“To the Far Castle!” he said, in reply to Pearl’s questioning look, feeling a little like a character in King Arthur’s Camelot. What he needed was a lance.

“Drive like we’ve got a siren,” was Pearl’s advice.

74

The killer worked the flat steel base of the two-wheeled dolly beneath the bulk of the birdbath. He used his body weight to help tilt back the heavy mass of concrete, and perhaps marble, and Bellezza was free of the ground.

It was caked with remaining concrete and clods of mud, and it didn’t look like a thing of beauty. It looked like the kind of big chunk of whatever it was that Con Edison had to dig and chip around on most of their jobs.

The dolly’s rubber tires made ruts in the mud and an impression in the wet grass. The killer shoved with both legs to get the dolly moving. The going was slow. It was imperative to keep the heavy load’s forward momentum as the killer found traction and slowly moved the dolly and its burden toward the parked van.

The killer noticed a large black car turn the corner at the nearest intersection. A Lincoln town car.

How could they know I’m here?

But he knew how. The bitch from the NYPD had somehow made it out of the BMW trunk. You’re supposed to be dead. His mind’s eye saw her dead—only she wasn’t. She’d contacted Quinn and told him the same story she’d told the cops.

Two figures emerged from the black Lincoln. They were still almost half a block away. Both of them looked as if they were holding guns.

That was all right. The killer had his own guns. A cut-down Kalashnikov automatic, as well as a small handgun strapped to his ankle. If you knew whom to ask, where to look, you could practically buy guns on the street corners in New York.

The killer did a half spin and rolled the dolly back the way he’d come, off the solid, smooth walkway and onto the damp grass. Nothing in his movements or attitude suggested he was anything other than a manual laborer at his task.

“Better stay right where you are!” Quinn called.

The killer drew his automatic weapon from beneath his shirt and laid down a field of fire between himself and his pursuers. As soon as he fired the last shot, he took advantage of Quinn and Pearl’s (the woman must be Pearl) temporary fear and disorientation. He leaned his weight hard into the two-wheeler and reversed direction. Another burst of gunfire came his way, but too late. They’d let down their guard for a few seconds and he’d taken advantage of it.

Another three, four, five shots. He heard the bullets rustle the leaves around him and snap a few small branches.

Not even close.

They were using peashooters compared to the Kalashnikov.

“Where the hell did he go?” he heard the woman ask.

“Where else?” Quinn said. “Into the hedge maze.”

The killer had taken precautions, both in his surveillance and his preparation for the unexpected. He knew he might eventually be searching or trying to remove Bellezza from the Far Castle. He had a place to go.

Nearby.

Close enough.

The trick now would be in getting there.

Abandoning the heavy concrete bust, D.O.A. forged ahead through the thick maze. His meticulous memorization of the maze paid off. He could maneuver through the hedges swiftly and never have to double back. Not only that, he could hear Quinn and Pearl pursuing him and know precisely where they were. Once they were in a pathway directly opposite his own. He kept quiet, knowing they would soon come to a cul-de-sac and have to retrace their steps.

Meanwhile, he knew he was near a spot in the maze where he could break through the hedges and make his way into the street in the next block. From there he could get to the decrepit building where he’d rented the small office to use as an observation post. Once in the building, he could actually watch his pursuers give up the chase. They were welcome to the stolen van and equipment. He even looked forward to watching unseen from above and across the street, as they pored over the abandoned vehicle, searching for clues that weren’t there.

If he’d had another few minutes, he might have had the bust loaded into the van.

The only thing that could have interfered with his plans then was Nancy Weaver escaping from the BMW’s trunk before heat or madness overcame her.

And obviously she had escaped. She was alive and talking.

75

It was easier for the killer than he’d anticipated to break out of the hedge unseen and get to the building that lay diagonally across the street from the Far Castle.

The door, which the killer had oiled, made no sound as he admitted himself. He took the rickety wooden stairs fast, listening carefully to make sure that he wasn’t being followed. That no one had seen him.

Once ensconced in his tiny observation post, he began to tremble. This encounter had been close. His planning, his thinking ahead and superior strategic instincts had saved him again. Luck had helped. No, not luck—fate. His covenant with fate was intact.

They had to believe in each other.

Controlling his breathing, he made himself calm down.

So close . . .

Nancy Weaver had done her best, and here he was, still functioning, still winning the game. More police would soon be arriving, and they’d search everywhere for him, for where he’d left Bellezza. No doubt they’d tromp and blunder through the hedge maze and locate the bust. Maybe they wouldn’t notice it was no longer a birdbath.

The killer smiled at the thought. He held the police in the lowest regard. If it weren’t for Quinn, the game wouldn’t be half as exhilarating.

Quinn didn’t go to bed that night, because he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Not until he learned the results of the lab tests he’d requested be rushed. The microscopic life forms found in hairline cracks of the marble Bellezza abandoned near the Far Castle hedge maze would tell him what he needed to know.

At 3:30 A.M. Quinn’s desk phone in his den jangled. Caller ID informed him that the caller was Renz.

Quinn picked up. “Whaddya know, Harley?”

“You were right, Quinn. Lab says that bust that was hiding inside the birdbath is no more that ten years old. Possibly a lot younger than that.”

“What are the odds of accuracy?”

“Lab says there are no odds because there is no doubt. Science, Quinn. I’d explain the various tests they did, but I wouldn’t understand them myself. That bust that came out of the Far Castle garden is a work well done, but it was never so much as touched by Michelangelo. Not unless the restaurant’s got an employee who goes by that name.”

“If they do,” Quinn said, “I bet he’s part of the family.”

“I been thinking about something,” Renz said. “This bust that was in the birdbath under concrete is by all reports a damned good imitation. So suppose—”

Quinn knew what Renz was going to say and said it first: “Suppose what everybody’s been chasing—the bust that made its way over here from France—is also an imitation?”

“It does seem that someone would have figured it out by now.”

“They say museums are full of great imitations,” Quinn said. “But we’ve got carbon testing to determine age. The birdbath bust wasn’t old enough to have come over here from Europe during World War Two.”

“True,” Renz said. “That’s comforting.”

“Like DNA is comforting,” Quinn said, “even though it leaves us at the mercy of the experts.”

“I’ll sit on the test results like you asked, Quinn. But tomorrow I’ve gotta tell Minnie Miner or she’ll nail my future career to the wall right next to my balls.”