CHAPTER 10

Edith Candle peered through her thick glass lenses with a child's magnified eyes. "Best that you stay clear of her, Kathy."

"How did you get Redwing's address?"

Edith removed her glasses and went through the time-stalling machinations of cleaning the lenses. Her naked eyes took on their real and rather ordinary proportions.

Just another illusion, thought Mallory.

"She gave me the address," said Edith, restoring her magnified eyes and pushing the glasses up the bridge of her nose. "She called this morning. We had a rather long talk."

"Did she ask you to come and see her?"

"Yes."

"Did she tell you not to mention it to anyone?"

"She did ask me to keep her confidence, but I don't remember the exact wording."

"Give me the address."

"Did you want to come with me? I don't think she'd like that, dear. She asked that I come alone."

"I don't want you to leave the house. Give me the address."

"No, dear, I don't think I will."

Mallory sat back in her chair and stared at a point beyond Edith's white head, wondering how much it would take to bully the old woman. Edith was a little person; it shouldn't take much effort. And if she did frighten Edith – just a little – how much flak might she expect from Charles?

It was a rare win for Charles.

"Edith, what do you know about that woman that I don't know?"

"I know the underlying violence in her. It's too risky, Kathy."

Mallory noted the Rollodex sitting by the phone. It was out of place in this room of antimacassars and ancestor portraits. A ballpoint pen lay next to the Rollodex. There might as well be a neon arrow to point the way.

"How about some coffee, Edith. Will you give me that much?"

"Of course, dear."

The moment Edith was through the door to the kitchen, Mallory found the new card under the Rs and plucked it out of the file.

When they were done with coffee, Mallory gathered up her keys and said, "Promise you won't keep that appointment?"

"If it worries you, of course I won't. But before you go, I think there's something you ought to see." She led Mallory back to the hallway and into the large kitchen. Faint letters worked over with cleaning solvent were scrawled on the wall over the stove.

Edith, with all her gifts, could not have read Mallory's face as she turned to the young woman and said, "Just like Max."

Mallory only said, "Yeah, right."

Redwing's eyes rolled back when the Dobermann puppy crept into the kitchen. He was new to this game of hers, but pain had taught him quickly. He was also half-mad with hunger and thirst.

A small plate of raw meat sat on the floor between the woman's feet. He inched toward it, one eye to the woman who was punishment and delight, cigarette burns in his flesh and sensual croons and strokes. He nosed the red meat. The odd smell of it was familiar to him now. Every good instinct to let it be was overcome by hunger. He tasted it. He wolfed it. And now the thirst was stronger and the room began to revolve. No, it was he who turned in slow circles, his tongue dropping out between his teeth. Thirst, terrible thirst. His dark head sunk low, close to the floor. His tongue licked the dirt of the tiles, and his eyes closed to crazed slits of white. He began the low growl which would build into a howling.

It was a bright clear day, and still warm in the patches of sunlight. The West Village dogs gathered in the fenced-off triangle of Washington Square Park for the canine social hour when they were allowed to slip their leashes. They chased frisbees, sniffed one another, rolled in the dirt and grinned gloriously with slobbering saliva.

In the space of seconds only, all the dogs stopped grinning at once, noses lifting to the wind, trying to identify the danger. Their humans were slower to pick up on the change in the atmosphere. The dogs moved in concert to one corner of the triangle and away from the Labrador who had gone strange in the eyes, which were all whites now and narrowed to slits. The dark head hung low and the dog's tongue hung out. His growl was low and constant.

Something caught the dog's eye. He turned his head in tandem with the bright gold hair of the woman striding across the small West Village park on her way to the East Side. Her hair threw off sparks of sun, and the dog followed her progress with mad eyes. His was not the dog's grin, but the bared teeth of a threat. He moved in an unsteady lope toward the edge of the triangle. His human came toward him on slow cautious feet. "Here, boy," the slender young woman called to him, holding out his collar and leash. He ignored her and hung his head over the low fence. She came closer. He spun on her quickly and nipped her hand for the first time in the seven years they had loved one another. She looked down at the teeth marks, small wells filling with blood. She was too shocked to scream.

The Labrador moved back a few steps and made a run at the fence, clearing the top of it by a bare inch. He was soft pounding over the cement of the walk, following the golden woman with her sun-sparked hair. Now his human did scream and the golden one turned around to see him bounding toward her, his tongue hanging, growling low. A child passed between them and the flash of the child's red T-shirt turned his head. He lunged for the child and closed his teeth around the tiny freckled arm. The small human was alternately crying and screaming, eyes wide with terror. The dog's teeth clamped down hard until he heard the snap of the human's puny bone breaking between his jaws. Now he tossed the child back and forth with the shake of his head.

The golden girl was running toward him, calling to him, whistling high and shrill. But he was busy with the meat in his mouth. The golden one kicked him in the head, and again in the ribs. Now she had all his attention. He dropped the child's arm from his mouth, his black lips spreading to show all his teeth as she backed away from him. His jaws opened wide, and he made the leap for the golden one who was waving him to her. It was the leap of his life, quick and with more strength than he knew he possessed. His eyes were fixed on her white throat, he was in the air, flying to her when the world exploded.

The metal in her hand smoked and his heart burst in the same moment. Her face filled his last seconds of life as she bent over him and nudged his body with the barrel of her gun. Her face was cold, without passion for the kill. The golden one was a different kind of animal than he had ever known. And then, she had moved on, and the dog stared at the sun until it went black.

A woman was cradling the torn and broken four-year-old boy. Mallory took the child from her arms and laid him down on the grass, elevating the broken bleeding arm. She clamped off the fountain of blood from the severed artery with the pressure of her hand. Her eyes perused the crowd of unfamiliar faces, searching for the one who was no stranger. Riker elbowed his way through the crowd to kneel alongside of her. She had known he could not be far behind.

"Give me your belt," she said.

He stripped it off and handed it to her. She looked up to the closest civilian. "Get the ambulance. Use the phone in the NYU building. And you," she said to a near woman, "there's a doctor's office in that brownstone. Go get him. Tell him it's a lawful police order if he doesn't move fast enough. Riker, put some pressure on the artery." Riker's hand replaced her own over the wound. "That's a major artery. Keep the pressure on till the ambulance gets here."

Hands free, she bound the broken arm with the belt and a skateboard. She commandeered Riker's jacket and two other jackets to cover the child and keep him warm, to minimize the damage of shock that was already settling into his enormous eyes. The pain would come later. Now he was only crying for his mother.