The Green And The Gray

41

The summons Caroline had been expecting came at six o'clock the next morning. She took a quick bath, got dressed in the clothes she'd been living in for the past two days, and went downstairs.

As usual, Sylvia was waiting for her in the library. As was decidedly unusual, so was breakfast.

"Good morning, Caroline," the older woman said gravely as Caroline walked across the room, her nose wrinkling at the delicate aromas coming from the covered tray on the desk. "I'm sorry to wake you at such an early hour. But we're going to be doing some traveling today and need to get started."

"That's all right," Caroline assured her, stepping to the desk and gesturing to the tray. "Is that for me?"

"Yes," Sylvia said. "I thought you should have a good breakfast before we go."

Caroline lifted the lid. Beneath it were scrambled eggs, sausage, and a Belgian waffle covered with strawberries and whipped cream. On the desk beside the tray were a tall glass of orange juice and a small carafe of coffee with a mug beside it. "You've come a long way since I introduced you to human food," she commented.

She looked Sylvia straight in the eye. "But then, this whole thing has been an act from the very beginning, hasn't it?"

She would have expected Sylvia to indulge in at least a moment of gloating. But there wasn't even a hint of a smile on the older woman's face. "I'm sorry I had to lie to you," she said gravely. "But I had no choice. You and Roger had found us, and I had to do something quickly or our secret would have been exposed."

"Locking us away in a guarded cabin wouldn't have been enough?" Caroline countered.

"Actually, no, it wouldn't," Sylvia said. "The news of your sudden disappearance would have been dangerous all by itself if the wrong people got hold of it. I had to come up with a way to neutralize the entire threat."

I had to do something quickly. I had to come up with a way. Caroline stared at her... and suddenly, one final detail about that moonlight rendezvous clicked into place.

Because high-ranking Greens didn't go to see other people. They brought the other people to see them. Nikolos had done that, hauling her and Roger up to Columbia University from Washington Square. Aleksander had done it, too, sending Vasilis and Iolanthe to bring them to where he was waiting at their apartment. Even here, both Nikolos and Sylvia had invariably sent for her instead of coming to her room themselves.

But it was Nikolos who had walked across the yard to Sylvia. Which meant that it was Sylvia, not Nikolos, who was the higher-ranking person. Which meant—"Nikolos isn't the Command-Tactician, is he?" she said. "You are."

This time a smile did indeed touch Sylvia's lips. But it was a smile of admiration, not gloating. "Very good," she said. "As I said before, you're smarter than you let on."

"I'm also very confused," Caroline said. "How in the world did you pull that off? Why did you pull it off?"

Sylvia gestured to the tray. "Your food's getting cold," she said. "You'd better sit down and eat."

"If I do, will you answer my question?" Caroline asked, pulling a chair over to the tray.

Sylvia shrugged. "There's not much answer to give," she said, walking around behind the desk and sitting down. "Along with the usual death and destruction, the war in the Great Valley generated a huge degree of chaos and disorganization among our people. People and families were shuffled randomly back and forth, sometimes getting lost in the process. Lists of the Gifts were lost or garbled as Pastsingers died or found more urgent things in need of remembering. Sometimes Leaders and Visionaries were nowhere to be found and confirmations were missed completely, leaving those children to figure out their Gifts for themselves."

"And Nikolos was twelve when you came here," Caroline said around a mouthful of waffle as that age suddenly took on a new significance. "No one really knew what his Gift was."

"It was a bit trickier than that," Sylvia said. "We had to persuade the Visionaries in the Valley that he wasn't old enough to be tested, and that we would do so when we reached our destination. We then had to imply to those here that he had in fact been tested before we left. But as I say, all was chaos, and no one was paying as much attention as they should have."

"And your own Gift?"

"We couldn't hide the fact that I'd been in the fighting," Sylvia said. "But it was easy enough to conceal who I really was and pass me off as a Group Commander instead."

