Turn Loose the Dragons

MIAMI, FLORIDA

Friday, October 19, 198—; 10:45 P.M.

Claude Moiret

The area was a twenty-square-block concrete clot of broken buildings and boulevards tangled in the heart of an otherwise healthy middle-class community. The ephemeral living tissue of the neighborhood, the spirit of its occupants, had died years before, victim of a social leprosy no politician or sociologist professed to understand; the blocks had been ignored and neglected, then finally abandoned to derelicts and wraithlike street people who entered their maze to play vicious night games and prey upon one another.

Had anyone been there to see him, the tall, elegantly dressed Frenchman would have appeared ludicrous and dangerously out of place in the ripped streets, easily mistaken for a soft, foolish tourist who had strayed too far from the protective aura of the resort hotels that glittered like a brilliant diamond cluster of light in the ring of darkness around Miami Beach one bridge, four miles and a sea of sad dreams away. A night player making such a misjudgment would not have lived to make another: Claude Moiret, high-ranking executive of the French Secret Service and controller of a private stable of free-lance assassins and general intelligence operatives, was prepared to kill anyone who approached him—an act he would carry out with characteristic, almost casual dispatch. Yet, such a confrontation would be a distraction, however slight, and Moiret did not want his attention drawn from the business at hand. He had taken pains not to be noticed; cloaked in the near-tactile, velvet warmth of the Miami night, he stood stiffly erect, his back inches from the disintegrating, powdery facade of a brick building, camouflaged by quivering, amoebic blots of moonlight that bled through the swaying fronds of a palm tree rising in majestic defiance of the rotting garbage girdling its base in front of a ruined movie theater across the street.

Moiret’s left hand rested casually on the bone handle of a spring-loaded stiletto in the pocket of his double-breasted suit jacket, while his right cupped the throbbing glow of the lighted Gauloise that traveled back and forth to his thin lips with metronomic regularity. When that cigarette was finished, he ground it out and immediately lit another. Aside from the movement of his arm Moiret was motionless, the expanding carpet of cigarette butts at his feet the only sign of his nervousness.

He passed the time trying to analyze the nexus of conversations and commitments and pinpoint where he had lost control of this operation. He finally realized the futility of such analysis, recognized that in fact he had never had control; his client had steered events from the beginning, making all the decisions and effectively manipulating him. Reversing the usual procedure, Rick Peters had apparently conceived the project, then made the initial low-level contacts before inviting Moiret to step in and play his accustomed role in negotiating a final, detailed agreement.

Moiret had always considered the American no more than a journeyman assassin with a polished but limited range of expertise, an evaluation that had slotted Peters in only the middle echelon of the Frenchman’s group of professional killers and spies. Moiret belatedly realized that he had seriously underestimated the American; as a result, Peters had surprised him each step along the way. Now, the Frenchman thought, he might have to pay a high price for the inability to break into the decision-making process, and the bemused curiosity that had kept him involved long past the stage where his instincts had told him to drop out. He was exposed, but he suddenly found himself at the end of negotiations without knowledge of the identities of his high-echelon counterparts and still knowing only the barest details of his client’s plan.

Moiret had not believed Peters capable of formulating a plan that could accomplish all he had said it would. Now the Frenchman was less certain. Moiret recognized that his ability to judge had been clouded by his growing conviction that the project struck deep personal overtones in the American, considerations separate from the scheme’s potentially catastrophic impact on the world and the huge amount of money involved. Moiret had no idea what those interests might be. In this matter, the Frenchman thought, Rick Peters was being driven to excellence by some dark psychic engine emitting an ominous, low hum that could be heard clearly if one listened long and hard enough.

Adding to Moiret’s considerable distress was an acute awareness of the fact that the success of Peters’ operation could mean that a third world war was less then a year away.

There was a sudden crescendo of sound, the raucous, stuttering bray of a car with a broken muffler. A few seconds later a taxi careened around the corner to Moiret’s left and abruptly bucked to a halt with a high-pitched, wavering screech of worn brake linings. Dust swirled and eddied in the pale yellow cones tunneled out of the night by the taxi’s headlights, Moiret immediately ground out his cigarette and watched as a man opened the door on the passenger’s side and stepped out into the dust-moiled intersection.

