Jungle Of Steel And Stone

Chapter Eight

Veil, feeling emotionally drained and physically exhausted from his dream-trek, signed in with the security guard at the north entrance to the missionary college complex, then headed toward the faculty dormitory. He met Reyna, approaching from the opposite direction, on the sidewalk outside the building.

"Good morning," Veil said with a smile. "If you don't mind my saying so, you really look like hell."

The frail woman with the large, soulful eyes managed to smile back. "Hi. You don't look so hot yourself."

"I think we've both had a rough night, each in a different way."

"Toby . . ."

"I know. I listened to the news reports. He's been sighted in all five boroughs, as well as in Connecticut. A man in New Jersey swears that Toby materialized in his living room and stole his stamp collection. Obviously, Toby's been busy. He's also now a national celebrity, with offers from all three networks to foot his legal expenses in exchange for exclusive rights to his story. I'm sure if Toby knew about all the deals that were being cooked up on his behalf, he'd hurry right in."

"It's not funny, Veil."

"Toby's situation isn't funny at all," he replied evenly. "I think the reaction of the public and media is."

"There's mass hysteria, Veil. There are vigilante groups forming."

"That isn't funny, either. You've been out looking for him, haven't you?"

Reyna nodded wearily. "Veil, forgive me. I don't mean to be rude, but I'm very tired."

"Reyna, I think I have a pretty good idea where you've been looking." Veil removed a folded map from the back pocket of his jeans, held it up. "We should talk. I think it's time we started working together."

Reyna's eyes darted back and forth between Veil's face and the map in his hand. Her own face reflected consternation at first, then suspicion and fear. "How did you—?"

"Just a second," Veil said softly, quickly replacing the map in his pocket as he glanced over Reyna's shoulder and saw a black, unmarked police car pull up to the curb ten yards behind her. "We've got company. Just take it easy, Reyna, and stay cool. I'll handle Mr. Nagle. Trust me."

Reyna wheeled around and stiffened when she saw Carl Nagle and Vahanian emerge from the car. Her hand, cold and dry, reached out for Veil's, and he gripped it. Nagle's face flushed when he saw Veil. The big man started forward but stopped when his partner calmly stepped in front of him, blocking his way. There was a whispered but heated conversation, during which Vahanian's view appeared to prevail. Nagle threw up his hands in a gesture of frustration, but he stepped back and leaned against the rear fender of the car while Vahanian came down the sidewalk to Veil and Reyna.

"Good morning," the olive-skinned, husky detective said. His smile revealed even, white teeth.

"Good morning," Veil replied, his voice flat.

"Miss Alexander, may we talk?"

"If you'd like." Reyna's fingernails were digging into

Veil's flesh, but her tension was not immediately apparent in her voice.

"Perhaps we could go up to your apartment?"

Reyna quickly shook her head. "There's no need. I've already told you all I know."

Nagle, still extremely agitated, abruptly pushed off the fender and poked a thick index finger through the air in Veil's direction. "You can go, Kendry!"

Veil looked at Reyna and winked. "Do you want me to go?

"Please don't go," Reyna said in a small voice. "Not while he's here."

"I'll stay," Veil announced to the huge detective.

Nagle started to come down the sidewalk but stopped when Vahanian wheeled around and vigorously shook his head. Nagle hesitated, then turned and went back to his previous position.

Vahanian turned back to Reyna. "Will you tell me where you've been?"

"I've been walking all night. When I heard the news about Toby, I got upset and couldn't sleep."

"Strange I didn't see you in Central Park."

"Why is it strange? By the time I heard the news, he was already gone from Central Park—at least, that was the report."

"Miss Alexander, I'm going to ask you the most important question up front. Are you now hiding, or did you ever hide, the African somewhere?"

"That's a ridiculous question."

"The man's a total stranger to this culture and environment. I don't understand how he could have remained free and survived this long without help."

"God is helping him."

Vahanian grimaced. "The idol? Don't tell me you believe—"

"God, Lieutenant, not the Nal-toon."

