Silent Mercy

FORTY-THREE

“IT’S Chapman, Mr. Delahawk. Call off your dogs. We’re coming back to your place,” Mike said, speaking into the mouthpiece of the intercom. “Do me a favor and wait there.”

Mike nudged Daniel Gersh, and the lanky young man, now entirely crestfallen, made his way out of the room between the two of us, with me in the lead.

I could see out the window as we passed the well-lit Amtrak stations that we had breezed through Westchester County and just gone over the line into Connecticut.

The corridors were empty. We passed through the cars with no sign of Nico or Giorgio until we reached Delahawk’s door. He opened it himself and admitted us, clearly seething with anger.

“Come in and sit down,” he said, used to giving directions that were obeyed. “You’re the new boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Daniel said.

“Is he the problem?” Delahawk asked, and continued on before either Mike or I could answer. “I’d stop and let you off with him in New Haven, but that would compromise our arrival time in Providence and cost a bloody fortune on top of it to get the emergency parking and unloading fee. Starting up again and all that. Not possible.”

“We’ll take the ride,” Mike said. There were other people on board he wanted to interview.

“What has he done?”

“Nothing wrong,” Mike said. “Daniel’s sister was murdered earlier this week. I’m assuming you follow the news, Mr. Delahawk. The girl who was decapitated. Her body was found in Harlem.”

“Shocking,” he said, lowering himself into a well-worn leather armchair. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in distress, son? I’d have done anything to make you comfortable.”

Daniel Gersh stared out the window.

“Well, we’ll see you all have some dinner and send you on your way,” Delahawk said.

“Now that you know how serious this is, we need a little more of your help.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me about the Zukov family, Mr. Delahawk. Tell me how many of them are in your troupe.”

“What does this have to do with Daniel’s sister, sir? The Zukovs are an international legend. One branch of the family has been with us at Ringling for thirty years. Tony Steele, the American; Terry Cavaretta; and the Zukovs — that’s your circus royalty, Mr. Chapman. You’re not going to make an international incident out of us, are you?”

“Tell me about the Zukovs. I’ve got two hours to listen, with time to meet them before we disembark. I can have the train stopped anywhere along the way because I’ve got Daniel, and every agent from here to Florida will want to press him for details he might remember.”

Delahawk’s head snapped in Daniel’s direction. “What does he know?”

“It’s not like that, Mr. D. I’m asking the questions. How many Zukovs on board this buggy?”

Delahawk cleared his throat. “There are four of the family members in the current act.”

“And they are?…”

“Yuri. He’s about thirty-five years old. His wife works with him too. She’s quite good. And they have a four-year-old who travels on the train, of course. I hope you’ll leave the children alone.”

“What’s their specialty?”

“Trapeze. They’re trapeze artists. The Zukovs are trained to do everything that might be expected of an aerialist.”

“Who else?”

“Yuri’s younger sister, Oksana. She works mainly with her husband. That’s Giorgio, one of the men I sent to search for you two. His family is from Italy, so most of them work in Europe. We’re lucky that Giorgio fell in love and came with Oksana. His people also have a long tradition of circus performance.”

“And their act?”

“Oksana and Giorgio are aerial contortionists, Detective.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s been a long time since you’ve come to the circus.”

“I live it, Mr. Delahawk. Twenty-four-seven,” Mike said. “What’s a contortionist?”

“The Zukovs perform aerial acrobatics while hanging from a special fabric. No safety lines, of course. They can suspend themselves from almost anywhere.”

I thought immediately of the tall gate that separated the steps of Mount Neboh from Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard, the tree that hung over the cemetery at Old St. Pat’s, and the beams suspended above the silver chalice at the Fordham chapel.

Delahawk went on. “The best aerialists, like the Zukovs, can spiral their bodies into just about any position. They sort of, shall I say, fly through the air — but without the trapeze.”

Had Zukov been the apparition who had disappeared from the balcony at St. John the Divine when I called after him, and terrified Faith by climbing on the scaffolding above her without making a sound?

The large man hoisted himself out of his chair and moved to his desk. He had a stack of photos — eight-by-ten color glossies — and flipped through them till he found some of Oksana Zukov to show to us.

“Look at this, Mike,” I said. The attractive woman was dressed in a lacy black bodysuit and sheer tights, her lithe body bent back to form a semicircle, hanging on to a red fabric suspended from the ceiling of a tent. Her left leg was hooked over a vertical piece of the ceiling support, and the top of her auburn hair almost touched her right foot, which pointed straight down, also wrapped in the lower length of fabric.

“How the hell can she do that?” Mike asked.

“It’s in the DNA, Detective,” Mr. Delahawk said. “These families have it in the blood, I tell you. They’re incredible artists.”

