Since meeting Trish Pharaoh, McAvoy has got good at standing behind smaller people and looking menacing. He finds it easiest to simply clear his mind and look a little confused, and somehow this translates itself into an intimidating posture and daunting expression. He does it now, staring at the small Latin-American woman behind the counter of the deli and feeling like a hundred different types of shit for doing so.
“I don’t want to cause you trouble,” says Alto, looking as reasonable as he can. He’s leaning on the counter, hands squashing the candies and cookies in front of the cash register. “You’re the last person whose day we want to spoil. You’re good people. You’re the sort we need more of. Hell, we’re all immigrants originally, right? But there are people who’ll make all kinds of fuss and I want to spare you that, I really do. And all you have to do to avoid that is give me the keys.”
“I can’t,” says the lady fiercely. “He’s an angry man. He shout at me before.”
McAvoy senses that there are people behind him, watching the exchange from between the towering shelves of produce. His skin is prickling.
“This man here,” says Alto, gesturing at McAvoy. “He’s come a long way. He’s looking for somebody important in his country. There may even be a reward.”
McAvoy can see the old lady weighing it up. She’s plump, with pleasant skin and large brown eyes. He imagines she has a nice smile, though he has yet to see it. She doesn’t deserve this. The deli she runs with her husband is the gateway to a squat brown apartment building that can only be accessed through the store’s delivery bay or the locked door tucked discreetly beside the tattoo parlor next door.
“I’m very sorry to do this to you,” says McAvoy, breaking character and gently moving Alto out of the way. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Perhaps if you left the keys on the counter and then when you looked again they were gone . . .”
McAvoy can feel bile rising in his mouth. He hates breaking the rules. Feels like his nose is going to bleed every time he goes against regulations.
The lady closes her eyes and a moment later she leans over. “One, two, five, nine. That’s on the keypad.” She looks at Alto. “You got lucky, understand.”
McAvoy gives her a look of genuine thanks and Alto winks at her as they leave the deli and emerge back onto Avenue B. They are within spitting distance of St. Colman’s, not far from where Brishen and Shay were seen with Molony. They are about to let themselves into Molony’s home.
“You sure you want to do this?” asks Alto, ducking into the alcove that houses the doorway to Molony’s apartment building.
McAvoy’s mouth drops open in surprise. “You’re asking? It was you who suggested it!”
Alto grins. He seems to be coming to life.
McAvoy leans his back on the door, taking a deep breath. Above, the sun is losing its battle with the mounting gray clouds and the first soft flurries of snow are beginning to fall in large, fat flakes. They evaporate upon touching the ground, but it will not be long before an inch or two of fresh snow ornaments the gutters and sidewalks and further buries the cars that have been stuck in pack ice since last week’s blizzard.
“One, two, five, nine,” says McAvoy, as if in prayer. He presses the buttons on the small keypad and there is a click as the mechanism gives. McAvoy pulls the door open and steps into the soft yellow light of the corridor.
McAvoy was sitting in the passenger seat of Alto’s police-issue Honda when Alto’s friend Redding called him back to confirm that nothing had changed about Molony’s domestic arrangements since he had last looked into his life and been transferred for his pains. Molony still lives in an apartment building off Avenue B. He owns the whole thing and lets out three of the four apartments. He lives in the penthouse, which is also registered as a work space and the administration address for four different charities with Catholic affiliations. The other apartments are also registered as charitable organizations, administering funds for the needy in far-flung places like El Salvador, Belize, and Namibia. McAvoy had expected to find a gleaming apartment building, bustling with well-meaning types in cardigans and sensible shoes, instead of a dilapidated building without a single nameplate by the door. Nobody answered when he and Alto rang the buzzers. Alto had tried the deli next door on a hunch, confident that Molony would have given his neighbors a key in case of emergencies.
“This look like a charity HQ to you?” asks Alto, indicating a plain white door.
McAvoy looks back and realizes he has left muddy boot prints on the hardwood floor. Something tells him he would be wise to wipe his feet. He turns and walks back to the front door and scrubs the soles of his boots on the rough rectangle of carpet. It moves as he does so and underneath, he finds a small ring of keys hanging on a key ring bearing the legend ST. ANTHONY SAVED ME and a tiny sketch of an old church.
“You’ve got the luck of the Irish,” says Alto, grinning, as McAvoy holds them up.
“That’s been said before. Let’s hope it lasts.”
McAvoy selects a key at random and slips it into the lock of the first door. When it fails to turn, he tries again and the second key is a perfect fit. McAvoy opens the door to an empty apartment containing nothing more than gray air. An old-style telephone and answering machine sit on the dark cord carpet, the machine’s red light twinkling.
