Jungle Of Steel And Stone

Chapter Five

Veil was up before dawn. He ate a breakfast of black coffee, cheese, and bread as he listened to the news. Toby had not been found, and the police dragnet had now shifted to a systematic search of abandoned buildings, alleys, and unused storefronts on both the East and West Sides. By six-thirty, Veil was entering Central Park at Sixty-ninth Street, retracing the steps of the K'ung warrior-prince.

Nobody goes to ground like a K'ung warrior.

He did not bother looking for signs where Toby had gone in, for he knew that any spoor would have been obliterated—first by the feet of police officers—and later by reporters and the curious. Instead he walked straight ahead, glancing to his left and right, studying the general terrain and looking for the most likely escape route for a fleeing bushman to take.

Veil smiled thinly and shook his head at the thought of how preposterous was the thing he was trying to do. He hadn't done any tracking in more than seventeen years, and in the jungles of Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia he had been tracking Viet Cong and Pathet Lao, whose sandals left the distinct imprint of tire tread. Here he was in Central Park—an area larger than some countries, used every day by thousands of people wearing everything from sneakers to combat boots. Toby, Veil thought, could be anywhere; he could even be where the police thought he was, cowering in some rat-infested basement. But Veil did not think so.

Nobody goes to ground like a K'ung warrior.

He kept walking in a straight line, down into a grassy bowl ringed by trees. Despite the early hour, lovers on their blankets were already—or maybe still—at each other, and joggers of every shape glided or huffed along. Veil ducked when someone shouted a warning and a purple Frisbee sailed just over his head.

Tracking the K'ung had been a great idea, Veil thought as he climbed halfway up the opposite face of the bowl, turned, and sat down on the grass. It was just impossible to execute.

Then he saw Reyna Alexander come crawling on her hands and knees out of the trees directly across the way. The anthropologist wore jeans, sneakers, and a long-sleeved cotton blouse. Her long, blue-black hair was tied back in a ponytail that flowed like an ink stain across her back as, oblivious to the startled and curious stares of lovers, joggers, and Frisbee players, she slowly crawled fifteen feet out onto the grass, then stopped before a small patch of bare ground. After almost a minute of staring at the ground she rose, brushed grass and dirt off her jeans, then headed back into the wooded area.

Anyone who even presumed to track someone else through Central Park had to be good, Veil thought, and he sensed that the frail woman was, indeed, very good. He was about to rise and follow her when he realized that he was not the only one with that idea. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, looked across the bowl to his right, and saw a man in tan chinos and a red tank top appear to wave at him. Then the man passed the edge of his hand across his throat. A moment later a man rushed past from behind, brushing Veil's shoulder. The man—squat, balding, and wearing a pair of plaid Bermuda shorts with matching shirt—was clumsily trying to stuff a pair of binoculars back into a leather case as he ran. The men joined up on the sidewalk, then entered the wooded area. Veil rose and ran down the hill.

Like a brother to the night that had just passed, Veil slipped silently into the trees, perhaps twenty yards from where Reyna, and then the men, had entered. He had no trouble following the sound trail of cracking branches and muttered curses of the men ahead of him, and Veil followed, gliding from tree to tree through the shadows.

The two men stopped for a few moments to have a whispered conference, then moved to their left. Veil did the same, moving parallel to the men, and was twenty-five yards behind them when they emerged from the trees and onto a large expanse of rolling lawn.

Reyna's ebony-crowned head was just disappearing over the crest of another knoll. The two men hurried after Reyna, and Veil followed them.

Strung out over almost a quarter mile, the procession crossed the East Drive. Reyna angled in the direction of the zoo, walked another hundred yards, then once again dropped to her hands and knees on the perimeter of a large patch of bare ground. The two men stopped. Veil stopped, lay down on his back, and watched over the top of his crossed ankles.

Reyna raised little clouds of dust as she slowly crawled forward on the dirt, head very close to the ground. She rose when she reached the other side, cupped her hands to her mouth, and uttered a strange, guttural cry that carried clearly across the meadow, startling a flock of pigeons at the same time as it caused a jogger to glance up sharply, stumble, and fall.