"But why do any of this in the first place?" Caroline asked. "You were going to have a Command- Tactician with the group anyway. Why did it matter who exactly it was?"

"They had their reasons," Sylvia said. "To be honest, I don't really know what all of them were."

"Except that deception has always been a part of warfare?"

"That's certainly part of it," Sylvia agreed.

"Can you at least tell me whether this was your idea or Nikolos's?"

"It was my superiors', actually, back in the Valley." Sylvia smiled at Caroline's reaction. "Yes, even Command-Tacticians have superiors, usually older and more experienced Command-Tacticians.

Mine were unhappy with the way Leader Elymas was organizing his refugee expedition, and decided to take certain aspects of it into their own hands."

"Which ones?"

Sylvia shrugged. "Basically, it was a question of defense capabilities," she said. "In the mix of Gifts Elymas had chosen, they didn't think he was taking enough Warriors, especially given the unknown dangers posed by the Humans the Farseers had seen. There was an extra storage area behind the transport's engine room, so they contrived to select a number of Warriors and conceal them inside.

That way, when the inevitable trouble erupted, I'd have a larger contingent to work with."

"I see," Caroline said, nodding. "Only the trouble never happened."

"Of course it happened," Sylvia said. "What do you think we're in right now?"

"I meant it didn't happen back then," Caroline said. "So why didn't you reveal yourselves to the others after you arrived?"

A grimace flicked briefly across Sylvia's face. "As you say, they were able to settle into the city without needing us," she said. "Elymas was already dead, and Nikolos and I didn't think his successors would appreciate our deception. Fortunately, my hidden Warriors had included both males and females, and I had learned there was a great deal of wooded territory north of the city where we could live and breed without really being noticed. So one night I brought the whole group here and began the long process of building a sanctuary and creating an army to defend it, should our people ever need us."

She gestured toward the south. "Now, they do."

"How many of you are there?" Caroline asked. "I was guessing around a hundred fifty."

"Close," Sylvia said. "The enclave numbers a hundred fifty-six, a hundred twenty of them Warriors and Group Commanders. Add those to the sixty already in the city, and I should have enough of a fighting force to quickly and decisively defeat the Grays."

Caroline shivered. Nearly two hundred Green Warriors, with the Grays prepared to face only sixty. It wouldn't be a defeat, it would be a slaughter. "I thought you could only do what your Gift allowed," she said. "How is Nikolos able to handle tactics?"

"Obviously, he can't," Sylvia said. "I've had to coach him the entire way, from the moment we boarded the transport to our last conversation just a few hours ago. Everything you've heard him say has been basically a direct parroting of what I've told him."

She snorted gently. "Except for that little throwaway line he dropped on Saturday about retreating to upstate New York, of course, the comment that put you and Roger on our trail. I was ready to strangle him for that one."

"Oh, I don't know," Caroline said evenly. "It may have started off as a mistake, but you certainly did a very good job of turning it to your advantage." She lifted her eyebrows. "You did turn it to your advantage, didn't you?"

Sylvia's lip twitched. "You're referring to your notes, I presume?"

"Yes," Caroline said, her heartbeat picking up its pace. Here it came; the moment of truth. "You knew all along I was going to write them, didn't you?"

"I knew you had written them once they were planted," Sylvia said. "But it wasn't until that first dinner, when you showed you were smart enough to pass up what looked like a clear opportunity to escape, that I realized you might also be smart enough and brave enough to find a way to contact the outside world."

"So the thing with those two state troopers was a test?"

"Actually, it was pure happenstance," Sylvia said. "Up until then my plan had simply been to allow you to waste your time and energy trying to persuade the naive Green to defy her Command- Tactician and come over onto your side. But once you'd shown yourself to be a notch above that, I decided to offer you a more proactive role."

"As a disseminator of disinformation," Caroline said, putting some bitterness into her tone. "I feel honored. So when the Grays assemble in Upper Manhattan tonight to face you, they won't find anyone there?"

