The Green And The Gray

30

There was no one with the distinctive Gray body type loitering by the MacDougal Alley gate as Roger drove slowly through Greenwich Village's crowded evening traffic. But as he passed, he could see lights burning in Torvald's loft apartment. Circling the block, he found a parking space and maneuvered the Buick into it.

He had already decided there was no point to trying to sneak up on them. Even if there was no one watching from street level, they undoubtedly had sentries posted on the nearby buildings. Pushing his way through the gate, he strode boldly down the alley to Torvald's building and pushed the intercom button.

There was a moment of silence. Roger stood motionless, feeling the eerie sensation of having a dozen pairs of eyes focused on his back. He reached for the button again; but before he could press it, there was a click from the lock. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and headed up the stairs.

"Well, well," a familiar voice said dryly as he emerged from the stairway. "Look what the cat dragged in."

Roger grimaced. "Hello, Ingvar," he said, noting a couple of fresh mud stains on the fleece collar of his gray jacket. "I'm glad to see that car didn't flatten you."

"I'm touched by your concern," Ingvar said with only a trace of sarcasm. "You been surfing the sewers?"

Roger looked down at his clothing. He had brushed away the worst of the mud at the Thruway service area, and a lot of the rest had caked up and fallen off since then. But he still did indeed look like something Caroline's mother's cat would proudly bring into the house to show off. "I've been playing with the Greens," he told the other. "Is Torvald home?"

Ingvar's forehead creased slightly. "Sure," he said, nodding toward the studio door. "Go on in."

"Thanks." Gingerly easing past the other, Roger opened the door and stepped inside.

Torvald was home, all right. But he wasn't alone. There were at least two dozen other Grays packed into the studio, some gathered into small conversation groups in various corners, the rest standing around one of the flat tables that had been set up in the center of the room. Torvald was presiding, gesturing with a pointer at a large-scale map of Manhattan spread out across the table, his middleaged daughter Kirsten beside him.

Everyone looked up as Roger came in. Fighting against the impulse to turn and run, he gave Torvald a nod. "Hello, Torvald," he said. "Sorry to barge in on you this way."

"Have you found Melantha?" another older Gray with a long scar on his left cheek spoke up from Torvald's side.

Roger focused on him. "And you are...?"

"Halfdan Gray," the other identified himself. He quirked a small smile. "Father of the two gentlemen who stopped you on the street yesterday."

"Right," Roger said. "Sorry about that."

Halfdan waved the apology away. "Do you know where Melantha is?"

"I might." Roger looked back at Torvald. "First, we need to discuss my price."

"By all means," Torvald said, not sounding offended. "Can we offer you anything? Coffee? Tea?"

"Dry cleaner?" Halfdan added, gesturing toward Roger's clothing.

"Nothing, thank you," Roger said, glancing around at the rest of the group. "Just a little privacy."

One of the Grays in the corner stirred. "I'm not sure I like that," he said.

"I'm not sure you have to," Halfdan told him. "Everyone out."

Slowly, and with some quiet muttering, the Grays made their separate ways to the door, a few of them giving Roger suspicious or unfriendly looks as they passed. Roger stood still, wincing as the river of bodies flowed around and past him, until only he, Torvald, Halfdan, and Kirsten remained.

"There's your privacy," Halfdan said shortly. "Where is she?"

"My price first," Roger said, walking the rest of the way across the loft to stand on the far side of the table from the other three. "I want a guarantee that Melantha won't be killed."

Halfdan snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. The whole point of this exercise is to eliminate her."

"No, the point is to eliminate her as a threat," Roger corrected. "That doesn't necessarily mean she has to die."

"If she doesn't die, she can't be anything but a threat," Halfdan countered. "We can't take the chance that a Leader might rise up someday who decides to use her to get rid of us."

Roger shook his head. "I don't think they're nearly that blindly obedient to their Leaders anymore."