"Then God is going to be in trouble with the Criminal Justice System of the State of New York."

"In which case it's the State of New York that's in trouble."

"I find it unlikely that God would help a killer who's a fugitive from justice."

"Toby has killed twice—both times in self-defense. He and his people have been terribly wronged. I don't believe he's guilty in the eyes of Our Lord."

Veil gave Reyna's hand a reassuring squeeze, then released it and casually strolled down the sidewalk toward the police car. Nagle saw him coming, and the detective's doughy face creased in a puzzled frown— although the raisin eyes remained as dull as stone. Veil stepped into the street, walked around the car, and leaned on the trunk across from Nagle.

"It's a pain in the ass having to drag Vahanian around with you everywhere, isn't it?" Veil asked in a low voice.

Nagle's mouth was slightly open. He shook his head, blinked slowly. "What did you say?"

"Do you believe in mental telepathy?"

"Kendry, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm trying to read your mind. What I pick up is that you're thinking that it's a pain in the ass to have to drag Vahanian around. If you were alone, you'd just drag that girl into the car and beat whatever information you want out of her."

Suddenly the tiny eyes came alive, seemed to grow larger as they glittered like polished agates. The muscles in Carl Nagle's jaw contracted so quickly that his teeth came together with an audible click. He started to walk around the car, a movement that caught Vahanian's eye and caused the other detective to glance up sharply.

"Kendry, I'm warning you—!"

"No, I'm warning you," Veil said in the same low, even tone as he turned his head, smiled, and nodded at Vahanian. "If you come any closer, I'll do more than make you toss your cookies; I'll kill you. At my trial I'll bring up the fact that you killed Vito Ricci. I'll also mention the matter of you being on the Mafia payroll for years, acting as an enforcer. You're a rapist and sadist, Nagle, and my guess is that your victims will come forward in a flood once you're dead. Then, of course, I'll get off on self-defense, since your partner and the woman can see that you're about to attack me. Do I have your attention, Carl?"

Veil waited for a response, but there was none. It was as if his words were a kind of sound-Medusa that had turned Carl Nagle to stone. The detective was standing perfectly still, rigid, and the life had once again gone out of his eyes; he seemed to be staring through, or somewhere beyond, Veil.

"Outstanding," Veil continued. "Even though you appear vaguely catatonic at the moment, I'll assume that your ears still work. That bushman is still on the loose— but you're not going to kill him, and you're not going to get your hands on the idol. Now, I know that you're in trouble with your Mafia bosses, and I know that they're counting on you to get that idol for them. Tough shit. The price for having me mind my own business is for you to take a walk from this case. I don't give a shit how it's done, but do it; have a heart attack or something. Now get in the car and wait there like a nice policeman."

Nagle's eyes went slowly out of focus as his hand slowly moved toward his gun. Vahanian had stopped talking, and both he and Reyna were staring anxiously at Nagle and Veil.

"Carl, you'll be dead before you can pull the trigger," Veil said easily. "You know it's true; you can feel it in your guts. Now get in the car."

Moving like an automaton, Nagle turned, walked back around the car, and got into the rear. He sat very straight, his back not touching the seat, and blankly stared ahead. His face was the color of rotten meat.

"All finished, Lieutenant?" Veil asked as Vahanian hurried up the street toward him.

Vahanian said nothing. He glanced through the windshield at his stricken partner, quickly looked up at Veil, then got into the car behind the wheel and rolled up the windows. Veil watched as Vahanian tried to talk to Nagle, but the other man remained trapped in his raging prison of silence. Again Vahanian, a puzzled expression on his face, glanced at Veil, who smiled, nodded, and waved.

Vahanian abruptly turned the key in the ignition and drove away.

"What on earth did you say to him?" Reyna asked as Veil walked over to her.

"Nothing, really, just trying to make friends." Veil removed the map from his pocket. "Will you invite me up to your apartment?"

