eyes darkened. “Destroy him?”
“Kill him. Or else he will turn you.”
Gus shook his head in slow motion. “But … if you say he’s already dead … how can I kill him?”
“There are ways,” said Setrakian. “How did you kill the one who attacked you?”
“A knife. That thing coming out of his mouth—I cut up that shit.”
“His throat?”
Gus nodded. “That too. Then a truck hit him, finished the job.”
“Separating the head from the body is the surest way. Sunlight also works—direct sunlight. And there are other, more ancient methods.”
Gus turned to look at Felix. Lying there, not moving. Barely breathing. “Why doesn’t anybody know about this?” he said. He turned back to Setrakian, wondering which one of them was crazy. “Who are you really, old man?”
“Elizalde! Torrez!”
Gus was so absorbed in the conversation that he never saw the cops enter the cell. He looked up at hearing his and Felix’s names and saw four policemen wearing latex gloves come forward, geared up for a struggle. Gus was pulled to his feet before he even knew what was happening.
They tapped Felix’s shoulder, slapped at his knee. When that failed to rouse him, they lifted him up bodily, locking their arms underneath his. His head hung low and his feet dragged as they hauled him away.
“Listen, please.” Setrakian got to his feet behind them. “This man—he is sick. Dangerously ill. He has a communicable disease.”
“Why we wear these gloves, Pops,” called back one cop. They wrenched up Felix’s limp arms as they dragged him through the door. “We deal with STDs all the time.”
Setrakian said, “He must be segregated, do you hear me? Locked up separately.”
“Don’t worry, Pops. We always offer preferential treatment to killers.”
Gus’s eyes stayed on the old man as the tank door was closed and the cops pulled him away.
Stoneheart Group, Manhattan
HERE WAS the bedroom of the great man.
Climate controlled and fully automated, the presets adjustable through a small console just an arm’s reach away. The shushing of the corner humidifiers in concert with the drone of the ionizer and the whispering air-filtration system was like a mother’s reassuring hush. Every man, thought Eldritch Palmer, should slumber nightly in a womb. And sleep like a baby.
Dusk was still many hours away, and he was impatient. Now that everything was in motion—the strain spreading throughout New York City with the sure exponential force of compound interest, doubling and doubling itself again every night—he hummed with the glee of a greedy banker. No financial success, of which there had been plenty, ever enlivened him as much as did this vast endeavor.
His nightstand telephone toned once, the handset flashing. Any calls to this phone had to be routed through his nurse and assistant, Mr. Fitzwilliam, a man of extraordinary good judgment and discretion. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Who is it, Mr. Fitzwilliam?”
“Mr. Jim Kent, sir. He says it is urgent. I am putting him through.”
In a moment, Mr. Kent, one of Palmer’s many well-placed Stoneheart Society members, said, “Yes, hello?”
“Go ahead, Mr. Kent.”
“Yes—can you hear me? I have to talk quietly …”
“I can hear you, Mr. Kent. We were cut off last time.”
“Yes. The pilot had escaped. Walked away from testing.”
Palmer smiled. “And he is gone now?”
“No. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I followed him through the hospital until Dr. Goodweather and Dr. Martinez caught up with him. They said Redfern is okay, but I can’t confirm his status. I heard another nurse saying I was alone up here. And that members of the Canary project had taken over a locked room in the basement.”
Palmer darkened. “You are alone up where?”
“In this isolation ward. Just a precaution. Redfern must have hit me or something, he knocked me out.”
Palmer was silent for a moment. “I see.”
“If you would explain to me exactly what I am supposed to be looking for, I could assist you better—”
“You said they have commandeered a room in the hospital?”
“In the basement. It might be the morgue. I will find out more later.”
Palmer said, “How?”
“Once I get out of here. They just need to run some tests on me.”
Palmer reminded himself that Jim Kent was not an epidemiologist himself, but more of a facilitator for the Canary project, with no medical training. “You sound as though you have a sore throat, Mr. Kent.”
“I do. Just a touch of something.”
“Mm-hmm. Good day, Mr. Kent.”
Palmer hung up. Kent’s exposure was merely an aggravation, but the report about the hospital morgue room was troubling. Though in any worthy venture, there are always hurdles to overcome. A lifetime of deal making had taught him that it was the setbacks and pitfalls that make final victory so sweet.
He picked up the handset again and pressed the star button.
“Yes, sir?”
“Mr. Fitzwilliam, we have lost our contact within the Canary project. You will ignore any further calls from his mobile phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we need to dispatch a team to Queens. It seems there may be something in the basement of the Jamaica Hospital Medical Center that needs retrieving.”
Flatbush, Brooklyn
ANN-MARIE BARBOUR checked again to make sure that she had locked all the doors, then went through the house twice—room by room, top to bottom—touching every mirror twice in order to calm herself down. She could not pass any reflective surface without reaching out to it with the first two fingers of her right hand, a nod following each touch, a rhythmic routine resembling genuflection. Then she went through a third time, wiping each surface clean with a fifty-fifty mix of Windex and holy water until she was satisfied.
When she felt in control of herself again, she phoned her sister-in-law, Jeanie, who lived in central New Jersey.
“They’re fine,” said Jeanie, referring to the children, whom she had come and picked up the day before. “Very well behaved. How is Ansel?”
Ann-Marie closed her eyes. Tears leaked out. “I don’t know.”
“Is he better? You gave him the chicken soup I brought?”
Ann-Marie was afraid her trembling lower jaw would be detected in her speech. “I will. I … I’ll call you back.”
She hung up and looked out the back window, at the graves. Two patches of overturned dirt. Thinking of the dogs lying there.
Ansel. What he had done to them.
She scrubbed her hands, then went through the house again, just the downstairs this time. She pulled out the mahogany chest from the buffet in the dining room and opened up the good silver, her wedding silver. Shiny and polished. Her secret stash, hidden there as another woman might hide candy or pills. She touched each utensil, her fingertips going back and forth from the silver to her lips.