She broke off abruptly. "Cassia speaks out of place," Sylvia said. "But she's right. We're more interested in Melantha's well-being than you could possibly understand. Far more than you yourself are, for that matter."

"An interesting assumption," Roger said, feeling warmth flowing into his face. "Especially since I haven't heard either of you even ask about her health."

Sylvia shrugged. "We know she's alive, and the fact that you're here means she must be at least reasonably well. Otherwise, how would you have known where to come?"

"Of course," Roger said. So very logical. The kind of argument he himself might have made, in fact.

"But the danger to her has certainly not ended," Sylvia continued, her voice turning a shade darker.

"That's why we need you to bring her here."

Roger shook his head. "I can't hand her over to anyone except her parents."

The lines in Sylvia's forehead deepened. "You can't protect her, Roger. Only we can do that."

"Perhaps," Roger said. "Who exactly are we protecting her from?"

Sylvia's face hardened, her eyes boring into Roger's. "Listen to me closely," she said, her voice low and strangely resonant. "Melantha isn't the only one in danger. This entire city stands on the edge of chaos and destruction. If you don't want to be responsible for the deaths of thousands of people, you will tell me where she is."

Abruptly, she rose to her feet. "And you will tell me now."

7

For a moment the room seemed frozen in time. Sylvia seemed to tower over the room, her face burning like that of an ancient Greek goddess, the fire in her eyes demanding instant and total obedience. Roger hunched back in his chair, flinching back before that gaze, too paralyzed to even make a break for the door.

And then, unexpectedly, two other images flickered into view, superimposed on Sylvia's. One was that of Melantha, her face twisted with fear, the way she'd looked the night he'd seen the man climbing the outside of their building. Beside it was Caroline's face, the way she always looked when he'd backed down from a confrontation.

He thought about that face, and how it would look if he had to tell her he'd given in and handed Melantha over to these people.

And suddenly he knew which confrontation he more urgently preferred to avoid. "I'm sorry," he said, forcing himself to stand. "I'll be in touch."

For that first second he thought Sylvia was going to physically try to stop him. Her eyes glinted even more brightly, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening. Roger stood motionless in front of his chair, trying to work up the nerve to move past her to the door. If she decided to get in his way—or worse, if she called down to Porfirio and Stavros—

And then, to his relief, the wrinkles smoothed out and the fire faded from the old woman's eyes.

"Very well," she said, her voice calm again. "I can't force you to stay. But give Melantha a message from us. Tell her that if she comes to us, Aleksander stands ready to protect her."

"I'll tell her," Roger promised, a fresh shiver running up his back. Ungluing his feet from the floor, he walked across the room, heart still thudding with anticipation and dread. But the two women merely watched him in silence.

Until he reached the door. "As for you," Sylvia added as he took hold of the knob, "I warn you that city is no longer a safe place for those who stand beside Melantha."

Roger swallowed. "Is that a threat?"

"Merely a statement of fact," she said. "Good-bye, Roger."

He half expected to find the whole night-shift crew Sylvia had mentioned gathered out on the landing, ready to jump him. But there was no one in sight. Making his way down the stairs, he went outside to discover that Porfirio and Stavros had likewise vanished. He headed back down the street, trying not to look like he was hurrying, an eerie feeling between his shoulder blades. He reached the bustling activity of Central Park West—

And suddenly, it was as if he was in New York again.

He walked six blocks before the tingling began to fade away into the familiar noises and smells of the city. Not until he'd emerged into the sunlight had he realized just how much of a spell the old building had spun around him.

He'd gone there hoping they could help clear up some of Melantha's mystery. All they'd done was make it worse.

He kept walking, trying to figure out what to do next. Going home was definitely out, or at least going home by anything resembling a straight line. He couldn't tell if he was being followed, but he had no doubt that he was. Sylvia's people wanted Melantha, and this was too obvious an opportunity for them to pass up.

He was halfway to his office when it suddenly occurred to him that it wouldn't be safe to go there, either. Even given that his firm was only one of a hundred in the building, he still couldn't take the chance that they might track him down and learn his name and address.

Maybe it was too late already. Even though he hadn't given them his full name, there couldn't be all that many Roger Wh-somethings listed in the phone book.

On his left was a little restaurant busy with early lunchtime patrons. Ducking into the doorway, shaking his head at the offer of a menu, he pulled out his cell phone.

Caroline answered on the third ring. "Hello?"

"It's me," Roger said. "Any problems?"

"No, not at all," Caroline assured him. "We're having a fine time. I'm teaching Melantha how to latchhook—"

"Calls?" Roger cut her off. "Visitors?"

There was a brief pause. "Neither," Caroline said, her voice suddenly subdued. "What's happened?"

Roger hesitated, wondering if he was jumping at shadows. Out here in the sunshine and brisk New York breezes, it all seemed so silly.

But he hadn't imagined Sylvia's veiled threats. He hadn't imagined the bruises on Melantha's neck.

He certainly hadn't imagined Porfirio and his gun.

"Maybe nothing," he told Caroline. "I was at your Central Park West building a few minutes ago. I found some people who claim to know Melantha's parents, but they wouldn't let me talk to them."

"That seems strange."

"You don't know the half of it," he assured her. "Maybe I'm overreacting, but I want you and Melantha to get out of there."

The pause this time was longer. "Right now?" Caroline asked, her voice not giving any clues as to what she was thinking.

"Yeah, I think so," Roger said, trying to think. "You'll need a hotel. A decent one, hopefully not too expensive."

"How about Paul and Janet's place?" Caroline suggested. "They're not due back from Oregon for another week, and I know they wouldn't mind."

Roger pursed his lips. The Young family lived way over in Yorkville, on the east side of Manhattan, beside a little patch of trees and playground equipment called John Jay Park. If Porfirio and his buddies started their search near the Whittiers' apartment, they'd be hunting a long time before they got to that neighborhood. "Do we have a key?"

"We don't need one," she said. "Remember? They've got electronic locks on their building and apartment now."

"Oh, right," he said, remembering the conversation they'd had about the co-op's latest innovation the last time he and Caroline had been over there for an evening of pinochle. "I don't suppose you happen to remember the combinations."

"Of course," she said. "Got a pen and paper?"

"Hang on." The pen was easy, clipped as always inside his shirt pocket. The paper turned out to be easy, too: the program from Wednesday night's play was still folded lengthwise in his coat pocket.

"Shoot."

"Four-oh-five-one is the outside door," she said. "Their apartment is six-one-five-nine-three."

He shook his head in quiet amazement as he wrote down the numbers. How did she retain stuff like that, anyway? "Got it," he said as he stuffed the program back into his pocket. "Pack up whatever you need for a few days and get over there."