In the eerie glow cast by the cab’s interior light, Moiret could see that the man was dressed in his usual manner: French-cut jeans, cowboy boots to offset his slight stature, short-sleeved Oxford shirt beneath one of the sleeveless cashmere sweaters he habitually wore regardless of the weather.

The man paid the driver, then closed the door. The driver made a tight, squealing U-turn and the taxi skittered off like some metal insect toward the safe world of light and whole streets a few short blocks away.

Here, Moiret said softly.

With a curt nod of his head, Rick Peters signaled that he’d heard, then glanced up and down the street. Apparently satisfied that they were unobserved, he strode quickly to the Frenchman. The hollow popping of his bootheels on the concrete seemed loud to the tense Moiret, like small-arms fire.

The two men shook hands perfunctorily, and Moiret, as always, marvelled at the forty-two-year-old man’s youthful appearance. Peters had a gymnast’s body, muscular and lean, with no trace of fat. His face, momentarily caught in a rippling band of moonlight, was that of a man perhaps ten or fifteen years younger. He had a full head of wavy blond hair; fair, freckled skin; large, innocence-filled eyes that in most light looked almost white, but were in fact a very pale blue.

Are we set? Tension made Peters’ voice sound nasal and slightly metallic, as if he had a cold. I’m not sure.

The pale eyes suddenly glinted with anger, triggering a bizarre, fleeting metamorphosis of aging in the surrounding flesh. A tic fluttered momentarily in the hollow of Peters’ right cheek as he clenched his jaw muscles. In those few seconds Moiret thought the other man looked almost as old as he actually was.

If you’re not sure, Claude, what am I doing here? Peters’ words were soft but clipped, his tone impatient. On the phone you told me that the meet was set.

It is. I’m just not sure you should go.

Why the hell not?

Moiret slowly raised his right arm, then waited for Peters to turn and look in the direction of his pointing finger—the movie theater across the street.

All of the glass in the theater’s wide bank of doors had been shattered. The surrounding facade was a case study in social geology, a pitted surface covered with layer upon layer of flaking, peeling graffiti rendered in at least three languages, fragmented evidence of the ethnic tides that had washed through the area before the neighborhood had finally died.

Because, Moiret said flatly, that’s where they want you to meet them.

Peters abruptly spun to one side, out of the moonlight. The sudden movement from light to dark had the curious effect of making the smaller man appear to blink out of sight, and Moiret felt tiny blisters of sweat dew his forehead and the backs of his hands. The Frenchman knew that Peters, like most members of his profession, was more than a little paranoid; furthermore, Peters was a man who seemed incapable of forgetting or forgiving any real or imagined slight. The American was clever, incredibly quick physically, and tended to make instant decisions. At the moment, Moiret thought, Peters was very suspicious, and rightfully so. The Frenchman knew what he might think if their positions were reversed, and his pulse quickened.

A disembodied voice very close to Moiret’s right ear said, Who are they?

Moiret stood very still, his hands conspicuously held out a few inches from his sides. I don’t know, Rick. I’m sorry. I don’t have names, and I haven’t met them face to face.

You know that this is a very big hit, Claude. The world’s going to be a different place when I’m through. I’m thinking that maybe you’ve decided it’s too big; maybe you got nervous. There was a prolonged silence, during which Moiret concentrated on the whining drone of insects and tried not to be afraid. Finally the voice came again. Claude, are you trying to take me out?

No, Moiret said evenly, slowly exhaling. The danger had passed. We’ve worked together for ten years; you know I can be trusted. I’d be dead right now if you really believed I might have set you up.

Peters reappeared in the banded moonlight. The tic was gone from his cheek, but the mask of youth that was his face was still askew, wrinkled with tension. What organization are they with? Alpha Nine? Comando Muerto? Sierran Nationalist?

I don’t think these people belong to any of those organizations.

The people I first spoke with were from Alpha Nine.

I know, but I’ve been through five negotiating sessions since you asked me to come in. The personnel kept changing, and the Alpha Nine people were phased out early. That was smart; everyone in the business knows who they are. At least it shows these people are serious. They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make certain they can’t be traced.

