He spoke to the calico, who leaped ahead of him. "Bon chance."

Bagabond nodded and moved in the other direction.

In a profound darkness barely relieved by darting beams from the caving helmets worn by armed men, Don Carlo Gambione surveyed the desolation that was his kingdom.

His lieutenant sounded almost apologetic. "Don Carlo, I fear our troops became too enthusiastic about their task." Don Carlo looked down at the bodies illuminated in the light from the Butcher's flash. "Zeal in a matter such as this," he said, "is no vice."

"We've found their headquarters," said the Butcher. "Our men discovered it less than an hour ago." He stabbed a finger at the map. "About 86th Street. Under the park. Close to Central Park Lake. It looked inhabited. That's when I called you."

"I am grateful," said his leader. "I want to be present when the flame of our enemies' ill-conceived brushfire rebellion is extinguished. I knew there must be a reason why they should rise up now." Don Carlo's voice rose as well. The Butcher stared at him.

"I want their heads," said Don Carlo. "We shall set them on spikes at Amsterdam and 110th Street." Wide, his eyes shone ferally in the electric lamplight.

The Butcher gently put a hand on the Don's wrist. "We'd better go uptown now, Padrone. I told the men to wait in place, but they are so-enthusiastic."

For a moment, Don Carlo's gaze swung around wildly at the bodies littering the dirty concrete. Rags soaked with blood. "Such tragedy! The pain, the pain…" He stared directly down at the corpse at his feet. It was a white man, the gangling arms and legs sprawled out like the limbs of a broken marionette. There was no peace in the lined, sun-scorched face. Only agony reflected in the too-wide dark eyes. Smashed makeshift goggles lay in the blood pooled from the man's head. The don unconsciously nudged the shoulder of the faded fatigue jacket with the toe of one polished boot. "This one was a true jungle joker…" His voice trailed off.

Don Carlo looked away. He drew himself straight, taking strength from the almost-holy knowledge of what he must do. He leaned closer to the Butcher's sober face. "These things we do…" he said. "It is sad, very sad. But sometimes we must attack and even destroy the way of life we love in order to preserve it."

Despite his bravado-why am I trying to impress that raggedy woman?-Jack took his time moving into the tunnels. The long ride back up to the park had returned to him his limp and considerable pain. Whenever he heard a noise, he froze. The calico showed remarkable patience. She ranged fifty feet or so ahead and then returned if it was clear. Jack wished desperately he could talk to her.

The sounds now were not imaginary. They grew louder. Jack began to hear unintelligible shouts. He jumped at every gunshot or explosion. He stopped using the flashlight because he was afraid someone would see it. The calico stayed a few feet away now. Jack had rubbed dirt on his face to cut down reflection.

Boots scuffed against the concrete floor just ahead of him. He started to back up and ran into one of the hunters, who was as surprised as he was.

"What the hell! Joey! Joey, I got one!"

The man in the hardhat with the attached light swung the butt of his gun at Jack's head.

"Where is he, Sly?"

The rifle-butt had just grazed Jack's skull. He managed to sprint out of the light and up an apparent dead-end passage. Jack tried to mold himself to the wall and wished he could change into something useful, like concrete or dirt. As the thought crossed his mind, he recognized the itching that meant he was getting scaly. Jack fought it off by slowing his breathing and exerting control. That's all he needed now. Where's the calico? he thought. Bagabond'll kill me if that cat's hurt.

"He has to be down here, Joey. There's nowhere else to go." The voice sounded as if it were an inch away.

"Toss in a grenade and keep movin'. We're supposed to be sealing off their base. "

"Aw, Joey, come on."

"Sly, you're crazy, man. Move it."

There was the sound of metal bouncing on rock. Jack caught a glint of light from the grenade before the adrenaline wiped his brain clean. Merde was his last conscious thought. The blast roar was accompanied by some rockfalls, but there hadn't been as much graft in this section. The roof held. "Check it out, Sly."

"All right, Joey. Thanks." Sly was known for being almost as crazy as Little Renaldo.

Why me, Joey wondered.

"Nothing's left. Just a few rags and a sneaker. The right one, then. We've got a lot of ground to cover." Neither man noticed the calico crouched on a rock projecting from the wall near the ceiling. The calico leaped down and nosed through the torn and bloody clothing. She sent the scene to Bagabond and set out to meet her.

Bagabond stood quietly against the far wall of the 86th Street cutoff. She petted the calico gently and did her best imitation of a harmless old woman. The black had warned her the mafiosi were coming, but they were behind her by the time she tried to retreat. Too many to fight, so she came passively. Now she silently gazed at the shambles they had made of her place. Her single guard had his attention fixed on Don Carlo.

"Somehow they must have escaped," said the Butcher apologetically.

"I want them," said Don Carlo. He stared around at the large velvet painting in its cheap wooden frame, one corner torn: a pride of lions stalked zebras on the veld. "They were here," he said. "Savages."

"Don Carlo, sir,…" It was Joey. "What?"

"It is Maria, Don Carlo. I found her wandering down here." Joey escorted Rosemary up to her father. She did not appear to see him or register anything else. Her face was vacant, almost peaceful. Rosemary was a docile rag doll, lost somewhere back in the tunnels.

Don Carlo looked at her with astonishment and then concern. "Maria, what is wrong, mia? Joey, what happened to her?"

"I don't know, Don Carlo. She was like this when I found her."

Bagabond looked up from under her stringy hair. "Rosemary, couldn't you stay out of this either? Social workers… so nosy." Bagabond spoke under her breath. The guard turned around at her muttering, but shook his head and returned his attention to the excitement.

"Take care of her for me, Joey, until I finish with this." Turning to the Butcher, Don Carlo said, "Does the old woman know anything?"

"That's what we're going to find out." Light caught the blade of the Butcher's stiletto as he started toward Bagabond. Then he stopped and listened attentively.

Everyone in the tunnel was listening. The rumbling that had at first seemed to be just another train in the distance got too loud, too quickly. There were yells from the west tunnel, even a scream of pain as the subway car appeared out of the darkness, traveling where no car could possibly be, with no third rail, on ruined tracks. The car glowed with a white phosphorescence, wraithlike. The route sign read CC LOCAL. It came to a stop in the middle of the gathering. The garish designs on its sides changed so rapidly it was impossible to focus on them.

"C. C.!" Rosemary, who had been standing to one side with Joey, eluded his grasp and ran to the phantom car. She stretched out her arms as if to embrace the thing, but as she touched the side, she recoiled. Then Rosemary extended one hand to touch what was not metal.