PROLOGUE

THE INTENSE HEAT OF THAT FRIDAY MORNING BROKE AS A surprise on the young boy who lazily padded his way up 85th Street on his way to the park. Well before noon, the temperature was above ninety. Thick clouds hung oppressively just above the skyscrapers. The city seemed barely to move and vapor rose steamily from the pavement beneath the boy’s feet.

He ambled along slowly and kept his face turned away from the sun. Occasionally, he mopped the sweat from his forehead with his arm. He toyed with the idea of playing hooky. He hated school. His greatest wish was for summer recess to finally come.

He stopped suddenly to stare at the burnt-out, gutted remains of the brownstone. Four months earlier the building had been engulfed in flames. Like a brief flicker of a firecracker, life within the building was there, then gone, the horror of the moment barely noticed.

The boy unslung his school bag from his shoulder and paused. Something buried beneath the rubble had caught his eye. He moved forward, squeezed between the rickety boards that blocked the front entranceway and began prowling the ruins. He probed and prodded piles of brick and burnt timber with a stick, glancing around at the marrow of the ancient structure that left him perpetually in the shade.

Pushing a few loose boards aside, he peered down. Below him were the dark shadows of the basement, a deep well of blackness surrounded by charred brick walls. He knelt down and put his face to the opening. The dusty morning air struck him with the smell of burnt ash. He studied the minute specks of broken glass scattered like a multitude of stars in patterns over the floor.

He crouched there a moment longer, half-dazed. Then he rose and twisted around to look up at the loose beams dangling precariously above him. A white lace curtain hung limply from one of the glassless windows high above and gleamed with light. Abruptly there flashed across it a black shadow and then it was gone. A frantic image, fast and convulsed. A bird, he imagined. It probably had made its nest up there.

Drawing a deep breath, he turned to go. And then he saw it. A sharp fervid glitter. He reached down and pushed bricks aside. The glow grew brighter. Working faster now, he shoveled with both hands, flinging the bricks to one side as fast as he could. Suddenly a face peered up at him.

He studied it for a moment. A long moment. The face pressed outward. Flashed. Flickered. Slowly he lifted the odd statue from the ashes. The curtain above him fluttered as he became lost in thought. Then at last the boy smiled and quickly stuffed the statue into his sack.

“Hey, you there!” a voice boomed.

The boy looked up, startled. “Yeah?”

“What are you doing in there?”

“Nothin’.”

“Well, come out of there.”

The man looked down at the boy with concern. “You could get hurt in there.”

“I wasn’t doing nothing.”

“Three people died in there. You want to be the fourth?”

“They died?” The boy gulped.

“Burnt to death. All but one. And they took her away.”

“Away?”

“You want that—for them to take you away? You want to die?”

“No, no...”

“Then stay out of there.”

Moments later the boy quickly ducked into a grimy-looking shop on Amsterdam Avenue over which, in weather-worn lettering, the name “J. Frisk, Dealer in Antiquities,” was inscribed. The shop’s shabby interior was overcrowded with lamps made from elephant tusks, odd sets of chessmen, ancient weapons, a stuffed monkey holding a lamp, skulls, human and otherwise, and other fascinations that caught the boy’s eye.

“Can I help you?” asked the old man with pale face and watery eyes.

The boy placed the statue on the counter. “I want to sell this.”

The antique shop dealer smiled at the boy, showing his rotted teeth. “I’ll give you ten dollars for it.”

“Ain’t the statue worth more?”

“Not to me it isn’t.” The man greedily eyed the statue, waiting for the boy to make up his mind.

“Okay. I’ll take the money.”

As the boy left the shop, the old man stared at the dusty image. Shadows shifted. The dog that lay at the old man’s feet began to growl in a low guttural moan. Head thrust forward, body taut, it snarled through bared teeth, prepared to defend or attack. “Quiet!” snapped the old man.

Locking the front door, he drew the shade, then crossed to the counter and picked up the statue. Smiling, he hastened to the rear of the shop.

Under a strong light, he examined the hieroglyphics inscribed at the base of the statue. Sweat had gathered in the wrinkles of his brow and ran freely down his corpselike features, but he paid no attention. At last he nodded and, trembling, placed the statue on a small ornate pedestal.

Strange, how after all this time, he was still capable of experiencing the brittle remnants of awe. His knees creaked as he prostrated himself on the floor before the statue. His lips began to move. Like himself, the statue seemed to expand and glow with new energy and life. A mild wisp of air circulated the room and the old man knew that once again the circle had been completed.