Charles carried his bundle of sheets and blankets to the spare bedroom. When he returned to the front room, his houseguest was sitting up straight enough, but the man was fast asleep.
Charles gently lowered Riker’s body down, and then lifted his feet to the cushion and began to untie the shoelaces. When he was done with the pillows and quilts, one would have to admit that Riker’s own mother could not have done a better job of tucking him in.
Quinn stood by the large window in the dining room, watching the river rolling by, no longer aware of the Chopin etude in the background. In a polite ripple of baroque chimes, an antique mantel clock consulted with him about the passing time. His first appointment of the evening was with Gregor Gilette.
There was nothing he could do to ease the pain which Emma Sue Hollaran had caused, but he could do something to Emma Sue. He had tried to stop her, even threatened her, and the woman’s own stupidity had foiled him. She truly did believe she was invincible, and she would continue to believe that until she lay crushed beneath the wheels of the machinery he had put into motion. Too late for Gregor, however. The damage could not be undone. Revenge was only the next best thing, but he found it a necessary thing.
Quinn packed his sword and his mask in preparation to meet with Mallory later in the evening. As he packed the formal white fencer’s uniform, he planned out Mallory’s future as he would a military campaign. It was a strange warfare, this, for all his strategy was toward embracing the enemy, and preventing her from ever leaving him.
He avoided his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece as he zipped up his fencing bag.
Other women had come to him, not believing that he could care for them. Nothing in his eyes ever led them on, ever promised them anything. They had come to him without expectations; they left him without rancor. And it was always they who left him. For even when he did care for a woman, even when she moved him, his eyes were disbelieved. The woman would put all her faith in the unintended counterfeit contempt of his expression, and having a better opinion of herself, she would leave him.
It would be different with Mallory. She would never look outside herself for affirmation of her worth. She was made for the battle between man and woman. She promised an exciting tension that would last, always challenging, never abating, for she was young and had little need for rest. Tonight, he would beat her in the fencing match, and she would make him pay for that.
He smiled, or thought he did. The expression never made the translation to his eyes, and so it was unrealistic, unbelievable.
He wanted Mallory more than he had ever wanted anyone. He wondered if she knew that. No, of course she didn’t. He could depend on his cold eyes to never give away an honest emotion. But if he told her what she was to him, would he be believed? No. His eyes would always foil him. Perhaps one day he would tell her in the dark.
Charles watched over Riker as the man turned in his sleep. The room had grown dark. He pulled on a delicate chain, and a glass lampshade of colored panels cast a small pool of warm light. Now he could read the dial on the alarm clock he had placed by the couch. It was set to go off at eight-thirty, when Riker would rise to take his tour of duty on the roof. It was nearly time. But surely Riker needed more rest. Tonight the man looked ten years older than he should.
Charles leaned down and gently switched off the alarm. He pulled an old knapsack from the hall closet and began to pack Riker’s binoculars, a blanket against the chill night-what else? Riker would probably need his cellular phone, so he should leave that behind.
Riker rolled over in his sleep and never heard Charles stealing out the door to do his time on the roof.
Central Park was the only place where a New Yorker could be alone after dark. The average New Yorker seldom took advantage of this well-known fact. The rare tourist was sometimes found there, having parks that one can freely roam in his own part of the world. Such people’s bodies were usually recovered from the bushes in the early daylight hours by the sanitation crews, whose job it was to clean up the litter of tourists and muggers alike.
Even the muggers entered the park with some trepidation. They had been known to become confused and attack one another, anger escalated by the mutual insult of having been taken for an ignorant tourist. Though a police station was nestled in the heart of the place, the police never went walking in the park after dark.
Sabra did.
She came walking across the wide-open expanse of the great lawn, showing some strain, as though the cart she pulled behind her on the grass might be a solid block of lead.
She was headed toward the dark cover of trees. Coming finally to the footpath at the edge of the lawn, she dropped to a bench. The thousands of city lights, bright eyes above the tree line, had been following her, tracking her across the grass. They vanished now, blotted out by leaves and branches. She sat in near blackness, owing to a string of broken path lights.
Her body had become too heavy to drag around anymore. Would that she could leave the weight of it sitting on the bench, just abandon this body, this sack of ailments and sores, and go on her way. In a second more, she realized that this was possible, that the method was in her reach, resting on the top of her cart in the form of a discarded butcher knife. The handle was old and cracked, but there was nothing wrong with the blade. Why not? She hadn’t the energy to fight the city anymore.
Portrait of a falling woman, deadfall, making no shrieks, no useless flailing motions of the arms and legs. Ah, but the night was not over yet. There were places to go and things to do. Yet she found it near impossible to rise from the bench.
The near-dead always weighed more.
The high ceiling of the gymnasium was aglow with bright panels concealing long fluorescent tubes. Yet the flood of light was so diffused, it seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, refracting off the cream-colored walls and illuminating every part of the room. And so, the lone swordsman dressed in white had no shadow.
He fastened the collar of his fencing jacket as he walked to the center of the hardwood floor. He stepped over the painted blue line which defined the narrow rectangle of the fencing strip-the field of combat. All the important lessons of Quinn’s life had taken place within this six-by-eighteen-foot boundary. Here, he had been taught philosophy and human nature, honor and deception. Despite his gold medal, he had also learned humility, for he well understood there was always something more to be learned on this strip.
His mask lay on the floor near his feet as he swung the sword and parried with an invisible partner. This would be an easy win, for he already understood Mallory’s style. In every conversation, she created a false opening, an invitation, and then she stabbed him in the heart. What was a fencing bout but a conversation of swords?
And now he realized he was no longer alone.
Mallory was standing just behind him. When he turned to face her, she was looking up at him. In the next moment, he had the disorienting impression that their eyes met on a level plane.
“How long have you been there?”
“Awhile.” Her body was a lean dark silhouette against the light walls, attired in blue jeans and a long-sleeved black jersey of silk.
“May I?” She held out her hand to take his sword, and he gave it to her. Her black running shoes made no sound as she moved across the room to the long brown leather bag by the door.
The door-how disconcerting. It was closed, and a chair was wedged under the knob. He gathered she didn’t want the match to be disturbed. Or perhaps she didn’t want any witnesses. If she had only done that to unnerve him, he would have approved.