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Seconds later, the bulk of the Cloisters was before me, the New Jersey shoreline to my left, traffic streaming across the George Washington Bridge. John D. Rockefeller Jr. had given this land to the city and reserved the hilltop for the construction of a museum of medieval art, which was eventually opened in 1938. Portions of five medieval cloisters were integrated into a single modern building, itself reminiscent of medieval European structures. My father had first taken me there as a child, and it had never ceased to amaze me since. Surrounded by its high central tower and battlements, its arches and pillars, you could briefly feel like a knight-errant, as long as you ignored the fact that you were looking out at the woods of New Jersey, where the only damsels in distress were likely to be robbery victims or unwed mothers.

I walked up the stairs to the admissions area, paid my $10, and stepped through the entrance door into the Romanesque Hall. There were no other visitors in the rooms; the comparatively early hour and the bad weather had kept most of them away, and I guessed that I was one of only a dozen or so people in the whole museum. I passed slowly through the Fuentidueña Chapel, pausing to admire the apse and the huge crucifix hanging from the ceiling, then made my way through the St. Guilhem and Cuxa Cloisters toward the Gothic Chapel and the stairs to the lower level.

I had about ten minutes before I was due to meet Mickey Shine, so I headed for the Treasury, where the museum stored its manuscripts. I entered through the modern glass doors and stood in a room ringed by panels from the choir stalls at Jumièges Abbey. The manuscripts were stored in glass cases and opened at particularly fine examples of the illuminator's art. I stopped for a time at a beautiful book of hours, but most of my attention was reserved for the visiting exhibits.

The book of Revelation had been the subject of manuscript illumination since the ninth century, and although Apocalypse cycles were produced originally for monasteries, they were also being made for wealthy secular patrons by the thirteenth century. Some of the finest examples had been gathered together for this exhibition, and images of judgment and punishment filled the room. I spent some time looking at various medieval sinners being devoured, torn apart, or tormented on spikes-or, in the case of the Winchester Psalter depiction of Hell Mouth, all three at once, while a dutiful angel locked the doors from the outside-before passing on to examples of Dürer's woodcuts, Cranach's work for Martin Luther's German translation of the New Testament, and Blake's visions of red dragons, until I eventually reached the item at the center of the display.

It was the Cloisters Apocalypse, dating from the early part of the fourteenth century, and the illustration on the opened page was almost identical to that which I had found on the Fellowship's literature. It depicted a multieyed beast with long, vaguely arachnid legs slaughtering sinners with a spear while Christ and the saints looked on impassively from the right-hand corner of the page. According to the explanatory note in the case, the beast was killing those whose names did not appear in the Lamb of God's Book of Life. Below it was a translation of an illustrator's note added in Latin in the margins: “For if the names of the saved are to be recorded in the Book of Life, shall not also the names of the damned be written, and in what place may they be found?”

I heard the echo of the threat made by Mr. Pudd against Mickey Shine and his family: their names would be written. The question, as the illuminator had posed, was, Written where?

It was now ten, but I could see no sign of Mickey Shine. I left the Treasury, walked through the Glass Gallery, and opened a small unmarked door that led out into the Trie Cloister. The only sound, apart from the fall of the rain, came from the trickling of water in the fountain at the center of the marble arcades, dominated in turn by a limestone cross. To my right, an opening led out to the exposed Bonnefont Cloister. When I stepped through it, I found myself in a garden, the Hudson River and the New Jersey shoreline in front of me, the tower of the Gothic Chapel to my far right. To my left was the main wall of the Cloisters itself, a drop of maybe twenty feet leading to the ground below. The other two sides of the square consisted of pillared arcades.

The garden had been planted with shrubs and trees common in medieval times. A quartet of quince trees stood in the middle, the first signs of the yellow fruit now appearing. Valerian was overshadowed by the huge leaves of black mustard; nearby grew caraway and leek, chive and lovage, madder and Our-Lady's-bedstraw, the last two constituent ingredients in the dyes used by artists for the manuscripts on display in the main body of the museum.

It took me seconds to notice the new addition to the garden. Against the far wall, beside the entrance to the tower, grew an espaliered pear tree, its shape resembling a menorah. The bare branches were like hooks, six of them growing out from the main artery of the tree. Mickey Shine's head had been impaled on the very tip of that central artery, turning him to a creature of both flesh and wood. Tendril-like trails of coagulating blood hung from the neck, and the rain damped the pallor of his features as water pooled in the sunken sockets of his eyes. Tattered skin blew softly in the wind, and there was blood around his mouth and ears. His ponytail had been severed during the removal of his head and the loose hair now stuck lankly to his gray-blue skin.

I was already reaching for my gun when the thin, spiderlike shape of Mr. Pudd emerged from the shadow of the arcade to my right. In his hand he held a Beretta fitted with a suppressor. My hand froze. He told me to move my hands away from my body, slowly. I did.

“So here we are, Mr. Parker,” he said, and the eyes behind their dark hoods gleamed with a hostile intensity. “I hope you like what I've done with the place.”

His left hand gestured to the tree. Blood and rain pooled at its base, creating a dark reflection of what lay above. I could see Mickey Shine's face shimmer as the raindrops fell, seeming to add life and expression to his still features.

“I found Mr. Sheinberg in a nickel-and-dime hotel,” he continued. “When they discover what's left of him in his bathtub, I fear it will be merely a nickel hotel.”

And still the rain fell, soaking me through my coat. It would keep the tourists away, and that was what Mr. Pudd wanted.

“The idea was mine,” he said. “I thought it was appropriately medieval. The execution-and it was an execution-was the work of my… associate.”

Farther to my right, still sheltered by the arcade, the woman with the mutilated throat stood against a pillar, an open rucksack on the stone before her. She was watching us impassively, like Judith after disposing of the head of Holofernes.

“He struggled a great deal,” elaborated Mr. Pudd, almost distractedly. “But then, we did start from the back. It took us some time to hit the vertebral artery. After that, he didn't struggle quite so much.”

The weight of the Smith amp; Wesson beneath my coat pressed against my skin, like a promise that would never be fulfilled. Mr. Pudd returned his attention fully to me, raising the Beretta slightly as he did so.

“The Peltier woman stole something from us, Mr. Parker. We want it back.”

I spoke at last. “You were in my house. You took everything that I had.”

“You're lying. And even if you are not, I suspect you know who does have it.”

“The Apocalypse?” It was a guess, but a good one. Mr. Pudd's lips twitched once, and then he nodded. “Tell me where it is, and you won't feel a thing when I kill you.”