"No, there will be a few Warriors coming onto the island there," Sylvia assured her. "Enough to keep the Grays from becoming suspicious. But that isn't where the main thrust will occur. And of course, there certainly won't be any Groundshakers accompanying them."

"Damian will be elsewhere?"

Sylvia shook her head. "Damian doesn't exist," she said. "He was one of the Groundshakers left behind who sent our transport on its way."

Caroline nodded slowly. So she'd been right about that part, too. "Just one more lie?"

"One more attempt to prepare the Grays for the wrong war," Sylvia corrected. "Ever since the beginning of this, whether we were agreeing to sacrifice Melantha or else making up a Damian who didn't exist, the goal has been to deflect their thoughts and attention away from the fact that we have far more Warriors than they realize. That's where our hope lies."

"I see," Caroline said heavily, trying to conceal her own cautious trickle of hope. So her second note had made it through. Sylvia had missed the significance of the clue she'd planted and had let it go. "I suppose I should be relieved that you aren't planning to level New York anymore. Or will that change if you find Melantha again?"

"I never wanted to level New York or kill any of your people," Sylvia said, an odd intensity to her tone. "I still don't. I may not have any genuine affection for you, but I bear you no ill will, either."

"No, all you want is the chance to finally use your Gift," Caroline said, grimacing.

Sylvia lifted her eyebrows. "We have been using our Gifts," she said. "A Warrior's true Gift isn't fighting per se, but simply the protection of our people. True, sometimes that Gift involves combat, but more often it simply requires thoughtful preparation and watchful waiting."

"You've certainly done plenty of that," Caroline murmured.

Sylvia sighed. "I'm not looking forward to this war, Caroline," she said quietly. "I saw enough death back in the Great Valley to last the rest of my lifetime. But my duty is to protect my people.

Whatever I have to do to achieve that end will be done."

"I understand," Caroline said. "Do I at least get to go to the city with you? See for myself what exactly you have to do to my people in order to protect yours?"

Sylvia smiled. "Come now, Caroline," she said, gently admonishing. "You can't manipulate me that easily. I thought you realized that." The smile faded. "Actually, though, I've already decided to take you with us. Whatever happens tonight, win or lose, you'll be free afterward to return to your home."

"And Roger?"

A shadow passed across Sylvia's face. "Roger's with the Grays," she said. "Whatever happens to him is in their hands now."

There was a moment of silence. Then Sylvia stirred and gestured toward the tray. "You'd better hurry if you're going to finish," she said. "The Warriors are already on the move. It'll soon be time for us to go, as well."

Light was beginning to filter through the curtains across the motel room when the ringing of Fierenzo's cell phone jolted him awake. He grabbed for the arm of the chair he'd been sleeping in, pulling himself mostly upright as he fumbled the phone out of his pocket and thumbed it on.

"Fierenzo," he said.

"It's Jon, Tommy," Powell's voice came. "Smith's got the note."

Fierenzo glanced across the room at the glowing numbers of the clock between the two beds—7:02

A.M.—noting peripherally that Jonah had propped himself up on an elbow and was looking a bit blearily at him. "Good," he murmured to his partner, digging out his pad and pen. "He phoned it in, I hope."

"He did indeed," Powell confirmed. "You ready?"

Fierenzo flipped the notebook open to an empty page. "Shoot."

"You were right about it being on the back of a gum wrapper," Powell said. "Smith said it's a little hard to read, but here's his best interpretation: 'Roger: Green Warriors moving NYC Tue night from N... sweep S w/Damian behind them... must intercept before buildings fall... I love you, C Any of this making sense to you?"

"All of it, unfortunately," Fierenzo said, scribbling madly. "Okay, I got it."

"Hang on, we're not done," Powell said. "There's also a P.S. It says—"

"Wait a second," Fierenzo interrupted, frowning. There hadn't been any postscripts on Caroline's first note. "What kind of P.S.?"

