She found the on ramp for the bridge and headed across the East River, looking for the signs that would direct them toward the Long Island Expressway. Behind them the city gleamed brightly in the crystalline night.
The car swerved as a particularly strong gust ripped across the span.
"You okay?" Jim said thickly, straightening up in the seat and looking at her.
"Sure," she said, keeping her eyes ahead. "I'm fine. Just a little tired is all."
She didn't say so, but she too was sleepy from the wine she had had with dinner.
"Me too. Want me to drive?"
"No thank you, Mr. Goodtime Charlie."
"Smart girl."
Jim did like to celebrate, and when he celebrated, Carol drove.
To help keep them awake, Carol turned on the radio. She wished they could get FM like some of the new cars. She liked the music on that new station, WNEW-FM. But she gladly settled for the WMCA Good Guys. The psychedelic bubble-gum sound of "Green Tambourine" filled the car.
"Some meal," Jim said.
"One of the best."
He slipped an arm around her shoulder and nuzzled her ear.
"Love you, Carol."
"Love you, too, hon."
He snuggled closer to her in the warmth of the car as the Lemon Pipers faded out and Paul McCartney began the vocal to "Hello Goodbye."
Interlude on Central Park West—II
"Are you going to stand at that window all night?"
"Just a moment longer, my dear," Mr. Veilleur told his wife.
The feeling was gone—or almost gone. He wasn't sure. He stared down at the dark blotch of the park below, its blackness cut by the illuminated ribbons of its traverses, mostly empty now on this wintry night. The same with the street directly below, and Columbus Circle off to the right.
The prickling alarm in the most primitive regions of his brain had finally quieted, but that gave him scant comfort. Its cause could be out there still, its aura attenuated by distance. It could be growing stronger beyond the limits of his perception.
Or maybe it was just a bad dream. Maybe he had fallen asleep in front of the TV and had had a nightmare that carried over briefly into consciousness.
Yes, that had to be it. A nightmare. That was what he had told his wife.
He couldn't be back. It was impossible.
But for a moment there…
No. A bad dream. Nothing more.
But what if I'm wrong?
He shuddered. If he was wrong, untold horrors lay ahead. Not only for him but for all those living and yet to be born. He turned to his wife and forced a smile. "What's on the boob tube tonight?"
Four
Saturday, February 24
You watch with glee as the Judean infants are torn from the arms of their screaming mothers. Those who protest in a more physical manner are brutally and efficiently subdued by the Roman soldiers in your command. The fathers who run to their families' aid are threatened with swords, and those who will not be cowed are hacked down. The cries of the parents and children alike are music to you, their pain and anguish an exquisite ambrosia.
Only infants of one month or younger may be taken, and only in and around this little town south of Jerusalem. You wish it could be all the children for miles around, but your limits have been set.
Finally all the helpless, squalling infants have been piled in a clearing in a nearby field. The soldiers hesitate in their duty. You scream at them to follow their orders. You pull a sword from the nearest and wade into the tangle of tiny arms and legs. You swing the short, broad blade back and forth in a scything motion, feeling it slice through smooth skin and soft bones as easily as a heated knife through ripe cheese. Tiny crimson geysers shoot up, spraying you. The spilling inside's steam in the cold air.
You laugh. You don't care if the soldiers hang back. You'll gladly finish the job yourself. And why not? It's your right, isn't it? After all, weren't you the one who told that doddering old fool, Herod, that the King of the Jews was rumored to have been born in this very area within the last week or two? Weren't you the one who convinced him that this was the only sure way to guarantee that his little corner of the world would pass on to his sons as he has planned?
Finally the blood lust grips the soldiers and they join you in the slaughter. You step back now, watching them do the work, for it is so much better when you allow others to sink to new depths.
You watch them slashing… slashing… slashing—
Carol awoke screaming.
"Carol! Carol!" Jim was saying, holding her. "What on earth's wrong?"
She lay there drenched in sweat, wanting to be sick.
"Oh, Jim, it was awful!"
"It was only a dream, only a dream," he whispered, trying to soothe her.
But the horror wouldn't go away. So real. So real! Almost as if she were right there. The Slaughter of the Innocents. She only vaguely remembered it as a passing reference in one of the Gospels. What had injected it into her subconscious tonight?
"You okay?" Jim said after a while.
"Yeah. Okay now," she said, lying. "Must have been the pepperoni pizza."
"Pepperoni never gave you nightmares before."
"It did this time."
"Here. Cuddle up and get warm."
She fit herself against him. That was better, but she couldn't forget—
… slashing… slashing…
"You're shaking. Next time we get plain—no pepperoni."
But it wasn't the pepperoni pizza. It was something else, but she didn't know what. She'd been having so many nightmares lately. Mostly they had been vague, formless, ill-remembered experiences, leaving her frightened and unsettled.
But this…
Jim was soon dozing again. But Carol lay awake the rest of the night, afraid to sleep.
Five
Monday, February 26
1
Jim checked out the paintings on the walls as they were led down a hall to the conference room. They were all country scenes, full of dark, muted greens and inhabited by dogs and horsemen.
"Somehow I don't think we'll be seeing any Peter Max on the walls here," he said out of the corner of his mouth.
Carol gave a warning squeeze to his hand that made him wince.
The Park Avenue offices of Fletcher, Cornwall & Boothby were staid and hushed, reeking of the Establishment with their high ceilings, solid oak paneling, and thick carpets the color of money. It was late afternoon and most of the staff looked as if they were readying to call it a day.
"There's Bill!" he heard Carol say as they entered the conference room.
Sure enough, Bill was already seated at the long mahogany table, his cassock fully buttoned to the throat this time, trim brown hair neatly combed, looking every bit like Father William Ryan, S.J., representing St. Francis Home for Boys at the reading of the will should look.
There was an elderly couple at one end of the table and a group of four lawyer types in quiet conversation at the other. One of the latter—a short, dark, intense fellow Jim gauged to be about thirty—broke away as soon as they entered. He approached with an outstretched hand.
"Mr. Stevens? I'm Joe Ketterle. We spoke on the phone last week."
"Right," Jim said, shaking his hand. "This is my wife, Carol."
"How do you do? Well, you're the last one. We're ready to get down to business. Please take a seat." He pulled two chairs from the table and eased Jim and Carol into them.