"Yes," Reyna replied quietly. "Of course."

He followed Reyna into the faculty dormitory, up three flights of a narrow, wooden staircase, and into a small but brightly decorated one-bedroom apartment. There were a number of paintings, most of them reflecting religious themes. On one wall hung a huge crucifix. Another wall was covered by a montage of photographs of Reyna as a child, a man and woman Veil assumed were her parents, and a gathering of tribesmen he recognized as K'ung.

Reyna went into the kitchen to make coffee. When she returned, she found Veil leaning on a table; before him was a section of a map of New York City—Manhattan, with Central Park as its rectangular, emerald-green heart.

"Toby went into the park here," Veil said, pointing to Fifth Avenue and Sixty-ninth Street. "I think we can assume he also came out about the same place, since the mugger was killed near there. He stayed in the park, near water and living on, say, dog meat until his wound had healed sufficiently for him to travel. Now he knows where he wants to go—or he thinks he knows where he wants to go. There were reported sightings all over the city, but most of those are due to the mass hysteria you mentioned." Veil paused and moved his finger to the island in the middle of the East River. "One of the reports came from a security guard on Roosevelt Island. That, I believe, was the only accurate sighting. There's no way of knowing how he got across the river; he certainly didn't get swimming lessons in the Kalahari. He could have crossed hand over hand on the tramway cable or managed to float across on debris. He may even have floated across on the Nal-toon. What I am sure of is that he's heading southeast. He's clever and incredibly strong-willed; if he needed to get across the river, he'd have found a way.

"I know a few things about so-called 'primitive tribesmen,' Reyna. Toby may be a savage on the loose in the city, but he's not lost—at least not in the sense that he's forced to wander around aimlessly. This is a man who can hunt for days in open desert and still find his way back to his tribe's camp. The sun was low in the sky when you picked him up, and it didn't set until just after you'd reached Victor's gallery. The setting sun is the only point of reference Toby needed to orient himself."

Veil unfolded another section of the map, which showed the borough of Queens. With his index finger he traced along the red line he had drawn from Roosevelt Island through Queens to a large X in the middle of a purple patch of color next to Jamaica Bay.

John F. Kennedy International Airport.

Veil glanced up at Reyna, who slowly nodded. "You do know," Reyna said softly. "Poor Toby. He thinks that all he has to do is get back to the airport in order to be transported home."

"As in most primitive tribes, K'ung learning is probably almost entirely experiential and literal. Toby will use what he knows, just as he does in the desert. In Toby's mind a plane—something he probably thinks of as magical, a device provided for his personal benefit by the Nal-toon—brought him here, so one will be waiting to take him home—if he can get to the place where it's kept. Getting there is the trial that you mentioned."

"Yes." Reyna sighed as she sat down on the floor and rested her head against a table leg. "I believe that's what Toby is thinking, and what he's trying to do. But then, I know the K'ung very well. You don't. How did you come up with this idea?"

"Dreams. Deduction. Knowledge flying on the wings of imagination. Just a bit of inspired guesswork. His route is thirteen miles as the crow flies, which is precisely the way he'll be going. We have to find him before someone else does, or before he shows up at JFK and tries to walk on a plane."

"He'll be very careful, Veil. He'll move slowly. During these past weeks I've been back and forth over that route, trying to find Toby, but also to leave totems—signs, warnings—that he can read. I'm hoping he'll read the totems, have second thoughts about what he's trying to do, go to ground, and wait for me to come around. But I don't think he will."

"I wonder what shots he had before he left."

"Lord, Veil, that's been one of my biggest concerns. He's probably already sick. He knows absolutely nothing about this environment. He'll continue to kill dogs or cats for food, which is all right, but there's no telling what he's been drinking or what he will drink. He has no resistance to most of our diseases, and whatever inoculations he was given will give him only limited protection. When Toby's thirsty, he drinks; he knows nothing about typhus. He could have drunk from the East River, or even from some sewage outlet." Reyna paused, looked up at Veil. Tears welled in her eyes, flowed down her cheeks. "I'm afraid that if Toby gets sick, he'll go to ground until he gets better—or until he dies."