"Just a P.S.," Powell said, sounding puzzled. "Your basic everyday oops-I-forgot-something P.S. Is that a problem?"

"Possibly," Fierenzo said, thinking hard. "Could Smith tell whether it was the same handwriting and pen?"

"I don't know," Powell said, suddenly thoughtful himself. "It must have been at least close or I'm sure he would have said something."

"Call him back and ask," Fierenzo said. "In the meantime, let's hear it."

"Okay," Powell said. "It just says: 'P.S. Watch out for roaming Warriors like on Wed.' Then below that are a bunch of kisses."

Fierenzo frowned. "Kisses?"

"Yeah, you know—a row of X's at the bottom like high-school kids put on their notes. Two rows, in this case: five in the first, four in the second, with three periods after the fourth X in the bottom row."

"Three periods?" Fierenzo echoed, thoroughly confused now.

"Yeah," Powell said. "She must really miss him."

"I guess," Fierenzo muttered, adding the three dots to his second row of X's. "That it?"

"That's it," Powell confirmed. "You really know what all this means, huh?"

"Up until the last part I did," Fierenzo admitted. "This 'roaming Warriors' part worries me. I wonder if it means we'll have to deal with a main battle group plus some independents making trouble elsewhere."

"You mean like snipers or saboteurs?"

"Something like that," Fierenzo said hesitantly. "I don't think their main target is the city itself, but we could be talking a huge amount of collateral damage."

"Any idea how many fighters we're talking about?"

"My source tells me the Greens can field up to sixty people," Fierenzo said. "Not too hard to control if they stay together. But if they drop even a few roamers, it's going to stretch our resources pretty damn thin."

"Hell on wheels," Powell muttered.

"Very possibly," Fierenzo agreed. "Look, we need to see the note itself. When you call Smith to check on the handwriting, tell him to hustle himself back down here."

"I will," Powell said. "Do you think the Tuesday in the note is this Tuesday? As in, today?"

Fierenzo grimaced. "That's my guess. Looks like someone's moved up Cyril's initial timetable by twenty-four hours. You said you're meeting with Messerling at nine?"

"Yeah, and I'll make sure he knows the alert's been moved up," Powell promised. "What are your plans for the day?"

"Nothing I can discuss on a cell phone," Fierenzo said. "Let me know when Smith thinks he can be back."

"Right."

There was a click, and Fierenzo punched off his phone. "Trouble?" Jonah asked quietly.

"That was my partner," Fierenzo told him, levering himself stiffly out of the chair. "We've got another note from Caroline."

"So I gathered," Jonah said. "That's not what I asked."

Fierenzo shrugged as he headed toward the bathroom. "This particular note has a PS. that's either a secret message to Roger, a red herring Sylvia herself added on after Caroline hid it, or possibly an indication that Caroline's glue is starting to melt. We won't know until we can look at the original.

Maybe not even then."

He was at the sink, splashing cold water on his face, when Powell called back. "I just talked to Smith," he said, his voice tight. "He was sitting in the restaurant parking lot waiting for my call when he saw something interesting go by: five enclosed white Dodge cargo vans in convoy, all coming south on 42 and turning east on 28."

Fierenzo felt a tingle on the back of his neck. The direction Sylvia and her people would come from if they were leaving their stronghold, and the direction they'd be going if they were headed for Manhattan. "Did he get anything on the drivers?"

"Just that they were all young and dark-haired," Powell said. "He also got the tags; I've got DMV

running them."

"I don't suppose they were careless enough to put Caroline Whittier in plain sight in any of them, were they?"

"If she was there, Smith didn't spot her," Powell said. "But he was thinking that instead of hightailing it back to the city, maybe he should hang around a bit and see if there's any more traffic. Maybe follow some of it and try to figure out where they're all going."