Then Reyna began walking quickly to her left, disappearing into another wooded area. The two men exchanged a few words, then hurried after her. Veil, remembering the throat-cutting gesture the thinner man had made, sprang to his feet and ran after them.

He found Reyna and the two men thirty yards inside the line of trees, behind the thick trunk of an ancient oak. Any concern Veil might have had about the men being police was instantly dispelled: the man in the Bermuda shorts was trying to drag a struggling Reyna to the ground, while the man in the tank top waited, switchblade in hand. Veil took the man with the knife first, hitting him with a powerful side kick in the solar plexus that sat him down hard on the ground, knife still in his hand. His face turned purple, and his eyes bulged as his mouth gaped open and his chest heaved in a desperate, silent plea for air that simply would not enter his lungs. In a continuation of the same motion Veil spun around and smashed the flat of his hand into the other man's face with enough force to crush the man's nose and snap off his front teeth. The squat man keeled over backward, unconscious.

"Excuse me," Veil said with a wink to the white-faced, astonished Reyna as he grabbed the man in the tank top by the hair and pulled him behind a clump of brush. "I'll be right back."

Veil took the switchblade from the gasping man's hand, pushed him on his back, then straddled him. "Let's chat," he said in a flat voice as he tested the sharpness of the blade against the thickness of the hairs on the man's bare left shoulder.

"Gaa . . . gaa . . ."

Dissatisfied with the switchblade, Veil sank its tip into the trunk of a tree just behind the man's head and snapped off the blade. Then he reached down inside his boot and withdrew one of his most prized possessions—a short dagger with a blade made of the rarest Damascus steel, a gift taken in barter from a knife maker on Staten Island for whom Veil had performed a service three years before.

"Are . . . you a . . . cop?" the man managed to say.

"You should be so lucky." Veil pulled up the edge of the man's T-shirt and slit it from waist to neck; there was virtually no tug at all on the blade, and the cotton parted with a soft whisper. "That was to get your attention. If you don't give me the right answers, I cut you next. Who hired you to follow the girl?"

The man, still struggling to draw a full breath, stared wide-eyed at the man with the long yellow hair and glacial-blue, gold-flecked eyes who was holding the tip of his knife just above the man's sternum. "A guy by the name of Picker Crabbe," he muttered hoarsely, licking his lips. "He's—"

"I know Picker. How much is he paying you?"

"A grand each if we brought him the statue the guy stole last night. Picker said that the girl was a friend of this guy, and she might lead us to him."

"She couldn't lead you to anybody after you jumped her. Why the hell did you do that?"

"Who the hell are you?"

Without hesitation Veil flicked his wrist, opening a three-inch gash just below the man's right nipple. Blood welled in the slit, rolled down the man's side. The man started to yell, but Veil clapped his hand over the open mouth, then held the tip of the knife against the man's throat. The man rolled his eyes and shook his head. Veil took his hand away and repeated the question. His voice was flat—absolutely devoid of emotion, implacable.

"She moves like a ghost," the man answered in a voice quivering with terror. Ignoring the knife now, he stared up at Veil as if he were looking at an angel of death. "We lost her for almost twenty minutes a while back. We didn't want to take a chance on losing her for good, so we decided to grab her and force her to tell us what she knew."

"You're idiots twice over. Picker's got a hole in his nose; every cent he can get his hands on goes for coke. Where in hell did you think he was going to get two thousand dollars to pay you?"

"He swore he could get the money. I think he was taking orders from someone else."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"Take a guess."

"I really don't know, man! Hey, my partner and me just do odd jobs—things we pick up on the streets. Nothing else was happening, so we took this. Besides, if we had gotten our hands on the statue, we wouldn't have given it to Picker until he gave us the money. We ain't that stupid."

"Why shouldn't Picker do the job himself and pocket the two grand if he got lucky?"

The man laughed nervously. "Hey, man, I don't know. Maybe Picker was afraid you'd be around."

