Engines, sirens, death, flames—that was all somewhere else so he could accomplish his purpose here.

And it was happening! His quest would be satisfied. He couldn’t help stopping work now and then to look down to see the cumulative effects of his steady effort with the pickax.

He felt a wild exhilaration. An awe. He was like a shadow Michelangelo, giving marble birth to something rare and beautiful. Doing what sculptors always did—chipping away everything that didn’t look like some part of whatever it was they were creating.

The toil of his hands was revealing great beauty that would soon be his.

He would, of course, continue to kill. And he would win his war with Quinn.

Nancy Weaver was in almost complete silence in the darkness of the BMW’s trunk. Sweat streamed down her face, into her eyes. Her tears were like acid, burning wherever they touched.

She continued to fight. Her bonds were slightly looser now, the tape twisted. But not nearly enough to suggest she might slip free, even though her flesh was coated with perspiration. Her futile kicks were becoming weaker. Her bare feet were bloody and battered. She tried to kick harder, repeating the single, desperate word in her mind with each effort. Kick! Kick! Kick!

None of it seemed to make a difference, but it was all she had.

Outside the car, a reverse light and one of the brake lights continued their repetitive blinking.

At least the result of the electrical arcs she’d created weren’t as drastic as Weaver had feared. There was no fire, no gasoline explosion.

But the blinking taillight and reverse light were dimmer. The battery was running down.

72

In the Far Castle’s garden, the killer continued to work with pickax and shovel and Consolidated Edison equipment. Enough concrete had been knocked loose from the birdbath’s outer structure to reveal Bellezza—certainly Bellezza! What was left of the concrete clung firmly to the marble, and there was still plenty of mud on what had been revealed.

The killer put down the pickax, backed up a step, and swiped the back of his wrist across his forehead. He felt almost tired enough to consider sitting cross-legged on the ground for a while. But he couldn’t entertain that thought for long. His plan didn’t allow for staying still in the same place for any unnecessary length of time.

He made a mental note to step up his dieting and exercise regimens, then began using his thick gardener’s gloves to brush off what he could of the mud where it caked what used to resemble a birdbath.

When he thought enough mud and concrete chips had been brushed away, he attempted to lift the statuette. He didn’t really expect to be able to move it by hand, but he wanted to get some idea as to its weight.

It weighed more than he could lift. He leaned his weight into it and rocked it back and forth until it broke loose from the depression where it had long sat in the garden.

Movement out near the street caught his eye, and he stood still and watched a man and woman stroll past on the sidewalk. They were holding hands, and the woman playfully hopped over the electrical cable leading from the van. To them, this was just another late-night Con Ed job. The utility company making sure the city would awaken to full power. They walked on.

The killer was reassured. He counted to twenty, slowly, then walked out of the garden to get a two-wheeled dolly from his parked van.

Much of the concrete had been chipped away from the birdbath. It should be light enough now that it wouldn’t simply damage the dolly.

With the dolly, it should take him no more than ten or fifteen minutes to load the birdbath, generator, and cables into the van.

The rest of the tools he would leave for the losers.

Lucky Amber and his buddy Bill Jefferson, who liked to be called Jamal, were walking through the hot, humid night toward where there might be some traffic and they could flag down a cab. They were both sixteen, but Jamal could pass for twenty-one, which tended to get the two friends in trouble. They’d drunk beer while playing cards, but both boys were sober.

“Sounds like a major thing on the other side of town,” Lucky said. “Sirens and shit.”

“Maybe somebody with worse luck than me,” Jamal said. He was a tall black youth who was prone to taking a short hop when he contributed to a conversation, as if footwork were necessary to make his point. The two were on their way home from a seven-card stud poker game, where Jamal had lost over twenty-two dollars. No small amount in their neighborhood.

“Some of them sirens are FDNY,” said Lucky. He was shorter than Jamal, and broader. “My guess’d be a major fire.”

“I wouldn’t bet against you, man. Not tonight.”

“Not any night on anything,” Lucky said.

Jamal gave a little hop and said nothing. Right was right.

“That an emergency vehicle or something there?” Lucky said, pointing.

“Maybe a cab,” Jamal said.

“A gray cab?”

“Guess not. And it’s got the wrong kind of lights, and the red one’s blinking. Wrong kinda car to be where it is, too. Looks like a Bimmer.”

“Might be worth a look.”

“So let’s go take a look,” Jamal said, with his habitual hop. Maybe the car was temporarily abandoned and would contain something worth stealing. Like drugs, cash, or an iPhone. Luck could change, couldn’t it?

“Could be somebody wants us to walk over there so they can bash in our brains an’ steal our wallets and watches,” Lucky suggested. He wasn’t called Lucky for nothing; he always considered the downside and seldom took chances.

“Or could be two hot MILFs looking for action.” Hop, hop.

Faced with these polar-opposite choices, Jamal’s suggestion prevailed. The two men crossed the street and started toward the parked car with the flickering reverse light and what looked like a blinking red turn signal.

But as they approached the car, Lucky saw that the blinking light wasn’t a turn signal, or the front signal would probably be blinking white or yellow. And the back-up light should be steady, if the car was in reverse.

“Something’s stuck,” Lucky said when they were about twenty feet from the car. It was, as Jamal had thought, a BMW, but an old one. With some rust on it, and beat all to hell if you looked closely at it.

Jamal peered inside. The car was unoccupied. Just sitting parked, blinking. “Ghost car,” he said

Lucky was beginning to get a bad feeling. “Let’s haul our asses outta here.”

“It’s a BMW, bro. Things shouldn’t go wrong with it.”

“It’s also about twenty years old,” Lucky said.

Jamal shrugged, hopped. “So it’s a classic. Belongs to some rich guy who’ll give us a reward for alerting him that his car is screwed up.”

“If we could find him,” Lucky said.

“Or her.”

Lucky smiled. “There is that possibility.”

The two kids had almost reached the car when a taxi turned at the intersection.

The cabbie saw them and steered toward them, cruising for a fare.

“Here’s where we spend some of your winnings,” Jamal said.

The cab was veering in to be at the curb in front of them. Lucky took a step. Paused. He was staring at the old gray Bimmer.

“Wha’s it?” Jamal asked.

“I heard something knocking.”

“I heard a voice said, ‘Take this cab.’ ” Jamal hopped toward the taxi.

“It’s coming from that car.” Lucky pointed toward the BMW. He glanced around. “Who’d park here, anyway? It’s a long walk to anything.” He raised a hand, stood still. “There it is again. And look at the car. It’s kind of rocking.”

“So maybe some couple’s in there doing the nasty.”

“No. There’s nobody in there.” Lucky headed toward the BMW again.