Good for them, Peters said angrily. What about me? Christ, what about you? He clenched his teeth, shook his head in disgust. Claude, you’ve got your own bureau; you’re plugged into the CIA, the Mossad, KGB, and God knows how many other intelligence services. Now you’re telling me you don’t have any idea who’s waiting for me over in that theater?

I’m sure they’re not professionals, Moiret said tightly. If they were, I’d have some kind of line on them by now; I’d recognize a voice, a style. My guess is that they’re the money-men who’ve been bankrolling the Sierran counter-revolutionaries for the past twenty years. They’re tired of the bullshit and amateur bomb tossers they’ve been getting for their money, so they’ve decided to take care of business themselves. I think it’s their first move into the actual organization of a field operation, and they’re being very cagy. They called me only an hour ago to ask for this final meet with you. I tried to stall them, but they said the deal was off if you didn’t show up. That’s when I called you. Two million dollars is a lot of money. You have to make the decision.

Don’t get mealymouthed with me, Claude; I don’t need to be told that it’s my decision. You’re my representative. You’re supposed to take care of the details and look after my interests. Having a meet in a place like that is a chicken-shit idea to begin with, and now I find out I’m supposed to go in there bare-assed, without knowing a damn thing about the people waiting for me.

But you don’t have to go, Moiret said quietly. Indeed, I don’t want you to go. My advice is to pass on this one.

It’s a little hard to pass on two million dollars, Claude. I’m saying this is no way to do business. You blew it.

Moiret turned his face away to hide his own annoyance. I agree with you, he said without inflection. They forced it. If it weren’t for the considerable amount of money involved, I’d have broken off talks without even asking you. But this has been your project from the beginning. He looked at Peters, shrugged. The money’s only good if you live to see it and spend it, Rick. I called you here, but I suggest you direct me to go in your place and tell them that the deal is off unless we can reschedule the meet for someplace that’s mutually acceptable. If they won’t agree, I’ll make arrangements to give them back their deposit. We’ll be out clean.

They just might kill you.

Then I’ll have earned my commission, no? Moiret replied evenly. The suggestion of a smile quickly faded. It’s my responsibility.

Peters abruptly turned again and stared for some time at the movie theater. His body was still, but his fingers wriggled nervously. When he spoke, his voice was taut with anticipation. You say they did come up with the deposit?

Yes. Ten times the usual talk fee. I asked for a hundred thousand just to see how they’d react. They paid it when I let them see your dossier—which is another reason I didn’t back away earlier. The only thing they wouldn’t do was show or identify themselves. They always wore hoods.

How many?

Three at the last meet.

Peters’ fingers gradually ceased their movement as he continued to gaze at the ruined building across the street. I’m going in, he said at last.

"Pass, Rick, Moiret said with a quiet urgency. Even if the deal is on the level, I don’t believe you can fulfill this contract. You may be able to get into San Sierra, but you can’t hope to make your hit and get out alive."

You’re wrong, Claude, Peters replied matter-of-factly. My plan will work.

Why don’t you tell me what you’re going to do?

I will, but not now. Peters laughed sharply, without humor. What are you worried about, Claude? You’ll be a million dollars richer if I get killed. That’s the up-front money, and I want you to take care of it for me, as usual.

I was offering my help, Moiret replied tersely, barely controlling the anger that had been steadily building in him. If I wanted more than my commission, I’d tell you to go. I’ll admit I mishandled the negotiations, but I was dealing with your contacts in a situation which you’d created. Now let’s handle this like the professionals we are. I say we cut it off here.

Peters slowly turned back to face the Frenchman. The American’s boyish features were strangely blank, his gaze slightly out of focus, as if he were looking through, or somewhere beyond, Moiret. It has to work, he said in a hollow voice. I’ll be getting rich at the same time that I finally tie up the one loose end in my life.

Moiret frowned. "Merde, Rick. What on earth are you talking about?"

Peters’ pale eyes came back into focus. Naked cruelty flickered like heat lightning across his face and was gone. I’ll be in touch, he said. He turned, stepped off the curb and started across the street.