The man was joking, Veil thought, but what he'd said could well be the truth. It was also true that the two men were nothing but low-level street thugs, "odd-job men." No one else would be working for Picker Crabbe. Veil clipped the man on the jaw with the heel of his left hand, then rose and walked from behind the brush to where Reyna waited. Her mouth was still slightly open, and she was staring at him dumbfounded.

"Good morning," Veil said, taking the woman by the hand and leading her out of the copse of trees. "Let's go get some coffee."

"Who were they, Veil?"

"Munchkins. Two very stupid street thugs working for another very stupid street thug. The man, or men, pulling their strings may not be so stupid, though. There are some nasty criminal types in the city who are definitely not art collectors but who want the Nal-toon. Do you have any idea why?"

Reyna sipped at her black coffee and grimaced. "Maybe they want to sell it?"

"No. Victor told me that the idol is worth only a few thousand dollars at most, and then only to a select clientele that collects primitive art. The people who control the smuggling route used to bring in the Nal-toon wouldn't cross the street for anything worth much less than a hundred thousand. Of course, the idol could have been hollowed out and stuffed with something—drugs, microfilm, gold, whatever. The problem is that nothing contraband that could have been stuffed in the idol would have been, not by these guys. The Nal-toon is just too ungainly and obvious, which is why Alan Berg was able to trace it in the first place. We're still left with the question of why a gang of mafiosi are looking to pick up a three-foot-high piece of carved hardwood."

"Oh, Veil," Reyna whispered. There was a slight tremor in her voice.

Veil glanced up from his coffee. Reyna, sitting across from him in the booth at the rear of the diner on Seventy-second Street, had her head bowed and her hands clasped in front of her, as if in prayer. Although she was just a few years shy of thirty, Veil thought, her appearance was that of a troubled child. He reached out and stroked her hair. "Easy, Reyna," he said gently.

"You sound so cold when you talk about it."

"I don't mean to. I was just trying to figure out what the bad guys' interests are. I do care."

Reyna looked up, smiled wanly, and squeezed his hand. "I know you do," she said, wiping tears from her eyes. "You came to the park to look for Toby, didn't you?"

"Well, I had the notion. I remembered what you'd said about 'going to ground'—hiding. I've had some experience with tribal hunter-gatherers, and I've done some tracking."

"It was in the Army, wasn't it?"

Veil said nothing.

"How old are you, Veil?"

"Pushing forty."

"Vietnam?"

"Somewhere in the vicinity," Veil replied with a thin smile. "Anyway, the minute I walked into the park, I knew I'd been suffering from delusions of grandeur. If an army of police who knew the territory hadn't been able to find him, then I wasn't going to be able to. Then I saw you at work. You're good."

For the first time since Veil had met her, the woman's face broke into a warm smile that was free of anxiety. "Why do you say that? I didn't find him, either."

"But you obviously knew what you were doing—whatever it was you were doing. What could you hope to find after all that traffic had been through there last night?"

"Oh, what I was doing isn't really all that mysterious.

The first thing Toby would have done when he got into the park was kick off his shoes and socks. K'ung have big splayed toes, so they leave distinctive footprints."

Veil shrugged. "Then we'll go back together and look for K'ung footprints."

Reyna shook her head. "I don't think we'll find any. Even at night, and even on strange terrain, Toby would have instinctively looked for and found hard or grassy ground to run on. He has jungle lore; the tribe occasionally hunts in the jungle along the edge of the desert."

"You do know one hell of a lot about this tribe, don't you?

"I grew up with them, Veil. As a matter of fact, Toby was my best friend as a child; I learned to hunt and track with all the K'ung boy-children. I was a 'missionary kid.'

"You told me that. Your parents were the first to make contact with this particular tribe."

"Yes. Anyway, after my parents were killed by a Bantu raiding party—" I m sorry.

"Thank you. I was twelve. I became a ward of the Missionary Society, and it assumed responsibility for my support and education. I was sent to school in France and the United States, did some of my own missionary work with the K'ung, and now I teach at Wesley while I work on my dissertation. End of story. My background may seem a bit exotic, but it's really quite simple. I'm betting that your background is exotic. I've never seen anyone fight like you do."