Alto looks at his notes. “Looks like Saint Francis’s Blessed Relief of Nepalese Orphans is going through a quiet spell,” he says, shaking his head.
McAvoy closes and locks the door behind them. They climb to the second floor and find the same setup in two further apartments. McAvoy is growing increasingly uneasy. He half entertained the hope that in one of these rooms he would find answers. Without being able to explain the thought as anything other than wishful thinking, he had even imagined finding Valentine—tied up and bruised but alive, grateful, and ready to go home. Instead, McAvoy senses he and Alto have stumbled onto something else entirely.
“This is the one,” says Alto needlessly, indicating the door at the end of the corridor on the third floor. The door is more opulent than the others, a lavish creation of old wood painted a deep red. As he peers at it, McAvoy notices the subtle crucifix motif that has been artfully incorporated into the twisted wood. This is a work of art.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” says McAvoy, and picks a solid brass key from the ring. It slips into the lock and turns without effort.
“NYPD. We heard shots. We’re coming in!” says Alto quietly, and when McAvoy looks at him quizzically, he shrugs. “It pays to be able to say that you said it.”
McAvoy opens the door and has to force himself not to make a sound. He steps onto a solid marble floor that glitters as if carpeted with crushed diamonds. A Moroccan rug covers the expensive stone, perfectly matching the North African batiks that hang on the wall. The apartment is a colossal, open-plan space, and no expense has been spared in making it look fit for a photo shoot in a style magazine. The lounge area is a splendid concoction of oxblood Chesterfield sofas, chairs, and footstools, all set around a wood-burning stove framed by a mantelpiece that matches the old timbers of the door. A wicker basket full of pinecones stands on the tiled surround. Above, twisted chocolate-colored railroad ties give the ceiling the air of a mock Tudor mansion. A grandfather clock stands by the mahogany writing desk at the rear of the room, the colors clashing slightly with the patterned mauve rug that covers the floor. A large architectural blueprint of an old church hangs in a gold rococo frame. The living room leads into a kitchen that puts McAvoy in mind of a stately home, all wrought-iron hooks, hanging brass pans, and a huge black stove against red tiles. The place is spotless.
“No TV,” says Alto, looking around for something to criticize. “And his books are all different shapes.”
McAvoy follows Alto’s nod and looks in awe at the full wall of hardback books. They are the only things that have not been arranged obsessively. They are a pleasing jumble, piled higgledy-piggledy onto units that carry the same subtle crucifix motif as the door.
“Eclectic mix,” says McAvoy, examining the spines of the books. “The Oxford Dictionary of Saints. Wicked Plants. The Complete Herbalist. Breverton’s Phantasmagoria. Harrap’s Illustrated Dictionary of Art and Artists. One Thousand Home Remedies. Stargazing for Beginners. Practical Homicide Investigation.”
McAvoy picks this last, weighty tome from the shelf. The cover shows yellow letters on a black background, partially obscuring a headless corpse wrapped in crime scene tape. The book falls open to a picture of a Filipino man who has suffered a self-inflicted shotgun wound and whose features look the way a watermelon would if it had been driven over. McAvoy puts it back and pulls a face.
“Interesting character,” says Alto, trying the drawers in the writing desk. “Writes with pen and ink. I reckon with a few candles he could see himself as a monk.”
McAvoy crosses to the window. The venetian blinds are closed and he peers between the slats. The snow has started coming down in earnest, billowing in off the river like a plague of butterflies. The city looks as though it has been ripped into fragments and then scattered on the wind.
“You can see Saint Colman’s from here,” says Alto, joining him.
“And he’s been here how long?”
“Bought the building in ’eighty-seven. Been here ever since.”
“He came into some serious money, then.”
“Or discovered a way to make it.”
McAvoy nods, looking around again. Something troubles him. He stands in the center of the room and moves his head slowly from side to side, as if running his finger across a smooth surface and trying to find the crack.
“Migraine?” asks Alto, playing with his phone. “I know a great girl for massages.” He stops talking and scowls at his surroundings. “Damn, if they’d just let me push. This guy is crooked as they come. Look at this place. What you think? You think I was right? Aector, you think I was right?”
“Just a second, please.”
McAvoy holds up a hand to ask, as politely as he can, for silence. He sucks on his lower lip, reading the room. Everything about the environment is tasteful, all perfectly matched. The entire space is organized to complement and flow. He crosses back to the hallway and squats down, looking at the mauve rug. Then he slides to the floor and looks at it from a fresh angle.