Rick Peters

He ducked his head and stepped carefully through a jagged necklace of glass shards that remained stuck in the brittle molding of the metal frame of one of the theater doors. Two small yellow bulbs, which Peters assumed were powered by battery or gasoline generator, dimly illuminated a cavernous lobby ankle-deep in paper refuse, empty liquor bottles, and the slippery rubber residue of hurried, furtive sex. Rats skittered in the paper depths as Peters waded through the lobby and passed under the lights through the door.

He immediately sensed the presence of a man behind him, but made no move to defend himself as a thick, sloppily tattooed forearm snaked over his right shoulder and tightened across his throat. There was the smell of Old Spice. The bore of what felt to be a cheap, small-caliber pistol was pressed against the base of his skull, and Peters instantly registered the fact that the man was almost certainly left-handed. With the pistol in place, the arm came away from his throat and a hand began to fumble clumsily over his body.

I don’t have a gun, Peters said easily. There’s a knife in a sheath inside my right boot, but I’d consider it a courtesy if you left it there. This is supposed to be a business meeting.

Shut up, turkey. The voice was big, like the man, with a lugubrious, lilting Sierran accent soured by menace. Take the boot off and give me the fucking knife.

Peters slowly and tentatively started to bend over. He lowered his head away from the gun while at the same time lightly pressing his buttocks into the man’s right thigh in order to gauge position. He shifted his weight to his left foot and, when he was not ordered to stop, proceeded to remove his boot.

The man was not only untrained but monumentally stupid, Peters thought, with no instinct for danger. From his crouched position he could easily spin under the gun to his left and slice open the man’s stomach, or even stab back up through his own legs into the man’s groin or anus. However, at the moment he could not see what purpose would be served by killing the man. He slowly handed the knife back over his shoulder to the man, then pulled his boot on.

Straight ahead, the voice commanded, and Peters was prodded hard between the shoulder blades with the gun. Down to the front and up on the stage.

More of the dim yellow lights had been strung inside the theater, the line running down the center aisle and splitting to a T to light the lip of the stage. Peters walked ahead through more debris that had somehow drifted into strange patterns, like windswept snow, driven by no more than the pressure of time. He sensed the man close behind him, still in perfect position for him to whirl inside the gun hand and kill the man if he wanted to. Peters smiled thinly, thinking that anyone wanting to kill him would have hired a man considerably more skilled than the thug bringing up his rear. He would have been killed, probably machine-gunned, the moment he’d stepped into the theater lobby.

As he approached the front of the theater there was a loud metallic click offstage to his right, then a sharply rising hiss. Overhead, an arc spot briefly glowed orange before casting a tightly focused beam of golden light on a straight-backed metal folding chair that had been placed in a small, cleared area in the middle and at the front of the stage. Peters walked briskly up on the platform, but abruptly halted and stood still when he reached the chair. He heard the man behind him grunt with surprise and anger.

Sit down, turkey!

First put the gun away, Peters replied calmly. You know I’m not armed.

The man’s response was to rap Peters on top of the skull with the barrel of his pistol. It was a sharp blow that caused the assassin’s knees to buckle momentarily and his eyes to tear, but its most devastating effect was humiliation; Peters knew he would have to respond. He waited a few seconds for his vision to clear, then slowly turned.

He found himself looking up into the strikingly handsome face of a young man whom he judged to be no more than seventeen or eighteen. The boy’s wavy hair was close-cropped, his skin the color of very light coffee. Large black eyes mirrored surprise and uncertainty at Peters’ sudden if subtle act of defiance, and there was also the first, small glint of fear at what he saw in the shorter man’s strange, pale eyes. He was a big boy, Peters thought, but nonetheless a boy. Worse, from Peters’ point of view, the boy was obviously a civilian, a crude kiddy-thug swept up off the street and paid a few dollars to play heavy with a gun he’d probably never used in a situation he knew nothing about.

Peters did not like practicing his skills on civilians; it was unprofessional and too often led to unforeseen complications. But the boy had left him no choice; he knew he could not allow himself to be humiliated in the eyes of the men who had to be watching and evaluating him from somewhere in the theater. And he most definitely would not allow himself to be shamed in his own eyes.

Sit down, you son-of-a-bitch, or your brains are going to be running out your nose. Despite his words, the boy’s voice betrayed indecision. Peters watched the hand holding the gun begin to tremble slightly, dangerously.

