The Green And The Gray

7

For a moment the room seemed frozen in time. Sylvia seemed to tower over the room, her face burning like that of an ancient Greek goddess, the fire in her eyes demanding instant and total obedience. Roger hunched back in his chair, flinching back before that gaze, too paralyzed to even make a break for the door.

And then, unexpectedly, two other images flickered into view, superimposed on Sylvia's. One was that of Melantha, her face twisted with fear, the way she'd looked the night he'd seen the man climbing the outside of their building. Beside it was Caroline's face, the way she always looked when he'd backed down from a confrontation.

He thought about that face, and how it would look if he had to tell her he'd given in and handed Melantha over to these people.

And suddenly he knew which confrontation he more urgently preferred to avoid. "I'm sorry," he said, forcing himself to stand. "I'll be in touch."

For that first second he thought Sylvia was going to physically try to stop him. Her eyes glinted even more brightly, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening. Roger stood motionless in front of his chair, trying to work up the nerve to move past her to the door. If she decided to get in his way—or worse, if she called down to Porfirio and Stavros—

And then, to his relief, the wrinkles smoothed out and the fire faded from the old woman's eyes.

"Very well," she said, her voice calm again. "I can't force you to stay. But give Melantha a message from us. Tell her that if she comes to us, Aleksander stands ready to protect her."

"I'll tell her," Roger promised, a fresh shiver running up his back. Ungluing his feet from the floor, he walked across the room, heart still thudding with anticipation and dread. But the two women merely watched him in silence.

Until he reached the door. "As for you," Sylvia added as he took hold of the knob, "I warn you that city is no longer a safe place for those who stand beside Melantha."

Roger swallowed. "Is that a threat?"

"Merely a statement of fact," she said. "Good-bye, Roger."

He half expected to find the whole night-shift crew Sylvia had mentioned gathered out on the landing, ready to jump him. But there was no one in sight. Making his way down the stairs, he went outside to discover that Porfirio and Stavros had likewise vanished. He headed back down the street, trying not to look like he was hurrying, an eerie feeling between his shoulder blades. He reached the bustling activity of Central Park West—

And suddenly, it was as if he was in New York again.

He walked six blocks before the tingling began to fade away into the familiar noises and smells of the city. Not until he'd emerged into the sunlight had he realized just how much of a spell the old building had spun around him.

He'd gone there hoping they could help clear up some of Melantha's mystery. All they'd done was make it worse.

He kept walking, trying to figure out what to do next. Going home was definitely out, or at least going home by anything resembling a straight line. He couldn't tell if he was being followed, but he had no doubt that he was. Sylvia's people wanted Melantha, and this was too obvious an opportunity for them to pass up.

He was halfway to his office when it suddenly occurred to him that it wouldn't be safe to go there, either. Even given that his firm was only one of a hundred in the building, he still couldn't take the chance that they might track him down and learn his name and address.

Maybe it was too late already. Even though he hadn't given them his full name, there couldn't be all that many Roger Wh-somethings listed in the phone book.

On his left was a little restaurant busy with early lunchtime patrons. Ducking into the doorway, shaking his head at the offer of a menu, he pulled out his cell phone.

Caroline answered on the third ring. "Hello?"

"It's me," Roger said. "Any problems?"

"No, not at all," Caroline assured him. "We're having a fine time. I'm teaching Melantha how to latchhook—"

"Calls?" Roger cut her off. "Visitors?"

There was a brief pause. "Neither," Caroline said, her voice suddenly subdued. "What's happened?"

Roger hesitated, wondering if he was jumping at shadows. Out here in the sunshine and brisk New York breezes, it all seemed so silly.

But he hadn't imagined Sylvia's veiled threats. He hadn't imagined the bruises on Melantha's neck.

He certainly hadn't imagined Porfirio and his gun.

"Maybe nothing," he told Caroline. "I was at your Central Park West building a few minutes ago. I found some people who claim to know Melantha's parents, but they wouldn't let me talk to them."

"That seems strange."

"You don't know the half of it," he assured her. "Maybe I'm overreacting, but I want you and Melantha to get out of there."

The pause this time was longer. "Right now?" Caroline asked, her voice not giving any clues as to what she was thinking.

"Yeah, I think so," Roger said, trying to think. "You'll need a hotel. A decent one, hopefully not too expensive."

"How about Paul and Janet's place?" Caroline suggested. "They're not due back from Oregon for another week, and I know they wouldn't mind."

Roger pursed his lips. The Young family lived way over in Yorkville, on the east side of Manhattan, beside a little patch of trees and playground equipment called John Jay Park. If Porfirio and his buddies started their search near the Whittiers' apartment, they'd be hunting a long time before they got to that neighborhood. "Do we have a key?"

"We don't need one," she said. "Remember? They've got electronic locks on their building and apartment now."

"Oh, right," he said, remembering the conversation they'd had about the co-op's latest innovation the last time he and Caroline had been over there for an evening of pinochle. "I don't suppose you happen to remember the combinations."

"Of course," she said. "Got a pen and paper?"

"Hang on." The pen was easy, clipped as always inside his shirt pocket. The paper turned out to be easy, too: the program from Wednesday night's play was still folded lengthwise in his coat pocket.

