"And you think you can kill him?"

"I don't know," Harry said, picturing in his mind's eye the portrait Ted had produced. The heavens livid, the street reeling, and a black snake under his pointed heel. Kissoon was that snake, by another name. "I've beaten some demons in my time."

"He's not a demon," the creature said. "He's a man."

"Is that good news or bad?"

The creature eyed him gravely. "You know the answer to that," she said. Bad, of course, Demons were simple. they believed in prayer and the potency of holy water, Thus they fled from both. But men- what did men believe?

iv The address the creature had given him was up in morningside Heights, around I 10th and Eighth Avenue: an undistinguished house in need of some cosmetic repair. There were no drapes at the lower windows. Harry peered inside. The room was empty: no pictures on the walls, no carpets on the floor, no furniture, nothing. He knew before he'd reached the front door, and found it an inch ajar, and stepped through it into the gray interior, that he'd come too late. The house was empty, or nearly so.

A few signs of Kissoon's occupancy remained. At the top of the stairs, lying in a pool of its own degenerating matter, was a modestly sized Lix. It raised its head at Harry's approach, but with its maker departed, it had lost what tiny wits it had, overreached itself, and slid down the stairs, depositing cobs of sewerage on each step as it descended. Harry followed the fetid trail it had left to the room that Kissoon had lately occupied. It resembled a derelict's hideaway. Newspapers laid in lieu of carpets; a filthy mattress under the grimy window; a heap of discarded cans and plates of rotted food, alongside a second pile, this of liquor bottles. In short, a squalid pit.

There was only one piece of evidence to mark the ambition of the man who had shit and sweated here. On the wall behind the door, a map of the continental United States, upon which Kissoon had inscribed all manner of marks and notations. Harry pulled the map off the wall and took it to the window to study. The man's hand was crabbed, and much of the vocabulary foreign to Harry's eye, like a mismatched marriage of Latin and Russian, but it was plain that over a dozen sites around the country had been of significance to Kissoon. New York City and its environs had attracted the densest concentration of marginalia, with a region in the southwest corner of North Dakota, and another in Arizona, of no little interest to him. Harry folded up the map and pocketed it. Then he made a quick but efficient search of the rest of the room, in the hope of turning up further clues to Kissoon's purpose and methodology. He found nothing of interest, however, excepting a pack of bizarre playing cards, plainly hand-made and much used. He flicked through them. There were perhaps twenty cards, each marked with a simple design: a circle, a fish, a hand, a window, an eye. These he also pocketed, as much for the taking as the wanting, and having done so slipped away past the decayed Lix and out into the warm, pale air.

It was only later, when he spread the cards out on the floor of his office, that he realized what the deck represented. Tesla Bombeck had first described these symbols to him, when speaking of the medallion she'd decoded in the caves beneath Palomo Grove. There had been a human figure at its center, she'd said: a form that Kissoon the card-maker had divided into two sides of a torso, each with an outstretched arm and two legs. The rest of the images were lifted from the medallion design unchanged. Rising above the head of the figure, if Harry remembered Tesla's account aright, had been four symbols apparently representing humanity's ascension to oneness. Below it, another four, representing its return to the simplicity of the single cell. On its left hand, which spurted energy, or blood, symbols that led to a cloud-eclipsed circle: the Cosm. On its right, which spurted like its fellow, symbols leading to an empty circle: the mystery, or perhaps the sacred absence, of the Metacosm.

Harry arranged the signs as Tesla had described, pondering as he did what purpose they'd served Kissoon. was this a game he'd played? Metaphysical solitaire, to keep himself occupied while he planned his plans? Or was it something less frivolous? A way of predicting (or even influencing) the processes the deck described?

He was in the midst of turning these questions over when the telephone rang. It was Nonna.

"Turn on the news," she said. He did so. Images of a fire-gutted building emerged along with a commentary from an on-site reporter. Several corpses had been discovered in the basement of the building, he said. Though the count was as yet unconfirmed, he personally had seen twenty-one victims removed from the building. There was no sign of any survivors, nor much hope now of finding any. "Is that where I think it is?" Norma said.

"That's the place," Harry said. "Have they said anything about the state of the bodies?"

"Just that most of them are burned beyond recognition. they were exiles, I assume." "Yes. "Noticeably so?"

"Vizry",

"That's going to raise a few questions," Norma remarked dryly.

"They'll file it away and pretend it never happened," Harry said. He'd seen the process at work countless times. Rational men dealing with the apparently irrational by turn ing blind eyes.

"Mere was something else, Norma. Or rather somebody."

"Who?"

"Kissoon."

"Impossible."

"I swear."

"You saw him? In the flesh?" "Actually in somebody else's flesh," Harry replied, "but I'm pretty sure it was him."

"He was leading the Order?"

"No. He was the one slaughtering them," Harry said. "they had a door open to Quiddity. A neirica, one of them called it."

"It means passageway," Norma said. "A passageway to sacred wisdom."

"Well, he closed it," Harry replied.

There was a silence while Norma chewed this over. "Let me get this straight," she said. "they opened the neirica; he murdered them and left through it-"

"No.

"I thought you said-"

"I said he closed it. He didn't leave. He's still here in New York."

"You've found him?"

"No. But I will."

Harry returned to Morningside Heights later that day, and watched the house for seventy-two hours, in the hope of catching Kissoon. He had no particular plan as to how he would deal with him if he did, but took some comfort in the fact that he had the cards and the map. Both, he suspected, were of some value to Kissoon. Enough to have him stay his hand if killing Harry meant he'd never be able to find out where they were hidden. At least, that was the calculation.

As it turned out, both wait and calculation were wasted. After three days of almost constant surveillance, without so much as a glimpse of Kissoon, Harry went back into the house. The Lix at the bottom of the stairs was little more than a crusty stain on the boards. As for Kissoon's bedroom, it had been ransacked, presumably by its sometime occupant searching for the cards. He would not come back, Harry Ilues,,,ed. He'd done his work here. He was off on the road somewhere.

The next day Harry left for North Dakota, and the pursuit that would occupy the next seven weeks of his life began. The only person he informed was Norma and, despite her questions, he refused to furnish her with details for fear Kissoon had an agent among the dead listening in. The only other person he was tempted to tell was Grillo, but he decided against it. He'd never been certain of Grillo's agenda, or in truth of his allegiances. If Harry shared any part of what he knew in the hope of tracking Kissoon through the Reef, he risked the information finding its way back through the system to the enemy. Better to disappear silently, presumed incapacitated or dead.