Peters recognized the very real danger of the unreliable weapon firing accidentally and killing him; still, he did not move. He knew he had to make a quick judgment as to whether the boy was simply overplaying his part or was following specific directions. It occurred to Peters that he might have made a serious mistake in not taking out the young Sierran earlier; the boy could represent a test, and he might well be expected to display his skills by disarming or even killing the boy before he would be dealt with seriously.

He was measuring his angle of attack when his decision was made for him.

Enough, Roselle! The voice, deeply resonant, rich and commanding, came from somewhere above him and at the back of the theater. Back away, but keep your gun on him.

The boy scowled and stepped back a few paces. Peters turned his back on the Sierran and sat down in the chair.

I trust you’re the ‘Mr. Jones’ we’ve been expecting, the deep voice continued laconically.

Peters squinted, fixing his gaze on the first row of the balcony far at the rear of the theater, but the hot arc spot, while not shining directly in his eyes, created a peripheral barrier of glow he could not see beyond. He nodded curtly, then leaned back and crossed his left ankle over his right knee. He wished to appear relaxed and off balance, but in fact he was keenly alert and prepared to spring out of the chair in any direction in less time than it would take the hulking Roselle to pull the trigger on his pistol.

What’s your real name?

I’m no more likely to give you my name than you are to give me yours, Peters answered quietly but firmly. His voice carried easily in the vast, empty theater.

No? Roselle!

The boy lumbered forward and eagerly poked the bore of the pistol into Peters’ right ear.

Peters willed himself to remain motionless, without expression, while he slowly counted off twenty seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice retained its soft, even timbre. You don’t need my name: you have my face, which is more than you’ve given me.

You’ve been given one hundred thousand dollars.

And you have me here to see and talk to, which is what you paid for with your hundred thousand. You’ve seen my dossier; if you didn’t think I was capable of delivering what I say I can, you should have kept the talk fee and I could have stayed home. I came here to discuss a business matter, but I won’t talk while your man is trying to clean the wax out of my ear with a gun.

You could be CIA!

"You could be CIA! Peters shouted back, calculating that it was time to display some emotion. There comes a time when people in our circumstances simply have to trust each other! This set-up is chickenshit, and I’m beginning to think that you’re chickenshit!"

There was almost a minute of near silence, broken only by a low, almost imperceptible rustling sound of men whispering far away in the darkness.

You’re not what we expected. It was a different voice, higher pitched, a tenor to the first man’s bass.

You should have gone uptown if you wanted to see a movie. Do you want to talk to an actor or do you want Salva killed?

Peters heard a sudden, sharp intake of breath to his right, and he knew that it was a corpse holding a gun on him; if the unseen men in the balcony hadn’t told their young employee what the meeting was about, it almost certainly meant they planned to kill the boy when he was no longer needed.

There was another whispered exchange, and then the man with the deep voice said, Your dossier indicates that you have a predilection for explosives. Do you plan to blow up Manuel?

It’s possible.

We want to know your plan.

No.

We insist.

How I fulfill the contract is my business.

The two million dollars you ask us to pay for your services makes it our business!

No. Peters was sweating heavily from the heat of the arc spot, a warmth accentuated by the thin cold circle of the gun bore in his ear. But it was time to make a move. Take it easy, Roselle, he said calmly. He slowly uncrossed his legs and stood up, ignoring the increased pressure of the gun barrel against his head.

Shit! Roselle barked. You want to die, turkey?!

The tenor shouted, Don’t shoot, Roselle!

It’s a question of security, Peters said evenly, placing his hand on the boy’s chest and casually pushing him away. I know I’m not CIA, but any one of you up there could be; your gunbearer here could be CIA, or even DMI. One of you might have some second thoughts later; organizations are penetrated, perceptions change. This condition won’t change: once I leave here, you can be absolutely certain that Manuel Salva is going to die. Assuming, of course, that we cut a deal.

When?

Within six months. Peters hesitated, carefully considering how much he wished to reveal. Finally, he continued, I’ll say this: if you’re in the right place at the right time, you’ll know about it almost the moment it happens. In any case, you’ll find out about it within minutes. That’s when you call my representative and arrange to give him the second million.

How do you know we’ll pay? the second man asked.