“Listening for a train?” asks Alto.
“Look,” says McAvoy. “The pattern isn’t symmetrical. And it’s fluffier here. It’s been scrubbed.”
Alto lies down next to McAvoy. He lifts his amber glasses and looks closely at the floor.
“That spray,” says McAvoy. He reaches out and rolls back the rug, looking at the reverse of the area that has caught his attention. “Blood,” he says.
Both men stand, and without exchanging a word, they begin to consider scenarios. McAvoy pulls out his cell phone and begins taking pictures. In moments, he thinks he understands. He walks back to the doorway and lifts the Moroccan rug. It, too, shows discoloration to the rear.
“He was bleeding when he came in. Dripping, but not spraying. And here,” says McAvoy, standing by the armchair. “Around here, they were struck.”
McAvoy paces around the living room, wishing there were more. Concentrating, he is unaware that he is pulling his hair hard enough to hurt. He follows the path, looking for the final patch of discoloration on the rear of the rug.
“There,” says Alto, and he indicates the basket of pinecones. McAvoy nods and begins to carefully lift them out one by one, examining each in turn.
“You’re fucking joking,” says Alto, marveling, as something catches the light toward the bottom of the basket.
McAvoy feels a cold weight settling in his gut. He takes the latex gloves offered by Alto and slips them on. He reaches into the basket and closes his finger and thumb around the nugget of gold.
“Fuck,” says Alto, and this seems to cover his feelings on the subject.
“Valentine,” says McAvoy, looking at the tooth that should be glinting in the upper row of his brother-in-law’s mouth.
“You sure?”
“I saw his dad knock the real one out,” says McAvoy without thinking. “He wasn’t even out of his teens.”
“Fuck,” says Alto again.
“I’m putting it back,” says McAvoy, and sweat begins to seep into his hairline and soak his back and shoulders. He is trying not to shiver. “You’ve got to do this right now, Ronnie. Come back with a proper warrant. Question him. Find out what happened—why Valentine was here and what he came for. Most importantly, where he is now . . .”
Alto is nodding, his face coloring with the sudden burst of adrenaline. He pushes his fair hair back from his face.
“This is bigger than I ever imagined. I don’t want any part of this. I’m just going to mess it up for you. But if you do it right . . .”
McAvoy stops talking. He is staring hard at Alto’s slicked-back fringe. It is waving, as if on a breeze.
“Do you have a lighter?” he asks.
“Sorry?”
“A lighter.”
Alto nods and pulls out a Zippo emblazoned with a Jack Daniel’s logo. He hands it to McAvoy, who spins the wheel. The flame stands erect for a moment, and then drifts lazily to the right, like Alto’s errant strands of hair.
McAvoy raises the lighter and begins to pace the room, looking at the flame as if it contains answers. Slowly, he moves closer to the bookcase.
Alto watches, fascinated. He pulls a face as McAvoy begins pushing at shelves and pulling books from the wall.
“You’re not serious,” he says, just as McAvoy reaches the grandfather clock and peers at the face.
“Fifty minutes late,” says McAvoy, checking his watch. He reaches forward and takes the gleaming pendulum in his left hand. He tugs, and there is a satisfying click as one whole section of the bookcase glides slowly away from the wall.
“Fuck,” says Alto, who appears to have downsized his vocabulary.
McAvoy slides himself between the bookcase and the wall and into the open space behind. The space is perhaps six feet by six feet. There is no carpet, and dirt crunches beneath McAvoy’s boots as he steps inside, lowering his head as he does so. A metal ladder is fixed to one wall.
“Christ, this is an old elevator shaft,” says Alto, stepping inside and peering upward. “Can you make anything out?”
McAvoy uses the lighter, holding it above his head. He fancies that around twelve feet above his head, there is a darker space.
“After you,” says Alto, pointing at the ladder. His voice has gone quiet. Neither man looks as if he is sure what to do next. Both look nervous.
The ladder makes no protest as it takes McAvoy’s considerable bulk. Soundlessly, he climbs into the cool and the dark above him.
“Anything?” asks Alto from beneath.
McAvoy struggles to make anything out but as he climbs higher, a shape becomes clear. There is a doorway a little above him and a soft light is emanating from within. McAvoy reaches up and his hands touch a length of rope. He lets out a breath, staggered and shallow. Without thinking, he pulls himself up and over the lip, slithering over hard ground. He yelps as his hands brush something soft and organic. He scrambles to his feet, heart beating hard and fast, and takes in the scene before him.