Fierenzo rubbed the stubble on his cheek as he tried to kick-start his brain. Under normal circumstances, he would certainly want Smith to tail the convoy.

But if he did, he and Powell might not get Caroline's note for several more hours. If the Greens were on the move, they might not have those hours to spare.

"He also suggested faxing us a copy of the note," Powell said into his thoughts. "That won't tell us whether the pen is the same, but at least we could check the handwriting."

"Sounds good," Fierenzo agreed, a little annoyed that he hadn't thought of that himself. "Tell him to see if he can find a place that faxes through a computer instead of just a standard machine. Maybe they can enhance the size or contrast a little."

"He's already spotted a locksmith shop nearby that does shipping and faxes," Powell told him. "And he can even keep an eye on the traffic while he's in there."

"Perfect," Fierenzo said. "What time does it open?"

"Not until ten, but there's a number in the window to call for emergencies. I think this qualifies."

"Definitely," Fierenzo agreed. "Have him fax it to you at the station house, then call me when you've got it. I'll tell you where to meet me."

"Right. Talk to you later."

Clicking off the phone and setting it aside, Fierenzo finished washing his face. "So what's the plan?" a voice asked as he reached for a towel.

He looked over to find that Jonah had followed him to the bathroom doorway. "I'm heading back to the city," he said, rubbing the towel vigorously across his face. "We need to get this message figured out."

"Seems pretty clear to me," Jonah said. "The Greens are coming onto Manhattan tonight from the north and will be pushing their way south, with Damian behind the line to bring down the buildings from under any Grays who are too high for the Shriek to affect."

Fierenzo lowered the towel, looking at Jonah with raised eyebrows. "You left your notebook open," the other explained with a somewhat sheepish smile.

He had, too, now that he thought about it. Sloppy. "I was just amazed you were able to read my handwriting, that's all," he said, hanging the towel back on its rack. "It's mostly that P.S. we're worried about."

"You want me to get everyone up?"

"No, you all might as well get a little more sleep," Fierenzo said. "I've got a friend coming by at one o'clock with a big police van—cop named Al Chenzi; call him Creepers. He'll take you into the city to a hotel across from Police Headquarters. I've already got a room reserved in your name."

"Okay," Jonah said. "How are you getting in? Ferry?"

"No, Creepers' wife lent me her car," Fierenzo told him. "I'll be fine."

"You want me to come along?"

Fierenzo shook his head. "I'd rather all of you stay together and keep an eye on Melantha. Which reminds me."

He reached up and unfastened the hammergun still snugged against his left forearm. "Give this back to Jordan with my thanks," he said, handing it over. "Immensely handy little gadget. I wish I had one on a permanent basis."

"You're welcome," Jonah said. "Come talk to me when this is all over. Maybe we can work something out." His lip twitched. "Maybe even start a new Thor legend."

"Let's just concentrate on getting through the drama we're in the middle of right now," Fierenzo told him grimly, pulling his shirt back on. "Have everybody ready to go by twelve-thirty—the Greens, too. And make sure it's really Chenzi: fifty-five, pure white hair, tiny little mustache you can barely see, blue eyes, missing the last segment of the little finger on his right hand."

"Got it," Jonah said. "You be careful."

"I will," Fierenzo promised. "See you all later."

"Okay, it's sent," the locksmith said, handing Smith the gum wrapper and the receipt. "That'll be fiftyfour dollars."

Smith lifted his eyebrows. "Fifty-four dollars?"

"It was an off-hours emergency call," the locksmith reminded him. "That's fifty for the call, four for the fax."

"Fine," Smith said, turning around to the shop's big plate glass window as he pulled out his wallet.

The traffic was starting to pick up a little, he noted, and he hoped no more of the white vans had sneaked past while he wasn't looking. An old red Ford pickup trundled along behind a more modern Chevy, one of their engines sounding badly in need of a tune-up.

