Gregor had come at the right time in his life. He was only twelve then. The following year he would not believe in anything magical, under pain of ridicule by peers. Then, the boy had put this feeling away with the comic books and the toys, and had forgotten where he left it.
Now the man remembered. He had come back for it.
Unshaven, unbeliever in this holiest of places, he was looking here for Sabra, though she was probably miles away and worlds, sitting somewhere cradling her own mind like a child upon her lap.
It was magic, it seemed, that sent her over, so he lit a candle now to bring her back. But how far and from exactly where? She had begun to leave him on the day Aubry died, growing farther and farther away, killing him as she left him, going away from him, bit by bit of her mind, and then altogether gone and taking her body with her.
Once Sabra’s life had been filled with glorious color. Color had throbbed about her in an electricity of bright scarves, textured stockings and summer dresses of impossible combinations of purples and greens. When she lived alone, her apartment had been alive with color. The rugs and drapes held vibrant, clashing conversations. Each careless thing that lay strewn about the rooms would contradict the thing it lay upon.
This had been a part of the excitement of her, the wild charm of Sabra. After they were married, he began to work his changes on her, maintaining all the while that he loved her as she was. First he changed the shape of her body with their only child. Then he refurnished her environs, save for the rocking chair that had been her mother’s, all that he approved of, good solid wooden thing. But glaring prints of rugs and drapes were cast out with the trash and the multicolored coat.
Standing in the perfect quiet of the church and gazing up at the stained-glass windows, he saw again the wild colors in a jam of rolling rainbows, escaping down Bleecker Street in the junkman’s cart. And he watched Sabra running after the cart, shaking her fists at the junk-man, and returning triumphant with her coat of many colors.
Oddly, it was never Sabra the mother he saw whenever she walked into a room in middle age with thickened waist, but wild Sabra, her bright colors flashing and waves of jet-black hair.
And then insanity had come to their house with the death of Aubry.
It seemed as though it happened in one night when Sabra came downstairs, very late, to sit in her mother’s chair. At first he thought she’d come to keep him company as he grieved for Aubry in the dark. Then as he stared at his wife and she took form in the poor light from the street, he realized that her lustrous black hair was gone. Her crown was a cap of stick-out hair, and in some places she was shorn to the gleam of white scalp. Then Sabra had begun to rock, slowly at the beginning and then faster and faster, rocking furiously. Laughing like a mad child, she spilled out onto the floor, and crawled like a baby to the stair.
Twelve years later, Gregory Gilette lit a candle for his wife, and then another candle, and another. He went on to the next statue and the next, lighting all the candles. One by one, he begged the saints who stood above the flames, did they know where his Sabra was? Did they know the way she had gone and, most important, the way back?
The poor Protestant atheist, rational man of show-me country, broke down like a child when stones would not consult with him.
And that cat-size creature at the far side of the roof, twitching and compulsively rubbing its hands. Was that a mouse? Surely not. Mice were cartoons, and rather cute. This was something loathsome.
Tonight, the creature had come close enough to be splashed with champagne. Not to waste the wine, Andrew made a cross in the air above the scurvy animal, and he christened it Emma Sue. Then he tried to smash it out of existence with the bottle. But he was too slow- the empty bottle too heavy.
His head lolled back and he was staring up at an empty sky. Empty? He was too tired to crawl to the edge of the roof where he had left the binoculars. He shivered and hugged his knees to his body. His naked eyes drifted slowly from side to side, scanning heaven, searching for the stars.
But they were gone.
He fell into a light sleep, awakening at the thud behind him. He turned around slowly to see the brown paper bag, torn open to reveal a small loaf of bread.
A miracle.
He fell on the loaf, ripping the cellophane wrapping away from the bread. He broke the loaf open and smelled it, and then he wolfed down the sweet, white, fibrous, glorious bread, his gift from the sky.
So, there was a God.
Riker had a few bad moments watching her make the drop from the edge of Bloomingdale’s roof to the narrow ledge beneath the top-floor window. When she was safely inside the building, he breathed again. He trained the binoculars on Andrew Bliss and watched him feeding on the loaf.
Riker’s binoculars strayed to the surrounding buildings and then down below to the stream of late traffic. Ah, New York, all decked out in city lights like sequins on her best dress-all dazzle and smart moves. He had seen the city in harsher light, and he knew she was really a whore, but that could be fun, too.
He had underestimated Mallory’s time in crossing the street and climbing to this tenth-floor roof. He turned to the right, and she was standing beside him, looking down on Andrew Bliss.
“Mallory, there’s gotta be a better way to feed him. That ledge is dangerous.”
“Yeah, right. A little old lady wouldn’t have a problem with that ledge. The roof would be crawling with reporters right now if the bastards weren’t afraid it would kill their story. Whoever Andrew’s hiding from will get to him eventually.”
“Didn’t Markowitz ever tell you it wasn’t nice to hang a taxpayer out as bait?”
“I think he did run that by me once.” She checked the bolt action on the assault rifle, and aimed the sight on the roof of Bloomingdale’s to test the night scope. “Charles thinks Quinn is stalking me.”
“Quinn has good taste. He only goes after the brightest and the best. You’re his type, kid.”
“So was Aubry.”
“What are you saying, Mallory? She was his own niece.”
“Oh, right, and murderers are such stand-up moral people. What was I thinking of?” She walked off to the other side of the roof and stood there staring down at Andrew, her pet mouse, as he was nibbling at his bread.
“It doesn’t work for me, kid.” And he suspected it didn’t work for her either, but this was her idea of sport.
He turned the binoculars to all the dark corners of the roof below, and lost track of Mallory by sight and sound.
“But the killing of Dean Starr suits him,” said Mallory, close to his ear now, spooky kid, back for another shot at him. “According to Quinn’s bio, he’s a fencer, a former Olympic champion,” she said. “He’d know where to put the steel to do the most damage. And it was such a neat crime, wasn’t it? No mess. And that suits him too.”
“So now you’re thinking revenge?” Riker shook his head and lowered the binoculars to face her. “Quinn’s not the type to go on a vigilante solo.”
“Quinn held out on the old man, and he held out on us. He knows what the connection is. Dean Starr was tied to the old murder case, but I’m betting he wasn’t the only one.”
“Well, you’re not thinking that poor little bastard down there could have done murder with an axe?”
“Andrew? He knows something, and so does Quinn. I’m sure there’s more than one killer.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think Starr could have taken the artist and the dancer down by himself.”
“Peter Ariel was stoned on dope that night. A twelve-year-old could have done him in.”
“But Starr was a junkie too. So what about the dancer? Physical peak, good reflexes and some muscle.”