"Shoot."

"Four-oh-five-one is the outside door," she said. "Their apartment is six-one-five-nine-three."

He shook his head in quiet amazement as he wrote down the numbers. How did she retain stuff like that, anyway? "Got it," he said as he stuffed the program back into his pocket. "Pack up whatever you need for a few days and get over there."

"Should I take the car?"

Roger thought about it a second. Their old Buick Century had been a gift from Caroline's grandmother, and they seldom used it except for occasional weekend trips and their twice-yearly visits to Caroline's family in Vermont. But getting over to the parking garage and pulling it out would take time, and his skin was starting to feel tingly again. "No, just go," he told her. "And take a cab—it'll be more private than the subway."

"Shall I pack for you, too?"

"Yeah, you'd better," he said. "It would be kind of counterproductive to shake off their tail and then just let them pick me up again at home."

He heard Caroline's sharp intake of breath. "They're following you?"

"I don't know," he said. "But I would if I wanted Melantha this badly."

"We'll be out of here as soon as we can," Caroline said, her voice shaking a little.

"Good," Roger said. "But don't worry too much. Whoever these people are, they seem to prefer playing their games at night or behind closed doors. You should be okay in daylight in a crowded city."

Caroline gave a forced laugh. "You make it sound like we're dealing with vampires."

"Don't laugh," Roger warned. "At this point I'm not ready to toss out any possibilities. You just get the two of you out of there."

"I will," she said. "Be careful."

"Sure," he promised. "You too."

The Columbus Circle subway platform was bustling with midday traffic as Roger ran his Metrocard through the reader, passed through the turnstile, and headed down. The train, when it finally came, was just as crowded. Roger managed to find a couple of square feet of standing room at one end and settled in for the trip.

And as he held onto the overhead bar and rode the bumps and sways, he found himself studying the rest of his fellow passengers.

So far all the Greens he'd met had had Melantha's same black hair and olive skin. But it would be silly to think they wouldn't have more variation than that, even among the immediate family. It would be even sillier to assume they didn't have any friends they could press into service.

Which meant the tail could be pretty much anyone. That squat man over in the corner, say, the one pressing the earbud of his CD player firmly into his ear with his middle finger, his head nodding gently to the beat as his lips moved along with whatever song he was listening to. He was about the same build as the man who'd accosted them in the alley two nights ago. For that matter, there were also resemblances between him and the figure who'd been wandering around their balcony last night.

Were they all working with Sylvia? Or could the alley guy have been working against her while the human fly was working for her?

Or it could be the black girl about Melantha's age seated midway down the car with her nose buried in an algebra textbook. There was a recent-immigrant look about her clothing, and Melantha's accent wasn't anything European that Roger was familiar with. Could it be Caribbean or North African?

Melantha would probably fit either ethnic group.

Or it could even be that German-looking couple poring over a subway map. Offhand, he couldn't come up with even a tenuous connection between them and Melantha, which might make them exactly the kind of spies Sylvia would go for.

Unless, of course, they all wore that same style of brooch as Sylvia and Cassia. In that case, picking out the tail would be a piece of cake.

The brooch...

Shifting his grip on the bar, he dug into his pocket for the one Caroline had found in the junk drawer.

It seemed overly heavy for a piece of jewelry, just as the gun had seemed overly light for a firearm.

But whether the weights corresponded he couldn't tell. And in the artificial lighting of the subway car, he wouldn't trust his eyes with any color, let alone one as odd as this one.

He dropped it back into his pocket. Once he was out in the sunlight again he'd give it another look.

The subway bounced its way south, discharging passengers and picking up new ones at each stop.

Roger stayed in his corner, even when an occasional seat opened up which he could have taken. He was more interested in watching his fellow passengers than he was in comfort, and he could see the whole car better standing up. For awhile he tried to keep track of which people got on or off at which stop, but after awhile he gave up the effort as pointless.

Still, with a little luck, maybe he could throw Sylvia's tail a surprise.

He got off at Sheridan Square, on the western edge of Greenwich Village, and climbed back to street level. A few blocks' walk southeast would take him to the West 4th Street station, where several different lines intersected. That meant several possible trains, with lots of people taking each of them. If he could get just a little bit ahead of the tail, he stood a good chance of losing him completely.

He was striding briskly down the sidewalk, working out his plans, when a hand closed on his left upper arm.

"Hey!" he snapped, twitching instinctively against the grip as he turned his head to look.

But it wasn't a dark Mediterranean face that he found himself gazing into, the sort of face he'd expected to see. This one was wide and craggy, edged with a sparse framing of brown hair, and sat on shoulders a good two inches lower than Roger's own. The body the face was attached to was equally wide. From the casual strength of the grip around his arm, Roger guessed that most of the bulk was muscle.

"Relax," the man said, smiling encouragingly as he gazed up at Roger with bright blue eyes. "All we want to do is talk."

"Talk?" Roger asked cautiously, trying again to pull away. But the grip wasn't going anywhere, and neither was his arm. "About what?"

"Not what," the man corrected. "Who. Your young friend, of course."

"What young friend?"

"Who do you think?" the man said. "Melantha Green."