean a lot less bureaucracy, a chance to dramatically improve department efficiency. Sure, it would also mean a huge career boost — fast track to deputy inspector — but that wasn't important. What mattered was the opportunity to make a real difference.

  She stepped through the double glass doors of the commissioner's suite and announced herself to the secretary. Almost immediately, an aide appeared and led the way back, past offices and conference rooms, to the commissioner's inner sanctum. Roc
ker was seated behind his large mahogany desk, signing memos. As always, he looked exhausted: the dark rings beneath his eyes were even more pronounced than usual.

  "Hello, Laura," he said. "Have a seat."

  Hayward took one of the chairs before the desk, surprised. A stickler for protocol and formality, Rocker almost never called anyone by his first name.

  Rocker glanced over the desk at her. Something in his expression instantly put her on her guard.

  "There's no easy way to say this," he began. "So I'll just tell you straight. I'm not appointing you to the task force."

  For a moment, Hayward couldn't believe she had heard right. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. She swallowed painfully, took a deep breath.

  "I—" she managed, then stopped. She felt confused, stunned, unable to form a coherent sentence.

  "I'm very sorry," Rocker said. "I know how much you were looking forward to the opportunity."

  Hayward took another deep breath. She felt a strange heat blooming through her limbs. Only now — when the job had so unexpectedly slipped from her grasp — did she realize how important it had been to her.

  "Who are you appointing in my place?" she asked.

  Rocker glanced away briefly before replying. He looked uncharacteristically abashed. "Sanchez."

  "Sanchez is a good man." It was as if she were in a dream, and somebody other than her was speaking the lines.

  Rocker nodded.

  Hayward became aware that her hands were hurting. Looking down, she saw she was gripping the arms of the chair with all her strength. She willed herself to relax, to maintain her composure — with little success. "Is it something I've done wrong?" she blurted.

  "No, no, of course not. It's nothing like that."

  "Have I let you down somehow? Come up short?" "You've been an exemplary officer, and I'm proud to have you on the force."

  "Then why? Inexperience?"

  "I consider your master's in sociology ideal for the task force. It's just that — well — an appointment like this is all about politics. And it turns out Sanchez has seniority."

  Hayward didn't answer right away. She hadn't realized seniority was a factor. In fact, this was the one appointment she'd believed free of such bullshit.

  Rocker shifted in his chair. "I don't want you to feel this is any reflection on your performance."

  "Surely you were aware of our respective seniority rankings before you gave me reason to hope," Hayward said quietly.

  Rocker spread his hands. "Fact is, seniority formulas can be rather arcane. I made an honest mistake. I'm sorry."

  Hayward said nothing.

  "There will be other opportunities — especially for a captain of your caliber. Rest assured I'll see to it that your hard work and commitment are rewarded."

  "Virtue is its own reward, sir. Isn't that what they say?" Hayward stood and — seeing from Rocker's face there was nothing more — walked on slightly unsteady legs to the door.

  * * *

  By the time the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, she had regained her composure. The echoing space was full of noise and lunch — hour bustle. Hayward passed the security checkpoint, then pushed her way out the revolving doors onto the broad steps. She had no real destination in mind: she just needed to walk. Walk and not think.

  Her reverie was interrupted when someone collided heavily with her. She glanced over quickly. It was a man: thin and youthful looking, with acne — pitted cheeks.

  "Pardon me," he said. Then he stopped and drew himself up. "Captain Hayward?"

  She frowned. "Yes."

  "What a coincidence!"

  She looked at him more closely. He had dark, cold eyes that belied the smile on his face. She did a quick mental cross — check — acquaintances, colleagues, perps — and satisfied herself he was a stranger.

  "Who are you?" she asked. "The name's Kline. Lucas Kline."

  "What coincidence are you talking about?"

  "Why, the fact I'm going to the very place you've just been."

  "Oh? And where would that be?"

  "The commissioner's office. You see, he wants to thank me. In person." And before Hayward could say anything more, Kline reached into his pocket, took out an envelope, removed the letter within, and held it open before her.

  She reached for it but Kline held it back, out of reach. "Uh — uh. No touching."

  Hayward glanced at him again, eyes narrowing. Then she turned her attention to the letter. It was indeed from Commissioner Rocker, on official letterhead, dated the day before, and thanking Kline — as head of Digital Veracity, Inc. — for his just — announced five — million — dollar donation to the Dyson Fund. The Fund, sacred among the NYPD rank and file, was named for Gregg Dyson, an undercover cop who'd been killed by drug dealers ten years before. It had been established to provide financial and emotional assistance to families of New York cops killed in the line of duty.