Her story had not included any mention of Carl Nagle, Veil thought, but he did not want to press her further. "You're sure your friend is still in the park?"

"Oh, yes. Toby's recuperating, resting and waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"To leave."

"Where would he go?"

Reyna studied Veil's face for a few moments, then abruptly dropped her gaze. "We'll just have to wait and see, I guess."

"Then the police may pick him up yet."

"No," Reyna said, her voice and limpid, black eyes once again filled with sadness. "He'll never allow himself to be captured alive, Veil. Never."

"Everything in Berg's articles indicated that the tribe was on its last legs—defeated, without hope, totally lethargic. I don't believe those are words I'd use to describe this Toby."

Reyna smiled grimly, shook her head. "Indeed not. Toby was always different—the toughest and meanest member of the tribe. He and I became friends, but he always resented my parents because they were Christian missionaries; in Toby's eyes they were enemies of the Nal-toon. No member of that tribe has ever been converted to Christianity, of course, but the attitude of the others was always rather mellow, if a bit condescending; after all, they could make good use of the knives, medicine, and other things we brought them. Toby, on the other hand, was always belligerent. Everyone always felt that he had a special relationship, if you will, with the Nal-toon. If there had been an official keeper of that idol, Toby would have been it."

"He's a zealot."

"Mmm. A zealot and a half. I strongly suspect that he doesn't view the loss of the Nal-toon in the way the others do. He may not see it as abandonment by their god but as a test of the tribe's worthiness. The use of shilluk has some religious overtones for the K'ung, which could mean that Toby perceives this Journey as a kind of mystical rite to regain the Nal-toon's favor. If that's the case, Toby will also perceive virtually everything that happens to him as a test of his courage and faith; he will absolutely abandon himself to the belief that the Nal-toon will protect him from harm as long as he acts like a warrior."

"That would explain his dash across Fifth Avenue. It wasn't just panic."

"No. He believed he was protected."

"Hey, he may be on to something," Veil said, smiling. "After all, he did make it across the street—and they haven't found him yet. I may get myself a Nal-toon."

"Toby coming to New York City could be very bad news, Veil," Reyna said seriously. "You've seen what's happened already. He's dangerous."

"I know."

"All the time I was searching, I kept calling out to him. I wanted him to know he was in danger and that he could come to me. If he heard, he didn't respond." Reyna paused and sighed. "He probably doesn't trust me. He may not even think I'm real."

"Not real?"

"Veil, in New York, Toby might as well be a visitor from another galaxy; everything here is totally alien to him. Also, depending upon how much shilluk he brought with him, he'll view everything as part of some netherworld constructed by the Nal-toon to challenge him. He'll perceive the people here as a tribe of ghost-demons whom he can't trust but who can hurt him if he's not brave and true to his faith."

"Then we'd better find him before the police or Mafia do. I want to help, Reyna."

"I know. Thank you."

"If you can get me to him, I may be able to stop Toby from hurting himself or others."

"Yes."

"What do you suggest we do?"

"For now, wait."

Again, Reyna had averted her gaze, and Veil had the definite impression that she was hiding something— holding something back. "Would you like more coffee? Something to eat?"

Reyna shook her head, then looked at him and offered what seemed to Veil a slightly forced smile. "No, thank you. I guess what I'd really like is a little more information about you. You already know everything important there is to know about me."

"I strongly doubt that."

"It's true. But I know next to nothing about you—except that you're an artist, fight like nobody I've ever seen, and seem to be my guardian angel. Even your name is mysterious. Is Veil a family name?"

"More like a family prayer."

Reyna smiled warmly and cocked her head. "Please tell me about it."

"I was born with a very high fever, and a caul, and the doctors gave me about two hours to live. My parents had a metaphysical streak in them, so they immediately named me Veil. Who knows? Maybe my name saved my life."

Reyna laughed softly. "Then you do have your Nal-toon: your name."

"Why not?"

"You said you weren't religious."