Peters shrugged. "I could have your names in a month. I don’t know who you are, but I know what you are. It’s enough."

What are we? the deeper voice responded sharply.

You’re businessmen, a long time out of Angeles Blanca. You’ve done all right here with the money you made under Sabrito and brought out, but Manuel Salva still sticks in your craws even after all these years. He took away your whorehouses and casinos, he busted up your narcotics operations and white-slavery rings, and then he chased your asses out of the country. So much for patriotism and ideology. You’ve built up a good operational network here, but Miami can never be old Angeles Blanca. You’re still looking to even things up. It’s worth two million dollars to you to see Salva dead, and I don’t think you want to be looking over your shoulders while you’re enjoying your victory. Naturally, I’ll hunt for you if you don’t pay.

We could find many men who would work for cheaper wages.

You do what you want, Peters replied evenly, but I know I don’t have to remind you gentlemen that you’ll get exactly what you pay for. I can get the job done, and I may be able to give you a bonus.

Please explain, the tenor said warily.

I’m betting that you still dream of one day returning to San Sierra, so I’ll tell you this: my plan involves making the assassination look like a CIA operation. All hell is going to break loose in this country as well as in San Sierra when Salva dies, and you people just might be able to parlay the chaos into political gain. Considering what you stand to gain from my work, I’d argue that you’re getting me cheap.

There was more whispering; this time the disjointed, ghostly mumbling had a tense, underlying hum of excitement. It was the bass who finally spoke.

You say you can make it appear that Manuel has been assassinated by the CIA?

Peters shook his head. He was anxious to conclude the deal, and he had been willing to scatter additional chum for the sharks he needed for financing, but he would reveal no more. I won’t try to lie to you. I can’t guarantee that. It’s a factor in my primary plan, but obviously I have to have a number of contingency plans. I’m contracting to kill Salva. You make of his death what you can.

What?

That’s enough! Peters snapped, his voice taking on a hard edge of authority. The meet’s over. You’ll contact my representative within twenty-four hours and make arrangements for the transfer of nine hundred thousand dollars, according to instructions he’ll give you. If that happens, Salva will be dead within six months—at which time you’ll repeat the procedure and transfer another million dollars. If my agent doesn’t hear from you, the deal is off, permanently. Whatever you decide, you won’t have a chance to change your minds.

Peters expected more whispering, but there was none. There was complete silence in the theater for almost two minutes, and then a third voice spoke.

"Very well, Mr. Jones, the bargain is struck. You understand, of course, that you cannot hope to escape with our initial payment. You have exactly six months from this date to carry out your end of the bargain. If Manuel is not dead within that time, you will be hunted down and summarily executed. That contract won’t cost us anywhere near two million dollars, I assure you."

I understand perfectly.

Roselle, you may go. Leave the gun on the stage.

The young Sierran glared at Peters for a few moments, but finally put the gun down before turning and walking off into the darkness.

Good luck, Mr. Jones.

Peters nodded and casually rose from the chair; instead of descending from the stage and going back up the center aisle, he walked slowly, unchallenged, into the wings. Once hidden in darkness, he moved very quickly. He removed his boots and picked them up in his left hand, then ran swiftly and silently along the rear lip of the stage, making his way by the shafts of smoky yellow light that knifed through rips in the rotting backdrop curtain. He came to the end of the stage and leaped down to the pitted concrete floor, landing lightly on the balls of his feet barely a body’s length from the startled Roselle. The Sierran had just lit a cigarette and was about to step through a backstage exit.

The burly young man spun around and almost tripped over his own feet. Like an actor who had forgotten his lines, he allowed his face to slip into a loose mask of confused emotions. Peters wondered idly if the boy had been thinking of the conspiracy of which he had just learned, or perhaps of a woman he was on his way to meet. It made no difference to the assassin.

You forgot to return my knife, Roselle, Peters said easily.

The boy swallowed hard and cleared his throat before finally finding his voice. Get the fuck away from me, turkey. I’ll give you your knife; I’ll stick it straight up your ass.

No, I don’t think so. You got a little too excited, sonny. You should’t have hit me with the gun. Now I have to hurt you in order to even things up.