He stands in a huge, open space, a hidden floor not visible from the outside. It is a chilly, half-dark place. What little light there is comes from the colossal pyramid of candles that flicker and dance amid a pulpy mass of melted wax halfway down the room.
“Jesus,” says McAvoy as his eyes adjust and he sees what his fingers touched as he emerged into this extraordinary place.
The entire floor of the apartment is covered with soil. In places it is mounded up in tiny molehills; elsewhere it as flat and featureless as glass.
McAvoy takes a breath. He catches the traces of something familiar, an aroma that makes him makes him think of disturbed waters, the stench that rises when the silt and bones and decay at the bottom of a fishpond is stirred with a stick.
McAvoy moves slowly forward, using the lighter to examine the ground beneath him. It shows footprints. Different shapes and sizes. Sneakers, dress shoes, bare toes.
McAvoy shudders as his feet crunch over dry earth. A sudden tinkling sound causes him to snap his head to the left and he is unable to stop himself from releasing a long, low groan. There are hundreds of them, stretching away like stepping-stones, their smooth, sleek sides reflecting in the flames. Urns. An endless walkway of empty urns, black openings like dead eyes, dead mouths. McAvoy puts his hand over his mouth, suddenly aware of the dust in the air. He finds himself struggling to breathe. The air is full of burned bodies; he is in a place of earth and ash and dust. He feels his feet lose grip on the carpet of earth, and as he stumbles, his hand plunges through the gray crust of soil and into the damp loam beneath.
“What the fuck?” asks Alto as he emerges into the darkness behind McAvoy.
“Get back,” says McAvoy. “We can’t be here. This is . . .”
Alto has a flashlight and is swinging it wildly from side to side, illuminating the empty urns and exposing the haze of dust that fills the air. Suddenly, the light stops on the wall next to the candles. McAvoy catches sight of metal, flickering like flame.
He cannot help himself. Every instinct is telling him to leave this terrible place, but he cannot bring himself to do so. Slowly, he crosses to the wall.
The image is a tree, each individual leaf made of brass and screwed into the bare brick of the wall. McAvoy holds up the lighter. Each leaf bears a name, save for the first. It shows a simple rose, engraved with reverence into gold.
McAvoy has seen such a creation before. In the entrance of St. Colman’s, it served as a wall of remembrance, each leaf carrying the name of a soul departed but not forgotten.
The tree on the wall of Peter Molony’s hidden place carries many names. Some are Hispanic, others Jewish. Others are mere descriptions: Blonde, early 20s, 1979.
Among them, McAvoy sees one name he recognizes. Alejandra Mota Valverda. It is almost lost among the forest of names.
McAvoy lets the light guide him. Finds the most recent leaf, high to the right of the sinewy trunk. It reads simply Shay Helden.
McAvoy feels as though he is choking on air suffused with particles of dead, burned skin.
“We have to go,” says Alto, pulling out his cell phone. He stops before he has a chance to make a call. Reads the words on the screen.
“Tell me, Ronnie,” says McAvoy softly.
“Uniforms picked up a Chechen walking around Brooklyn with blood all down his face. He wants to talk. Wants to make a deal.” Alto’s eyes gleam in the twitching light. “He wants to tell us about the Irishmen.”
McAvoy cannot take his eyes off the wall.
“We have to go,” says Alto.
“I can’t,” says McAvoy. “I can’t just leave this.”
“But the Chechen has information. We can come back. Do things properly.”
“You go. I’ll take photographs. Try to understand . . .”
“He could be back any moment.”
“I want that,” says McAvoy, his jaw set. “I really want that to happen.”
“Aector, you came here for your brother-in-law. This isn’t your responsibility.”
McAvoy looks at the names. Sees girl after girl after girl. Sees the aberration that is Shay. His mind fills with the sad eyes of the lady at the church, lighting candles for her daughter thirty-five years after she disappeared on her way home from church.
“I just need to understand. You go. Call me if it’s genuine.”
“I’ll come back,” says Alto, looking desperate to get away from this bleak place with its rank stench and its clouds of human dust. “I’ll come back and we’ll do things right. I need to think. We both need to think.”
Alto is already descending the ladder, almost falling in his hurry to get away.
McAvoy reaches over for the nearest urn. He holds it in his palm like a bear with a honey pot, looking into its depths as if it contains answers.
He wants to call home. Wants to ring Pharaoh. Wants to be told what to do.
Instead, he lifts his cell phone and begins snapping pictures of the names on the tree, the urns at his feet, and the candles that burn like dying suns.
And all the while he yearns to be disturbed, to be interrupted by a creature whose actions reek of evil and despair.