He looked down at his dirt-stained clothing. "I have some recent experience in the matter."

"So do we," Torvald said. "But you assume the current tug-of-war between Cyril and Aleksander is the natural state of Green society. It's not. Give them a true Leader, and the dissent would evaporate."

"Fine," Roger said, conceding the point. "But why would a future Leader suddenly decide he wanted to wipe you out? Assuming you hadn't done anything to them, of course."

"We didn't do anything back in the Valley, either," Halfdan bit out. "That didn't stop some Leader from ordering the Warriors to attack us."

"Or to order their Groundshakers to bring down an entire cliff," Torvald added darkly. "Hundreds of families died in that—"

"Wait a second," Roger cut him off. "They told me you started the war. That you set fire to their forest because you weren't getting your way in the talks."

"That's a lie," Halfdan said flatly. "We didn't set that fire, and they knew it. It was probably dry lightning—we'd been warning them for years to do something about the brush around their trees."

"They also told me you were shooting at them from the cliffs," Roger said.

"Of course we were shooting," Torvald said. "But not at them. We were shooting at the trees in front of the fire, trees they'd already vacated."

Roger frowned. "The ones they'd vacated?"

Torvald sighed. "A firebreak, Roger," he explained patiently. "We were trying to create a firebreak."

"Hoping to save the rest of the valley," Halfdan growled. "But they didn't care. They saw we were distracted, figured it was as good a time as any to teach us a lesson, and started knocking down our cliffs."

"I see," Roger murmured, a hard knot forming in his stomach. Even with all his questions and suspicions about the Greens, he'd nevertheless still assumed that what they'd said about their history had been accurate. In fact, he'd rather cavalierly dismissed Caroline's suggestion that they needed to get the Grays' side of the story.

"But that's ancient history," Torvald continued. "You're here to discuss current events."

"Yes," Roger said, forcing his mind back to the subject at hand. "And I'm still waiting to hear what you're willing to do about Melantha."

"I already told you that," Halfdan said. "We can't let her walk away from this alive."

"What kind of guarantee could you give us?" Kirsten put in suddenly.

Roger focused on her. "What?"

"You want Melantha to live," Kirsten said. "We want to live, too. What guarantee could you give us that her Gift wouldn't be used against us, now or in the future?"

"Kirsten—" Halfdan began warningly.

"No, let her talk," Torvald interrupted him. "Roger?"

Roger suppressed a grimace. A completely predictable question, and yet it hadn't once occurred to him to come up with an answer for it. "I assume you won't simply accept her promise that she'll leave you alone?"

Halfdan snorted. "Hardly."

"Let's try a slightly different approach," Torvald offered. "If you tell us where she is, I'll you my word we'll do everything we can to take her alive. And that we'll keep her that way until either you or the Greens come up with the guarantee Kirsten asked for, or else we all concede such a guarantee isn't possible. Fair enough?"

"Why should I believe you'll keep such a promise?" Roger countered. "You're the ones who have the most to gain from her death."

"You have to trust someone," Torvald said, his eyes steady on Roger. "And I have a feeling you have more need of us right now than you're letting on. Tell me, where's your wife?"

Roger felt a cold lump settle into his stomach. "The Greens have her," he said.

"In the same place where they have Melantha?" Halfdan asked.

"I actually don't know for sure," Roger admitted. "There were hints that Melantha might be there, too, but I never actually saw her."

"So that's what this is really about," Halfdan said cynically. "You don't really care about Melantha.

All you want is for us to rescue your wife for you."

"Of course I want that," Roger told him. "But I also want Melantha to be safe."

"It sounds to me like the makings of a package deal," Torvald said, lifting his eyebrows. "All right.

We'll still promise safety for Melantha, at least temporarily, plus we'll get your wife out as well. Fair enough?"

"Depending on what you tell us, of course," Halfdan put in.

Roger hesitated. But under the circumstances it was probably the best he was going to get. "I got these mud stains a few hours ago in a little hideaway the Greens have up in the Catskills," he said.