  She looked at Kline once again. Streams of people were leaving the building, stepping around them. The smile was still on his face. "I'm very happy for you," she said. "But what does this have to do with me?"

  "It has everything to do with you."

  She shook her head. "You've lost me."

  "You're a smart cop. You'll figure it out." He turned toward the revolving doors, then stopped and glanced back. "I can tell you a good place to start, though."

  Hayward waited. "Ask your boyfriend Vinnie." And when Kline turned away again, the smile was gone.

  Chapter 48

  Nora Kelly's eyesflew open. For a moment she struggled to understand where she was. Then it all came back: the smell of rubbing alcohol and bad food; the beeping and murmuring; the distant sirens. The hospital.Still.

  She lay there, head throbbing. The IV, hanging on its rack next to the bed, was swaying in the bright moonlight, creaking back and forth like a rusty sign in the wind. Had she caused it to move like that? Perhaps a nurse had bumped it while checking on her just now, administering more of the tranquilizers she kept insisting she didn't need. Or maybe the cop that D'Agosta stationed outside had looked in. She glanced over; the door was shut.

  The IV bottle swayed and creaked unceasingly. A strange feeling of dissociation began creeping over her. She was more tired than she'd realized. Or else perhaps it was a side effect of the second concussion.

  The concussion.

  She didn't want to think about that. Because that would take her back to what caused it: to her darkened apartment, the open window, and…

  She shook her head — gently; squeezed her eyes tightly closed; then began taking deep, cleansing breaths. When she was calm again, she opened her eyes and looked around. She was in the same double room she'd been in the last three days, her bed nearest to the window. The blinds of the windows were closed, and the privacy curtain had been drawn around the bed nearest the door.

  She turned, looking more closely at the drawn curtain. She could see the outline of the sleeping person within, backlit by the glow filtering out of the bathroom. But was that really the outline of a person? Hadn't the bed been empty when she'd fallen asleep? This was her third night here now — the doctors kept promising it was just for observation, that she'd be released tomorrow — and that bed had always been empty.

  A horrible sense of déjà vu began to steal over her. She listened and could just hear the breathing, a faint, ragged sighing. She looked around again. The whole room looked strange, the angles wrong, the dark television above her bed crooked as the lines of a German Expressionist film.

  I must still be sleeping, she thought. This is just a dream.

  The torpor of dreamscape seemed to surround her, swaddling her in its gauzy embrace.

  The outline stirred; a sigh came. A faint gurgle of phlegm. Then an arm reached up slowly, its silhouette imprinted against the curtain. With a shudder of dread Nora gripped her sheets, trying to shrink away. But she felt so weak…

  The curtain slid back with a slow, terrible deliberation, makin
g a faint eeeee as the metal loops ran along the cold steel rail. She watched, paralyzed with terror, as the dark outline of a person emerged, first in shadow — then into moonlight.

  Bill.

  The same bloated face, matted hair, blackened, sagging eyes, gray lips. The same dried blood, dirt, foulness. She couldn't move. She couldn't cry out. She could only lie and stare as the nightmare to end all nightmares unfolded.

  The figure got out of bed and stood up, staring down at her. Bill… and yet not Bill, living and yet dead. He took a step forward. His mouth opened and there were worms. The claw — like hand reached out, its nails long and cracked, while the head slowly bent down toward her — to kiss …

  She sat up in bed with a cry.

  For a moment she just sat there, shaking with terror, until relief flooded through her as she realized it had, in fact, been a dream. A dream like the last one — only worse.

  She lay back in bed, bathed in sweat, her heart slowing, feeling the nightmare recede like a tide. Her IV bottle wasn't swaying; the television looked normal. The room was dark: there was no bright moonlight. The modesty curtain was drawn around the next bed, but there was no sound of breathing. The bed was empty.

  Or was it?

  She stared at the curtain. It was swaying just slightly. The curtain was opaque and she could not see inside.

  She willed herself to relax. Of course there was no one in there. It was just a dream. And on top of that, D'Agosta had told her the room would remain private. She closed her eyes but sleep didn't come — nor did she really want it to come. The dream had been so dreadful that she feared falling asleep.

  That was silly. Despite her enforced time in the hospital, sleep had been hard to find. She desperately needed rest.

  She closed her eyes, yet felt so awake she almost couldn't make her eyelids shut. One minute passed. Two.

  With an irritated sigh she opened her eyes again. Against her will, she found her gaze sliding once more toward the adjacent bed. The curtains were moving again, ever so slightly.