Smith stiffened. The light out there wasn't particularly good, and he'd caught only a glimpse of the pickup's driver as it passed. But unless he was seriously mistaken—

"Hello?" the locksmith prompted from behind him.

Smith yanked out three twenties and slapped them on the counter. "Keep it," he said tersely.

Scooping up the gum wrapper and receipt, he shoved open the door and sprinted for his car.

Thirty seconds later, he was back on the highway, roaring off in hot pursuit of the truck. Grabbing his phone, he punched Powell's number. "This is Smith," he said when the detective answered. "I think I've found Mrs. Whittier."

"Absolutely not," Fierenzo said emphatically, stomping hard on the brakes of his borrowed car as he nearly rear-ended a small delivery van. "He can follow the truck, but he's to stay well back. Under no circumstances is he to approach it."

"But he says he can get her out," Powell argued. "There was only one other person in the truck, and he said she looked pretty old."

Fierenzo gritted his teeth. "Remember that fancy sonic blast that knocked me on my can outside the park Saturday morning?" he asked. "Sylvia, the old woman, has got the same equipment. If she thinks Smith is crowding her, he could find himself shaking bumpers with a tree."

Powell sighed audibly. "Fine. I'll warn him off, then head in and get the fax. I should be at the precinct in half an hour. How about you?"

"I'm fighting rush-hour traffic," Fierenzo growled. "It could be another hour or more before I get there."

"Do we have that much time to spare?"

Fierenzo glared at the lines of cars and trucks and vans stretching to the horizon ahead of him. No, they damn well might not have that much time to spare, he realized. Caroline's note had seemed to indicate the Greens' action had been moved up twenty-four hours, from Wednesday night to Tuesday night.

But the Greens were already on the move. With only a couple hours' drive between them and the city, and at least nine hours until Tuesday night really began, they were already on the move. Did that mean there were several hours' worth of preparations they needed to make once they reached Manhattan?

Or did it mean the timetable had been moved up even further than Caroline had realized? Because if Nikolos had decided to turn Damian loose on Manhattan's skyscrapers in the middle of the workday... "You're right," he told Powell. "Okay. There's nothing I can do to get in any faster, but we don't have to wait until I'm there to get Whittier started on the note. Maybe he can decipher it while I'm still on the road."

"You know where he is?"

"Room 412 at the Riverview," Fierenzo said, mentally crossing his fingers that neither side had figured out how to tap into the city's cell system. "In fact, complete change of plans," he said suddenly. "When you get to the precinct, call Whittier and tell him to meet me at the Civic Center—I can get there faster than I can to the Two-Four. Then resend Smith's fax down there. Let's see... send it to Merri Lang in the Municipal Building. She owes me a favor, and I can trust her to keep her mouth shut."

"Whittier and the fax to Lang; got it," Powell said. "Where do you want Whittier to meet you?

You're still listed as missing, you know."

"I hadn't forgotten," Fierenzo assured him. "Lang's floor should be safe enough—no one there reads police bulletins."

"Got it," Powell said. "Anything else?"

"Just trace those vans, and don't miss your appointment with Cerreta and Messerling," Fierenzo told him.

"Right," Powell said. "I'll call if I hear anything."

The phone went dead. Fierenzo tapped the "off" button and dropped the phone on the seat beside him. Glancing at his mirrors, he cut into the next lane and sped up. It was time to show these other yahoos just what thirty-five years of New York driving experience looked like.

The fax was waiting in the machine when Powell arrived at the station house. "Perfect," he muttered to himself as he looked it over. The P.S., in particular, was exactly the way Smith had dictated it.

Now all they had to do was figure out what it meant.

"Powell?" someone called from across the squad room. "DMV's on line four."

"Thanks," Powell called back. Hurrying to his desk, he scooped up the phone and punched the button. "Powell."

"Adamson here, Detective," a woman's voice said in a heavy Brooklyn accent. "I've got those tags you sent us."

