"Don't worry about him," the old man said. "He doesn't like anybody." His eyes shifted to the screen in front of Jinx. "What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you find it."

Half an hour later, after the old man had shuffled back to his own reader, Jinx reread the report of the attack on Cynthia Allen and the arrest of Jeff Converse one last time. She'd recognized the photograph of the victim at first glance-it was the woman she'd seen in the subway station the night Bobby Gomez had almost killed her, and then again at Columbia.

And there was no question that the Jeff Converse who'd been arrested was the man she'd met in the co-op.

Which meant that every word she'd just read-and then reread three times-was wrong.

Jeff Converse hadn't attacked Cynthia Allen.

And he wasn't dead.

At least not yet. Leaving the last of the articles still glowing on the screen, Jinx got up and quickly left the library.

CHAPTER 28

It wasn't Jeff, Mary Converse told herself again as she emerged from Grand Central Station into an incongruously bright morning.

It couldn't have been Jeff.

Jeff is dead!

The words had become a mantra, her lips now forming them as unconsciously as they formed the words of the prayers she'd been reciting every day for as long as she could remember. Yet this was not the mantra of a prayer, for in prayer she had always found hope and solace.

Even though the words she'd heard on the telephone only a few hours ago should have made her heart swell and her spirit soar, the reality of two days ago was still fresh in her mind. Every time she recalled the words-the broken phrases uttered by a voice that tore at her heart-the pain only grew worse.

"… Mo-are you… it's me, Mo-"

"Mom, it… me…I… dead…"

But she'd seen his body, seen her son lying in a drawer in the morgue.

She'd also heard her husband deny that the body was Jeff's. She hadn't believed Keith, of course-hadn't been willing even to accept the possibility that a mistake could have been made. He'd been in a guarded van on the way to Rikers Island-how could there have been any kind of mistake?

But as she strode across Forty-sixth Street toward Fifth Avenue, and the broken voice kept echoing in her head, she suddenly stopped.

What if Keith was right and it had all been a mistake?

What if Jeff's arrest had been a mistake?

What if his trial had been a mistake?

What if his conviction had been a mistake?

But that wasn't possible-God wouldn't have allowed such injustice to occur.

".…it's me, Mo- "

As she turned onto Fifth Avenue, the cacophony in her head-a jumble of echoing words and conflicting emotions- threatened to overwhelm her. By the time she passed through the massive doors of St. Patrick's Cathedral, every nerve in her body was on edge. She paused at the font, dipped her fingers in the water and genuflected, and the vast, quiet space of the cathedral began to calm her. Though there were people all around-tourists taking pictures, a scattering of penitents on their knees in the pews and in front of the shrines-the immense structure reduced their voices to a soothing murmur. The peace she had always found in church began to calm her nerves and still the chaos in her head.

The Lady Chapel.

That was where Father Benjamin had told her the mass would be held. "It‘s at the far end of the cathedral-intimate, very beautiful." As, she walked down the long aisle on the left, past the display cases documenting the history of the cathedral, past the niches holding icons of the saints, her fragile sense of peace grew stronger and more certain, until finally the voice she'd heard on the telephone-the voice that couldn't possibly have been Jeff's-was silenced. As she passed the altar, the thunderous opening chords of Bach's D Minor Toccata and Fugue suddenly resounded through the cathedral, the tones so deep that she could feel them as much as hear them.

At last she came to the end of the aisle, turned left, and found the Lady Chapel opening before her like a tiny jewel box.

There were only twelve rows of pews, divided by a single aisle. The chapel was dominated by a large statue of the Holy Virgin, her face tilted slightly downward so her eyes seemed to focus on the pews themselves. The statue had been carved from white stone, and the altar beneath it was white as well.

The pews were empty, and for a moment Mary had a terrible feeling that something had gone wrong-that she'd told people the wrong time, or that perhaps she was in the wrong place. But then she glanced at her watch and understood.

She was nearly two hours early.

Should she leave? But if she did, where would she go?

She genuflected once more, then slipped into a pew and dropped to her knees, ignoring their painful protest.

She was dimly aware of the voices of a boys' choir somewhere behind her, resonating through the vast chamber of the cathedral. Clasping her hands before her, she gazed up into the eyes of the Virgin Mother.

Is this how you felt? she silently asked. Is this the pain you felt when you watched your child die on the cross?

Her eyes filled with tears, and the statue before her blurred. But as she continued to gaze into the face of the Mother of God, the image seemed to smile at her. It was a soft, gentle smile that finally dispelled the last of the torment that had gripped Mary ever since the phone rang early that morning, and now, as the voices of the singing boys soared in the background, another voice whispered in her head.

Believe…

Mary stiffened, her fingers tightening on her own hands until her skin was as pale as the stone of the statue upon which she gazed. Her vision cleared, and the face of the Virgin once more came into focus. Now her eyes seemed to be fastened directly on Mary Converse's own, and her smile held a cast of mystery.

Believe, the voice whispered inside her head. Believe…

As the voice once again fell silent, the last notes of the choir died away, and a calm such as Mary had never before experienced washed over her.

Then, as if it were coming from somewhere far, far away, she heard another voice.

"It's me, Mom," the voice whispered.

Jeff's voice, unmistakable now.

"I'm not dead, Mom.

"I'm alive. I'm alive…"

As Jeff's voice faded into silence, Mary rose from her knees and sank onto the pew. She gazed up into the placid face of the Virgin, studied the perfectly carved stone. The eyes no longer seemed to be staring directly into hers and the smile had lost its mystery, but the words she'd heard still rang in her head. Finally she answered them with words of her own.

"It's the sign I've been waiting for," she whispered to herself. "I do believe…"

Rising to her feet, the pain in her knees and the exhaustion in her body forgotten, Mary Converse hurried back the way she'd come and burst through the doors of the cathedral. She raced down the steps and yanked open the door of the first cab she saw. "Broadway," she said. "The corner of 109th."

Tillie was starting to wonder if something had gone wrong. She'd been sitting in the park for almost an hour and a half- she'd asked half a dozen people what time it was, and even though three of them hadn't even acknowledged that she was there, let alone given her the time of day, the other three had all agreed that it was almost eleven. She was sure it was Saturday, too, and not only because there were more people than usual in the park, but because she'd checked the date on a paper a man on the next bench had been reading.

So if it was the right day, and the right time, then where was Miss Harris?