"I'm not. I believe in gravity and mathematics. But I also, most definitely, believe in mystery. To me there's more mystery in one ordinary day in the life of any ordinary human being than there is in all of the religious fables ever told or written."

"Well, obviously I think differently. To me Our Lord Jesus is mankind's Savior and the Son of God." Suddenly Reyna put her hand over her mouth in a strikingly childlike gesture and giggled. "But I won't try to convert you."

"I'm relieved."

"I like you, Veil."

"Thank you. And I like you."

"Wow," Reyna said with a grin as she studied the solidly built man with the broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms sitting across from her. As solid as he was, she had never seen anyone as quick and lithe. "You certainly survived, all right."

Veil considered his reply carefully. Secretive by nature, the bizarre residue of his fever was something he almost never discussed, an affliction that was known only to a very few friends, like Victor Raskolnikov and a certain dwarf. And Sharon. Now, however, he decided that he would share this part of himself with Reyna Alexander, in the hope that she might come to appreciate the gift and share her own secrets—secrets he was certain she held and which he suspected could involve the Nal-toon, Toby, and his own new and powerful enemy, Carl Nagle.

"The fever left me with some permanent brain damage," Veil said at last.

Reyna's smile faltered, as if she were uncertain as to whether or not he might be joking. "Well, you certainly could have fooled me."

"If there's such a thing as a kind of psychic membrane separating the conscious from the unconscious, then the fever I was born with burned it away. It left me vulnerable, you might say, to my dreams. I'm what's known in the literature as a vivid dreamer; my dreams are every bit as real to me as what's happening at this moment."

"You mean, you can't tell when you're dreaming?"

"Now I can. For most of my life I couldn't, though."

Reyna thought about it, then suddenly frowned. "Nightmares . . . ?"

"Oh, as a kid, I not only was chased by the usual ogres and dragons, I was usually caught and eaten."

"Lord, Veil, I know you're minimizing it. The terror you must have felt!"

Veil shrugged, smiled easily. "It caused me some problems. For one thing, it made me into a very cranky kid, adolescent, and—for a good many years—adult. But that's another story or two."

"I'd like to hear all your stories."

"We'll see. Anyway, painting proved to be a kind of therapy. By more or less painting my dreams, I got to the point where I could recognize dreams and even control them. Now, when I start to have a nightmare, I just go away—unless I feel it could have some value."

"What possible value could a nightmare have?"

"Oh, you never know. We resolve a lot of things in dreams. In any case, that approach to painting lent my work a certain style, and it's been my good fortune to have people pay for it occasionally."

"I'm sorry to say that I've never seen any of your work, but you must be very good if you're shown in the Raskolnikov Galleries."

"Victor's kind. He thinks I'm going to be good."

"Nonsense. I know you're good now."

"Reyna, I'd like to know more about you."

This time Reyna did not look away, but her eyes clouded, and she quickly shook her head as she plucked nervously at the sleeve of her blouse. "You know all there is to know."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, thanks to you."

"Those two are gone from the park by now, and I strongly doubt that they'll be back. Are you sure you wouldn't like to go back and look for Toby's footprints together?"

The dark-haired woman with the troubled, dark eyes thought about it as she slowly folded her napkin, then set it down beside her empty cup. "No," she said at last. "He'll never show himself if you're with me. I think it's best just to let things sit for a while."

"Reyna, I keep getting the feeling that you're keeping something from me—something important. What is it?"

"Please don't, Veil," Reyna whispered.

"You can trust me."

"I think so."

"Know so."

"Veil, everything's happened so quickly. I . . . have a lot of thinking to do. By myself."

"All right," Veil said, reaching across the table and pressing her hand. "Then I'll take you home."

"It's not necessary, unless you're going that way."

"To tell the truth, I wasn't planning on it. There's somebody I'd like to talk to."

Reyna patted Veil's arm as she rose. "Then you go ahead and take care of your business. I really am all right. I'll take a cab home."

Veil paid the bill, then walked Reyna out to the curb and hailed a cab. When the taxi pulled away, he crossed the street and headed for the subway.