"Great," Powell said, flipping his notebook to the right page. "Go."

"All five vans are registered to an E. and O. Green Associates of Bushnellsville, New York,"

Adamson reported. "They were purchased used two months ago."

"Mm," Powell said. So Smith's instincts had been right: the Greens were indeed on the move.

"Anything else?"

"I can get you VINs and such if you really want them," Adamson offered. "I was also a little curious about that purchase date, so I took the liberty of backtracking the previous owners. You interested?"

"Absolutely," Powell said, flipping to the next page.

"Turns out all were owned by various restaurants in the city," she said. "What's really interesting is that all the restaurant owners are also named Green."

Powell frowned. "Really?"

"Really," she assured him. "Is this some sort of insurance scam or something?"

Powell smiled tightly. If she only knew. "You know I can't discuss that with you," he said in his best official-neutral voice. "You have the restaurants' names and addresses?"

He scribbled notes as she read them off. "Okay, great," he said when she had finished. "Thanks."

"Any time, Detective."

He dropped the phone back into its cradle, looking over his list with grim satisfaction. So now they had at least a few solid addresses connected with these elusive Greens. Might be worth taking a closer look at them at some point, maybe see if the businesses' finances and ownerships interlocked in any way. Might even be able to work this into a Federal RICO charge if they found they needed some extra leverage.

But that was for later. Right now, there were more urgent matters to deal with, such as what exactly Sylvia was bringing to Manhattan that required five vans to carry. More gang fighters, perhaps? But the vans Smith had described weren't usually equipped as passenger vehicles. Besides, from what Fierenzo had said it didn't sound like there were very many people up there. Weapons, then, maybe more of those sonic gadgets? Drugs?

Explosives?

Hauling out his phone directory, he turned to the listing for hotels. He would call Whittier, as Fierenzo had instructed. But after that, he would give the State Police a quick heads-up. If there was something nasty on the highways of New York this morning, they would definitely want to know about it.

"Just a second," Roger said, wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder and digging a pen and a pad of note paper from the bedside table. "Okay; ready."

"Right," Powell said. "Here goes. 'Roger: Green Warriors moving NYC Tue night...' "

Roger wrote down the message as the other dictated, his heart pounding with new hope even as yawns of fatigue tugged at his jaws. Caroline was still alive, or at least she had been as of last night.

And not only alive, but able to write a succinct yet completely understandable warning to them.

Completely understandable, that is, until Powell got to the P.S.

"Five X's, then four, then three dots?" he asked, frowning at the notepad. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"We were hoping you could tell us," Powell said. "Could it just be the usual shorthand for sending you kisses?"

"Not a chance," Roger said firmly. "Caroline's never done that before, not in any note or letter she's ever written me."

"Then it's definitely a clue," Powell concluded. "All we have to do is figure out what it means."

Roger grimaced. Translation: now all he had to do was figure out what it meant. Caroline was his wife, after all. "Any chance of seeing the actual note?"

"It won't be here for a few hours, but we have a very good fax of it," Powell told him. "I'm sending it to a forensic accountant named Merri Lang—she's in the Municipal Building on Centre Street across from City Hall. She'll be expecting you. Detective Fierenzo will meet you there as soon as he can."

"Muni Building; got it," Roger repeated.

"One other thing," Powell said, his voice suddenly a little hesitant. "Officer Smith is currently on the trail of a pickup truck we think came from the place you and Fierenzo visited. We think your wife may have been driving it."

Roger squeezed the phone tightly. "Did she look all right?"

"As near as he could tell," Powell said. "Just thought you'd want to know."

"Thanks," Roger said. "Okay, I'm on my way."

"The fax will be waiting," Powell said. "Talk to you later."

Roger hung up the phone and leaned back against the headboard, gazing at the message he'd scribbled on the pad. Watch out for roaming Warriors like on Wed. XXXXX XXXX... If this was supposed to be clear to him, Caroline had missed by a mile.