"Well, we'll just have to find him. Will you trust me now?"

"Yes."

"Will you let me help you?"

"Yes, Veil. Thank you."

"At least it's not all bad news. If we're right about his thinking and his plans, there couldn't possibly be a better route in all of New York City for him to follow. Look at it: He's got the railroad yards in which to hide, and then— assuming he can get through the Sunnyside section of Queens—he's going to run into hundreds of acres of cemetery. After that he's got the Long Island Expressway to cross, but then he's back into another cemetery—and a golf course after that. He's back in the open then, and probably finished, but six miles of good cover in the middle of New York City certainly isn't bad. I'll have to remember to congratulate Victor on having his gallery on Sixty-ninth Street; the angle of the setting sun from there is what gave Toby this route." "It's a miracle, Veil."

"You'll get no argument from me." Veil reached down and stroked Reyna's hair. "You get some rest. I'll come back later this afternoon and we'll talk about the most efficient way to hunt for Toby. I'll pick up a portable tape recorder. You can tape a message. That way we can split up and cover more territory. I know he won't come to me, but at least he can hear you talking to him while I look for signs."

He turned and headed for the door.

"Veil?"

He turned with his hand on the knob. "Yes?"

Reyna got to her feet, then studied him in silence for a few moments. "I have a confession to make," she said at last.

He smiled. "I can't wait to hear what it is."

Reyna tugged at the sleeve of her blouse in a gesture that had by now become familiar to Veil. "Toby isn't the only man I've been looking for over the past weeks. I've also been searching for Veil Kendry."

Veil felt the muscles in his face stiffen, and his smile vanished. "I don't know what you mean, Reyna."

"For one thing, I've been back to the Raskolnikov Gallery to look at your work. You called them 'dream-paintings,' and now I see what you mean. They're haunting and beautiful, Veil—unlike anything else I've ever seen."

Veil began to relax. "Thank you."

"They're 'real,' but not quite real—like a dream. And you dream like that because of the brain damage you mentioned?"

"Yes."

"I've also been reading up on the war in Vietnam."

Veil felt his stomach muscles begin to flutter. "Why have you been reading up on the war?"

"I used to date a history professor at Columbia. His specialty is Southeast Asia, and he has a rather peculiar— at least, I used to think it was peculiar—obsession. He'd heard stories about a man—an American—fighting with the Hmong tribes in Laos as part of the CIA's secret war against the Pathet Lao. This man—he was said to have blond hair, incidentally—must have been a CIA agent, as well as a regular Army officer, because the CIA controlled everything that went on in Laos and Cambodia. My friend told me that this blond-haired man—if there ever was such a man, and my friend was never certain—had become a legend. None of the tribesmen my friend interviewed knew the man's name, but other research led my friend to believe that his code name may have been Archangel. As the legend goes, this man had won virtually every medal there was to win while he was fighting with the Special Forces in Vietnam. Then—"

Veil held up his right hand, palm out. It was at once a simple gesture yet complex, inasmuch as it involved a number of Zen teachings in the art of projecting mental force. It stopped Reyna cold. She closed her mouth in the middle of a sentence, then stared in bewilderment into the eyes, suddenly grown cold, of the man standing in the doorway of her apartment.

"I think we have enough to concern ourselves with, Reyna, without getting sidetracked into talking about Vietnam or half-baked war stories. I've heard dozens of stories like the one you're telling me. They're all nonsense."

"Veil, I feel very strange." "You're tired. You need some rest." "This was important. It was something I wanted to share with you, because you seem so much like this man. My friend says he's sure—"

Veil slowly moved his hand back and forth, and Reyna again fell silent. Veil was aware that at the moment he seemed a stranger—and, perhaps, a bit frightening—to Reyna. It was what he wanted. "Don't stalk me, Reyna. Please. No good will come of it."