“Empty, huh?” he asked.

“Whatcha say, cuz?”

“The street. Empty.”

“Straight up.” The boy yawned again.

They passed a large bulldozer, parked where Ettie’s building had stood.

“What’ll happen to the block now?” he mused.

Ismail shrugged. “Dunno. Who care?”

They walked toward the theater, where McKennah or his assistant was going to meet him. It was an attached building, not part of the Tower itself, and it rose eighty feet into the air above a sleek, glassy entranceway filled with marble and granite. A sort of Egyptian motif – colors were sand, maroon, green. The lobby was empty now; the festivities were underway.

As he passed the construction site surrounding the theater he peered at the landscaping. No grass had been planted yet but this evening the dirt was covered with AstroTurf and studded with redwood planters containing palms trees. Pellam paused.

“Whassup, Pellam?”

“You go on to the YOC, Ismail. I’ve got to meet somebody.”

“Naw,” he whined. “I’ma hang with you, cuz.”

“Uh-uh, time for bed.”

“Shit, Pellam.”

“Watch the language. Now get going.”

His round face grimaced. “Okay. Later, cuz.”

They slapped palms and the boy walked slowly east. The too-big basketball shoes flopped loudly as he reluctantly headed toward the uptown street. He looked back, waved.

Pellam slipped through a gap in the fence and walked over the spongy fake grass.

What is that?

He looked more closely at what he’d seen from the sidewalk: The workers had anchored the potted plants to the handles on the exit doors, looping heavy rope through them. He supposed this was to keep the locals from walking off with the vegetation.

But the effect of what they’d done was to tie the fire doors shut.

And to tie them shut pretty damn tight – with coils and coils of thick rope. Of the twenty emergency doors only one wasn’t tied closed. It was slightly ajar. From it came the mute sounds of applause and laughter and the solid thud of bass from the musicians. He walked to it and looked inside.

The doors didn’t open onto the theater itself but into a fire stairwell that, Pellam guessed, led up to the theater and the loge and the balconies. The corridor was dark, except for the bulbs in the exit signs glowing eerily. The interior doors were chocked open and he caught glimpses of red velvet seats and walls and maroon carpet.

Then something on the wall of the corridor caught his eye. Stepped closer. He saw that it was a rumpled sheet of paper – a map of the west side of Manhattan. It looked familiar and a moment later Pellam understood why. It was similar to the one they’d found after the fire in Bailey’s office. The one on which Sonny had marked all his fires.

Only on this map the last target wasn’t the Javits Center; it was McKennah Tower.

Suddenly Pellam’s eyes stung and he caught a whiff of astringent fumes. Like the cleanser in Bailey’s office several days ago. He remembered smelling it just before the light bulb exploded.

But of course it wasn’t cleanser at all. It was that homemade napalm. And here was its source, right in front of him: Four drums of the stuff. They lined the wall. The tops were off.

A noise behind him.

He turned abruptly.

The young blond man stood with his head cocked. A mad smile was on his face and his eyes danced in the reflected light from the Tower.

“Joe Buck,” he whispered, “Pellam, Pellam. I’m Sonny. It’s so nice to meet you at last.”

The Colt had already cleared Pellam’s belt and was half-cocked when Sonny swung the long wrench and connected with Pellam’s forearm. The bone gave with a crack and the blow was so hard it laid open a large patch of skin. Blood flew. And Pellam, eyes rolling back in his head, collapsed back into the tunnel, gasping, hitting his head on the side of an oil drum, which rang, muted, like a bell on a foggy day.

Sonny set aside the wrench and slipped Pellam’s gun into his waistband. Then, from his pockets, he took a pair of handcuffs.

And a cigarette lighter.

THIRTY

Pellam’s first thought: There’s no pain. Why doesn’t it hurt?

It’s loose. My arm’s loose…

Blood flowed from the gash on his arm.

Sonny, a caste mark in Pellam’s blood on his forehead, bent down, fishing in his pocket. He emerged with a small silver key for the cuffs. His hands shook. His wispy hair floated around his head like water.

Why no pain? Pellam thought, staring at his shattered arm.

“If you’re wondering who was in that lawyer’s office,” the crazy young man said matter-of-factly. “That was your friend Alex. The snitch-bitch. Wheeled him from my place in an oil drum – bent him nearly double. Now that was an unpleasant trip for him, I’ll bet. And left him under the tanning lamp. Had to get all you faggot cowboys off my back.” He opened one latch on the cuff.

Sonny nodded toward the theater. “This’ll be the last one. Come on, front row seat.” Sonny grabbed Pellam by the collar and pulled him to his feet. “We’re going out together, Joe Buck, fucking Antichrist… You, me and about five thousand other good folk.”

He kicked an oil drum over and the soapy liquid flowed through the corridor and into the theater itself. The second drum followed.

“This is my juice,” he said matter of factly. “I invented it myself. See, you couldn’t do this with gas alone. Gas is shitty. Low flashpoint, big flare, cool fire, and then it’s over with. I knew this pyro one time…” Sonny began to unlatch the second ring of the cuff. His hands shook badly. He paused, inhaled deeply. While it nauseated Pellam the smell of the liquid seemed to calm Sonny down. He began working on the cuff again. He continued. “He used gasoline. Thought he was soooo cool. One time he had this job on the third floor of an old tenement. He takes two five-gallon cans up, douses the place and breaks a lightbulb so when the guy comes in and flicks on the light up he goes. Then he starts going through the guy’s drawers, looking for jewelry or something. What he doesn’t realize is that gas vapors’re heavier than air and while he’s fucking around upstairs the gas fumes are flowing down to the basement. Where there’s… guess what? Ta-dah… A pilot light in the water heater. I think they found part of his skeleton.

Pellam choked. There was probably a hundred gallons of liquid flowing into the building. Pellam remembered what Lomax had told him about the Happy Land fire. A mere gallon of gas had turned the place into an inferno.

“Let’s go, Midnight Cowboy.” Sonny touched Pellam’s shattered arm. The bone shifted and, at last, a searing jolt of pain shot up into Pellam’s shoulder and neck and face. In pure reaction he lashed out with his left palm, catching Sonny in the jaw. It was a weak blow but it caught the young man by surprise and he stepped back a few feet.

“You shit.” He shoved Pellam against the wall.

On his knees Pellam scooped up a handful of the napalm, splashing it into Sonny’s face. It missed his eyes but splashed on his mouth and nose and he stumbled backwards, screaming in pain. He dropped the cigarette lighter, which Pellam grabbed. He started for the young man. But Sonny was madly pulling the Colt from his belt.

“Why did you do that?” he cried. He sounded incredulous. His cheek was bright red. His mouth was swollen. But his eyes were clear and brimmed with madness. He lifted the pistol, pulled the trigger.

Pellam turned and stumbled through the door.

Sonny wouldn’t have realized that the gun was single action. You had to cock it before you could shoot. In the delay Pellam staggered outside and shouted for help.

There might’ve been a person at the end of the block, looking toward him. He wasn’t sure. He tried to wave with his good arm but felt the gritty kiss of the ends of the broken bone in his other. Nearly fainted. Pellam shouted again but in his haze he couldn’t tell if the person – if anyone was actually there – heard or noticed him.