"Caroline and I went to look the place over and were essentially kidnapped."

"What makes you think Melantha is there?" Torvald asked.

"We were accosted by several Warriors on our way in," Roger said. "I can't think of any reason why they'd pull Warriors away from defensive positions here in the city unless there was something important up there for them to guard."

"And...?" Torvald prompted.

Roger shrugged. "That, plus the fact they clearly didn't want us getting out and telling anyone about the place."

Halfdan shook his head. "Not enough," he said firmly. "I wouldn't even bother to look the place over on that kind of evidence, let alone set up a raid against it."

"Not even to rescue Caroline?" Kirsten asked.

"They got into this mess on their own," Halfdan reminded her. "Anyway, there's nothing we can do without risking our own people."

Roger felt his hands clenching into fists. "There was another name Nikolos mentioned that might mean something," he said, grasping at straws. "A person named Damian. I don't know who—"

He broke off. There was a look on Torvald's face like a man walking though a graveyard at midnight. "Damian?" the old Gray asked carefully.

"He's lying," Halfdan said before Roger could reply, his own expression suddenly hard and cold.

"Who's Damian?" Kirsten asked.

"One of the most notorious Greens from the Great Valley," Torvald said, his voice tight. "He was known as the Butcher of Southcliff."

Kirsten inhaled sharply. "I thought he was dead."

"That's what the histories say," Torvald agreed. "But histories have been known to be wrong."

"Greens have been known to lie through their teeth, too," Halfdan said, looking at Roger with sudden suspicion in his eyes. "How hard exactly was it for you to escape?"

"Hard enough," Roger told him, a shiver running up his back at the memory. "Why?"

"No reason," Halfdan murmured. "Except that I'm sure a Command-Tactician as good as Nikolos would make it seem very convincing."

Roger stared at him, suddenly understanding where he was going. "No," he insisted. "That's impossible. Caroline and I busted a gut to get me out."

"Maybe," Halfdan said, studying his face closely. "But in a contest between a Human and a Green Warrior, I know where I'd put my money."

"But why would they take me prisoner and then let me escape?" Roger objected.

"Perhaps so you'd do exactly what you've just done," Torvald said. "Come and tell us about their secret hideaway, with Damian's name thrown in as extra bait, and try to persuade us to raid it."

"Thereby stripping our positions of able-bodied fighters," Halfdan added.

Roger shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "I was there. No one let me escape."

"Believe what you want," Torvald said. "But I, for one, am not going to go charging into a heavily wooded area on the strength of your word. Certainly not on the strength of Nikolos's word."

"Neither will I," Halfdan said. "We've given them until Wednesday to produce her. The ball's in their court now."

Roger braced himself. "What about Caroline?"

"Their war isn't against Humans," Torvald said. "I don't think they'll harm her."

"You don't think?"

"I'm sorry," Torvald said, his voice and expression firm. "There's nothing more we can do."

It was a long, lonely walk back to the car. Roger listened to the rhythm of his own footsteps, oblivious to the sounds and lights of the city around him. Torvald was right, of course: Nikolos had no reason to hurt her. The two sides would have their war, and when it was over they would give his wife back to him. Their part in this strange story would be over, and they would get on with their lives.

But what if Torvald was wrong?

For a few minutes he just sat in the driver's seat, wishing he and Caroline had never gone to that play Wednesday night, and trying to make sense out of this latest chapter in the mess they'd gotten themselves into. He still didn't believe that Nikolos had deliberately let him escape, the way Torvald and Halfdan thought. But if not, why hadn't Nikolos contacted him, either to try to lure him back or else to warn him to keep quiet about what he'd seen? All the other would have to do was pick up a phone....

A phone.

With a muttered curse he dug his cell phone out of his pocket. Of course Nikolos hadn't called. He remembered now hearing the beep from the phone as Caroline turned it off, right after they discovered it wouldn't work on the Green estate.

