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.
She knelt down to unzip her fencing bag and free a pair of sabers. Now she slid his own sword into the bag and zipped it up. She came back to him again, carrying one cavalry saber and swinging the other, slicing the air in front of her as though she were cutting a path to get at him. She handed one sword to him, and he recognized the family heirloom.
“Charles loaned you these sabers?”
“No, I stole them.”
He touched the cutting edge of the blade and then the point. “You’ve been busy with a whetstone, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Razor edges and needle-sharp points.”
“It’s an interesting choice of weapons, Mallory, but too dangerous for sport. We’ll use my fencing sabers. My pair is rigged to score electronically.” Now he noted the round bulge in her fencing bag. So she had at least brought a mask and perhaps a glove, but apparently no jacket. “I have a body wire, all the electronic gear. You’ll find a spare jacket and everything else you need in the locker room.” He pointed to a door at the back of the gymnasium. “You can change clothes-”
“Thanks,” she said, hefting the antique saber, testing the weight of it. “But I’m already dressed.”
“Mallory, that silk jersey is too flimsy. Even with the blunted swords, you need the proper costume for protection. I won’t fence with you until you’re suited up.”
“I won’t need any protection. And we will use the cavalry sabers.” She pointed her sword to the mask on the floor. “Pick that up and put it on. I want to get this over with.”
He shook his head, incredulous. What was she playing at?
She dipped her sword into the helmet that lay by his feet, and raised it up to the level of his hand. He took it off her sword, but only cradled it in his free arm. “I won’t fight you with these sabers. It’s too dangerous.”
“Yes you will.” She backed up two paces and assumed the en garde position.
He smiled. This promised to be a marvelous evening. “No, Mallory. Even with the cutting edge and the point, you’re still at a great disadvantage.”
“You also have a cutting edge and a point. I wouldn’t like anyone to say I didn’t give you a sporting chance. Put on the mask, Quinn. You’ll need it.”
“You can’t be serious. I don’t think you really understand the damage-”
“Oh, I know all about damage.” She jabbed the sword close to his face and pulled back.
He never flinched, and he wondered if that didn’t disappoint her. “I won’t fight you while you’re defenseless.”
“I may be the least defenseless person you ever met.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I don’t?” She slashed the air in front of his face. “This is a free kill for me, if that’s the way I want to play it. You’re the one with protective gear-not me. The bet is well known. I can get away with this. Put on the damn mask and put up your sword, or I’ll do you right now.”