“What’s the fabric?”

“It’s called aerial silk, but it’s really a very strong, flexible, stretch material, which gives the performers all the control they need.”

“Aerial silk,” Mike said. “I’ll bet that’s the type of cloth that was found under Naomi Gersh’s arm.”

The shiny blue fragment that had been shielded from flames by the flexion angle of her armpit might yet be a forensic link to the killer’s train compartment.

“So why don’t you tell me about Ted, Mr. Delahawk?”

The older man screwed up his face and answered Mike with a blank stare. “Ted? Who do you mean by that?”

“There’s a Zukov named Ted, isn’t there? You leaving him out for a reason?”

“I don’t know who you mean. The only one I haven’t mentioned is Fyodor.”

“That’s the Russian equivalent of Theodore, Mike,” I said. “There’s your Ted.”

“So where is he, this Fyodor? What suite?”

“You’ve missed him, Detective. He’s on leave.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. He’s taken a leave. Young Daniel here is his replacement.”

“I didn’t know that. I swear I didn’t,” Daniel said, jumping to his feet. “I’m just a stagehand. I’m not like Ted.”

“Are we talking about the same person?” I asked. “Can you describe him, Mr. Delahawk?”

“He’s a Zukov, young lady. That’s what he looks like. Tall, like all of them are. Thin. Supple body, like you see in his sister’s picture. A Zukov.”

“Any unusual features? What about his hair?”

Delahawk thought for a moment. “Dark hair. Very long. That’s all.”

“His skin?” I asked.

“It’s marked or pitted or something. But around me — when he was appearing in the show — I am used to seeing all these kids with so much makeup on that I wouldn’t really notice.”

“Makeup?” Mike asked.

“Yes. Theatrical makeup. Very thick, almost like a white paste for the aerialists, so you can see them highlighted against the dark background of the tent, or in contrast with their black costumes.”

Phantasmagorical, like Faith Grant said, when she encountered Ted on the street.

“So is Fyodor a stagehand or an artist, Mr. Delahawk? Russian or American?”

“His parents came to this country when they were in their twenties, sent by their families. The three siblings were all born here. In Florida, in fact, near our headquarters.”

“Accent or no?”

“Not a trace.”

Mike was ready to call in to Peterson with a description of “Ted’s” actual birth name and other information.

“Do you know if he’s religious?” I asked.

“The whole lot of them are religious,” Delahawk said. “In our business, I suppose it’s either religion or superstition that gets you up on the high wire. I’d pray a lot more if I was seventy feet in the air and had nothing but the wooden flooring to break my fall.”

“What religion? Do you know where he worships?”

“Eastern Orthodox. For years now we’ve had to make sure there was a church for the Zukovs to attend near every stop we make.”

I didn’t know the Orthodox position on feminist theology.

Fontaine Delahawk held his forefinger against his lips. “With Fyodor, everything changed after the accident last year. He doesn’t go to church with the others anymore. I’m not sure what he does about that.”

“What accident are you talking about?”

“Fortunately, we were in a backwater town in the Florida Panhandle,” Delahawk said. “If it happened at Madison Square Garden, it would have been front-page news.”

“What was it?” I asked again.

“Fyodor Zukov dropped a girl.” Delahawk spoke each word distinctly. “He was on the trapeze, during a performance, and his partner — the girl he was training to work with him — fell to the ground. She trusted him to catch her while he was on the trapeze — he’s done it thousands of times. He’s done it almost every day of his life, since childhood. But she plummeted like a rock.”

“Did she live?”

“She’s alive, last I knew. But both of her legs were crushed. If she ever walks again it will be a miracle.”

“And this was an accident, you say?” I was skeptical, thinking of the violence that had seemingly engulfed Fyodor’s life throughout this year.

“It proved to be a medical situation, Ms. Cooper. You can be certain the doctors — and the police — confirmed all that. So, yes, it was an accident. Fyodor can no longer do the wire acts or trapeze. He had a brilliant future, of course, but now that’s gone. That’s why he’s been moving scenery and carting the props around. I’ve offered to keep him on payroll, but he’s very angry. He’s angry at the world.”

“What medical condition is it?”

“Something to do with his nerves. I simply don’t know. Patient privacy and all that.”

“You mean he’s lost his nerve?” Mike asked.

“Oh, no,” Delahawk said, almost chortling while he spoke. “Fyodor’s got ice water in his veins, Detective. Nothing scares him, I can promise you that. It’s the nerves in his hands that are shot.”

“When did he leave the company?”

“He hasn’t been back to the train all week. That’s why we had to hire an extra young man for the next leg of the trip,” Delahawk said, gesturing to Daniel Gersh. “I haven’t seen Fyodor Zukov all week.”