But she'd taken the time to write it, and taken the risk of sending it. It had to mean something.

His eyes dropped to the rows of X's at the end. They were certainly not kisses; Caroline had always detested cutesy stuff like that. Had she been trying to cross something out? Did the X's mean the first nine letters of the note should be erased? Or the last nine letters? Maybe the first or last nine letters of her previous note?

"What's the word?" Velovsky murmured from the other bed.

"Sorry—didn't mean to wake you," Roger apologized. "We got a message from Caroline."

"Clear as mud, I take it?"

"Actually, mostly it's very readable," Roger said. "You're the expert on all things Green. Does a row of X's have any particular significance?"

"It's slang for smooches," Velovsky rumbled. "Like S.W.A.K., and all that. Weren't you ever a teenager?"

"My mother once said I was born forty," Roger told him. "I was asking about Green culture and slang."

"Nothing that I know of," Velovsky said. "Is that what she put in her note? A bunch of X's?"

"Among other things," Roger said, tearing off the top page of the notepad and folding it in half. "I'm going to take a quick shower, then I've got to go."

"Help yourself," Velovsky said, closing his eyes again and rolling over onto his side. "And don't slam the door on your way out. Two o'clock checkout, you said?"

"Right," Roger confirmed. "Pleasant dreams."

The other didn't answer. Grimacing, Roger got out of bed and crossed to the bathroom. Caroline, Fierenzo had suggested on the way to the Green estate, didn't think the same way Roger himself did.

He could only hope the detective had been overstating the case a little. Because if he couldn't reconstruct her thinking, the risk she'd taken would be for nothing.

He'd failed her enough times lately. He couldn't afford to fail her again.

The traffic had been getting steadily heavier for the past fifteen minutes as the highway approached the Thruway and the more populous region along the Hudson River. Smith stayed on the red Ford's tail, trying to strike that magic balance between being close enough to see the subject, yet far enough back that the subject wouldn't spot him. He'd had some training in the technique, but all of his admittedly limited experience had been in the city, where the distance guidelines were completely different.

He frowned ahead down the highway. Coming his direction in the other lane, he could see a white van. One of the group he'd seen driving east through Shandaken an hour and a half ago? If so, what was it doing heading back west? He lifted his foot off the gas, letting the car slow down a little in hopes of catching the license plate as the van passed.

And then, without warning, it swerved into his lane, coming straight toward him.

Smith reacted instantly, leaning on the horn as he slammed on his brakes, drifting as far right as he could without going off the road. But it kept coming. He angled the car even farther right, eyes flicking back and forth between the van and the shoulder, searching desperately for someplace to escape to without going down the shallow embankment into the drainage ditch that ran alongside the road. But there was nothing; no driveways, no parking lots, nothing even remotely flat.

The van was still coming. With a curse, Smith gave up, twisting the wheel and bracing himself as the car shot off the road. He had a glimpse of the van suddenly swerving back into its own lane—

And then he was sliding down the embankment, the nose of the car dipping sharply into the ditch and then bouncing up again as he rolled up the other side.

For a moment he just sat there, his heart pounding, his body shaking with adrenaline shock. The engine idle still sounded okay, and the hood looked undamaged from where he was sitting. With luck, maybe he'd been able to slow down enough before going off the road that he hadn't done any serious damage to anything.

There was a cautious crunching of gravel from behind him. He twisted in his seat, half expecting to see the white van returning to finish the job they'd started. But it was just a late-model Lincoln with a balding, middle-aged Good Samaritan staring wide-eyed at him from behind the wheel. He was talking urgently on his cell, probably whistling up the nearest cop.

Smith took a deep breath. A cop, and a tow truck, a little bit of luck with his suspension and radiator, and he would be out of here.

But in the meantime...

With a sigh, he turned off the engine and fished out his cell phone. "This is Smith," he said disgustedly when Powell answered. "I've lost them."