And with the cell off, there was only one other approach Nikolos might have tried. With trembling fingers, he punched in their apartment phone number.

The machine picked up on the first ring. Squeezing the steering wheel hard with one hand as he pressed the phone to his ear with the other, he waited impatiently for the message to play itself out. It did so, there was the familiar beep, and he punched in the retrieval code.

There was a single message. But it wasn't from Nikolos. "This is Fierenzo," the detective's voice said. "Call me."

Roger blinked at the faint click of the disconnected phone. Fierenzo? But Powell had said he'd disappeared. Had he been found again? Or was this some kind of Green trick?

There was only one way to find out. Pulling out the card Fierenzo had given him, tilting it to catch the light from the restaurant window beside him, he punched in the detective's cell number.

It picked up on the first ring. "Fierenzo."

"Roger Whittier," Roger said. "You called my home—"

"About time," Fierenzo cut him off. "You know the Marriott Marquis in Times Square?"

"Uh... sure," Roger said, a bit taken aback.

"There's a theatre ticket waiting for you at the box office," Fierenzo said. "If you hurry, you should be able to catch the second act." There was a click, and he was gone.

"What the hell?" Roger muttered aloud, thumbing off the connection from his end. Still, he had nowhere better to be right now. Returning the phone to his pocket, he started the car and pulled back onto the street.

He found a parking garage near the Marriott and headed on foot through the bustling streets of Times Square. The theatre's ticket office was just off the street, and he found himself wincing at the pointed once-over the man at the window gave his filthy clothes as he handed over an envelope. Wondering whether the ushers would be nearly so diplomatic, he found the escalator and headed up.

As Fierenzo had predicted, he had caught the play between acts, and the lobby was full of milling people. Trying not to touch any of them, he eased his way through the crowd toward the nearest door.

A hand caught his arm. He started to pull away—

"Just keep going," a voice murmured in his ear. "Elevators are that way."

Heart pounding, Roger looked sideways at his captor. The man was definitely a Gray, short and wide, with the kind of iron grip he knew would be a waste of time to struggle against. "I don't know what you think you're doing," he protested, deciding for lack of any better idea to try the innocent approach. "But I paid good money to see this show."

"No, you didn't," the man murmured back. "Relax, will you? We're all friends here."

Roger frowned. "Friends of whom?"

"Oh, come on," the other said reproachfully. "Don't you even recognize your favorite delivery man?"

Roger frowned a little harder... and then, suddenly, the voice clicked. "You're—?"

"The name's Jonah," the other said. "Come on, the others are waiting."

They caught one of the elevators and headed up into the hotel towers rising high above the theatre part of the complex. Jonah took them off at the twentieth floor, then led the way to the stairs and walked up three more flights. "Sorry about the cloak-and-dagger stuff," he apologized as they emerged from the stairway. "But we have to be careful."

"I didn't say anything about you," Roger assured him quickly. "I didn't even tell them you were a Gray."

"I appreciate that," Jonah said. "In here."

He stopped at one of the doors and tapped the wood: two quick taps, a pause, then three more.

Whoever was on the other side was ready; he'd barely finished the third tap when the door swung open. Jonah hustled Roger inside, crowding in close behind him, and Roger caught a glimpse of a shorter Gray as he swung the door closed again.

"Welcome to the vast conspiracy," Jonah announced, taking Roger's arm and leading him into the main part of the room.

Roger caught his breath. There were four other people sitting in a semicircle around the room, gazing at him with expressions that ranged from anxious to suspicious to hopeful. Two were adult Grays, a man and a woman, much older than Jonah. Beside them sat another couple.

Only the second couple weren't Grays. They were Greens.

"These are my parents," Jonah said, gesturing toward the Grays. "Ron and Stephanie McClung."

He gestured to the Greens. "And these are Zenas and Laurel Green," he added quietly. "Melantha's parents."