Some of it, anyway.

“Feds?”

Quinn’s voice. Deeply concerned. What a pussy.

“Feds? You hear me?”

“Cold cocked me,” Fedderman heard himself say. “Wham! Wow!”

“Who?”

“My brother.”

“What?”

“Canoe.”

“You’re scaring me, Feds.”

“How do you think I feel?”

Another voice. Authoritative: “Move that car so the ambulance can get close.”

Ambulance?

Somebody must be hurt. Fedderman raised his head to see what was going on.

Wham! The headache. That’s what was going on.

But the pain had not only cleaved his mind, it cleared it.

“Weaver,” he said.

“We’re looking for her,” Quinn said

“Looking for her? Jesus! I don’t know what happened, Quinn. I was tailing her and I got hit by the sidewalk. Gotta find her . . .”

“We’ll find Weaver. Worry about yourself now.”

Strong but gentle hands slid in tight beneath Fedderman. He rolled an eye and saw a collapsible gurney. There was another, weaker, blast of pain; in his head and down the back of his neck.

He moved higher. Levitating. A patch of night sky and tall buildings were rotating.

Lifting me. Carrying . . .

He knew they were going to put him on the gurney, transport him.

There was Quinn’s face, looming over him, revolving with the nighttime view. Good man, Quinn.

“I was tailing her and he cold—”

“I know,” Quinn said. “We can talk later, Feds.”

Fedderman felt the gurney moving smoothly. Did the damn thing have wheels? Or were the paramedics carrying him?

“We’ll take care of things on this end,” Quinn assured him, as the lighted and cluttered back of the ambulance appeared beyond Fedderman’s feet.

“Don’t scare Penny with this. Let her know, but don’t scare her.”

“Not to worry, Feds.”

Fedderman was inside the ambulance. “Let me know about Weaver. All my fault. You can’t trust anybody in this world.”

“Nothing is your fault. Nothing at all.”

The ambulance doors slammed shut, and the vehicle was suddenly close and crowded. Voices spoke incomprehensibly. White forms huddled around Fedderman. The siren growled and revved up.

“Don’t ever go out on the lake with the bastard,” Fedderman said, just before they clamped an oxygen mask over his face.

Five blocks from where Weaver was bound and locked in the trunk of the parked BMW, the killer hailed a cab and took it to an intersection several blocks from his apartment.

He didn’t walk toward his apartment, though. Instead he walked east, toward the river, where there were some industrial buildings and a small gray van he’d obtained from a rental firm. He’d used false ID and a hokey story about moving his possessions before his ex-wife claimed everything in divorce proceedings. His first inclination had been to hot-wire and steal a vehicle. He had the skills to do that. But he knew the vehicle might be reported stolen and hit the NYPD hot sheet before morning. That could lead nowhere good. Besides, the semi-legally rented van, with its darkly tinted windows, was exactly what the task required.

He drove to the building where he’d broken Weaver—the fabled criminal returning to the scene of the crime—and loaded the back of the van with a five-gallon can of gasoline that he’d filled two days ago at a BP station in New Jersey. Alongside the gas can he placed the rusty pickax and shovel, and a folded tarpaulin.

All part of his plan. And his plans, once put in motion, ran smoothly.

Halfway to the Far Castle, which had closed and darkened hours ago, the killer steered the van around a corner and pulled to the curb of a shadowed street lined with closed shops.

After a few minutes, motor idling, he drove forward slowly until he saw a space between buildings. He parked near it and turned off the engine. Keeping in mind that there might be concealed security cameras here—because there might be concealed security cameras anywhere—he put on a baseball cap and pulled its bill low, then turned up his collar.

He got down out of the van, making as little noise as possible, and unloaded the five-gallon can of gas from the back. Keeping his head down, he carried the can to the dark passageway and unscrewed the cap. He went deeper into the darkness, then began walking backward, toward where he’d just come from. He was leaning forward and pouring gasoline in a side-to-side motion as he went. Leaving a long trail that, when lighted, would act as an unstoppable fuse.

A voice said, “Wha’ the fu—”

The killer stopped, listened, and heard a scraping sound. He looked in the direction of the noise and saw a dark figure attempting to stand up. A man who had been almost invisible slumped against the brick wall.

A drunk. Or maybe it was drugs. The killer didn’t know and didn’t care. He was grateful that the man was disoriented and continued to scrape the leather heels of his shoes against the bricks in an effort to slither up to a standing position with his back against the wall.

If he did manage to stand, it looked doubtful that he could stay on his feet.

All right. This was unexpected but could be handled. The killer’s plans made allowances for contingencies. He screwed the cap tight on the gas can and carried it to where the man had almost straightened up. He was rough looking from living on the streets, wearing torn dress pants and a black T-shirt with the arms cut off to reveal complicated tattoos that involved snakes and nude women. He smelled of stale vomit, even over the stench of the gas.

The killer said, “Let me help you,” and raised the half-full gas can high.

“Wha’s ’at smell?” the tattooed man asked, just before an edge of the metal can came down hard on his head.

He put out a trembling hand to support himself against something that wasn’t there, then crumpled to the pavement.

Working faster but wasting no motion, the killer poured gasoline over the unconscious man, then back-stepped quickly out of the passageway, bending low and continuing the trail of gas until the can was empty.

He put the can back in the van, then returned to the mouth of the passageway and the beginning of the trail of gasoline. He struck a match and flipped it into the glistening gas.

Surprised by the ferocity of the sudden blaze, he hurriedly climbed in behind the wheel of the van and got out of there.

He watched his rearview mirror as he approached the corner. An orange glow flickered from the mouth of the passageway.

It grew suddenly brighter as he turned the corner. The sound the igniting gas made was a low Whump! that probably didn’t alarm or awaken anyone.

Five blocks away, he pulled the van to the curb and got out a disposable cell phone he’d bought at a drugstore uptown. He punched out 911, and in a voice that he made sound excited gave the address of the fire.

“I saw a cop run between the buildings!” he added. “I don’t think he came out. And there mighta’ been a shot. Oh, God! I dunno! The flames are so high!”

“Please try to remain calm, sir. I’m going to—”

He cut the connection, powered the van’s driver’s side window all the way down, and tossed the phone so it skipped once on the concrete and went down into a storm sewer. His rubber gloves he left on.

It seemed a long time before there was a reaction to his phone call.

Faraway sirens began a frantic howling, cries that were soon joined by others. The NYPD sirens were accompanied by FDNY wailing. Soon the distant din sounded like wolves calling loud laments to others in the pack.

Satisfied that he’d created an effective diversion, the killer drove the stolen white van away from the maelstrom of flames and sirens, toward the Far Castle.