The boy started to reach for his back pocket, but Peters had already leaped into the air. He rolled into a half-turn as his body reached an apogee at the level of the boy’s head, then lashed out with a perfectly aimed side kick that caught the Sierran on the side of the neck, just below the jaw. Both men fell to the floor at the same time, Roselle in a splayed heap and Peters on the four points of his hands and feet, perfectly balanced.

Peters felt for a pulse and was relieved to find that the boy was only unconscious. He was convinced that Roselle would soon be dead anyway, and he did not wish to perform any service, no matter how small, for his employers without pay. His business with Roselle was a personal matter.

Peters retrieved his knife from the boy’s pocket, then straddled the massive chest and slowly, precisely, began to slice off the right ear.

POMONA, NEW YORK

Thursday, January 3; 4:00 P.M.

Alexandra Finway

It had begun to snow heavily. There was no wind, and the thick flakes tumbled down through the still, cold air like chips of weightless white marble, accumulating rapidly, muffling sound and light in the densely wooded residential section of Rockland County where the tall, statuesque woman ran. It was the nadir of an oppressive afternoon, with mothers and their children seeking comfort indoors and workers not yet on their way home. The only sound on the narrow, winding road was the rhythmic squeak of the woman’s running shoes on the fallen snow, punctuated by her heavy breathing.

The firm, full contours of Alexandra Finway’s body were evident even under the loose folds of her gray warm-up suit, and she ran with the powerful, steady, and confident lope of an experienced runner and trained athlete. She had strong yet sensual features, accented by high cheekbones now blanched ivory by the force of her passage through the freezing air. Her dark brown eyes were focused intently on the roadway at her feet as she tried to concentrate on the strange, almost mystical pleasure of the sensory messages transmitted to her by her extended body. Her long gray-streaked black hair, held back from her face by a crimson terrycloth band that was now stained with sweat despite the frigid air, bobbed in a rippled wave back and forth across her shoulders in counterpoint to the rhythmic sway of her body.

Alexandra grimaced with effort as she accelerated into the final leg of her daily six-mile run, racing against the rapidly approaching darkness and the now-familiar feelings of bitterness and frustration that had begun to rise in her, snapping at her heart like some great black mastiff rushing from a hidden driveway of the soul.

Tears came without warning, erupting suddenly through an unsuspected fault in the normally well-tended intellectual membrane surrounding her emotions. Sobbing uncontrollably, Alexandra stumbled off the road into a thick copse of bare trees and sat down on a log. She leaned back against a tree trunk and, still sobbing, raised her face to the sky. The heavy snowflakes melted in her tears, producing a cold, stinging sensation everywhere but on the tiny, star-shaped areas of scar tissue beneath each eye—milky crosses that plastic surgery had been unable to erase and that Alexandra no longer even bothered trying to hide with makeup.

Her weeping subsided, then finally stopped altogether. She took a deep, shuddering breath that hurt her lungs and made her cough, then shook herself. Tears and sweat were freezing on her face and body, chilling her and threatening hypothermia. She could get very sick, Alexandra thought; she could catch pneumonia, which would solve nothing and would probably be nothing more than a childish, self-destructive attempt to punish John for … for whatever he was doing. And for not talking to her about it.

Damn you, John, Alexandra whispered, suppressing another sob that stirred uncomfortably in her chest. Why won’t you at least tell me? Can’t you give me that?

Shivering, she finally rose and walked stiffly back out of the woods to the road. She was very cold. The snow that had spilled over the tops of her sneakers was melting, chilling her feet. She quickly performed a series of limbering exercises to loosen her muscles, then jogged the rest of the way home.

The telephone began to ring as Alexandra entered the house. An attractive, raven-haired teenager stepped out of a small den off the living room, smiled and waved when she saw her mother.

I’ll get it, Kara, Alexandra said to her fourteen-year-old daughter. Where’s Michael?

Kristen took him sledding on the hill down the street.

Would you get me a big towel, sweetheart?

Sure, Mom, the girl said, turning and starting to walk away. I’ll bring you some aspirin, too. You look like you need it.

Alexandra picked up the telephone receiver. Hello? she said, her voice warped by a shudder.

There was a brief pause, then a man said softly, Alexandra?

Alexandra’s mouth suddenly felt parched. Her stomach muscles fluttered and