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Matthew Price made his way to the bronze statue of the sled dog in Central Park about ten minutes before midnight. Crowley had better follow directions to the letter if he wanted to see his aunt alive again. In truth, Price had developed a genuine love for Trudy Fawcett. She was a decent woman, smart, and confident. In another life, perhaps she would have made a fine partner. But there was far more at stake and Price wouldn’t hesitate to make good on his threat if Crowley tried to cross him, however much that pained him. What was one more death in the sea of murder that had been his life?
He stood on the path under the bronze statue, standing ten feet above him on a large rock, looking out over the park, tongue out, happy and panting. There was life in a well-wrought sculpture, and this one captured the nature of a good dog well.
After a moment, Price reconsidered and moved around to walk across the grass and up the shallow slope of the back of the pale gray stone to stand beside the statue. From there he had a good view all around and would see anyone approaching long before they reached him, even in the gloom of the night.
He checked his watch. Five minutes before midnight. By morning all this would be at an end. Finally, everything he needed at hand and everyone who had stood in his way irrelevant. Or dead. Both, I hope. And with any luck, he and Trudy alive and well to enjoy all the fruits of his labors.
Price became increasingly impatient as he watched the minute hand pass the twelve. How typical of Crowley to be late. Was this some kind of power play? It would do him little good.
Movement caught his eyes. A figure in a hooded sweatshirt approached along the footpath and stopped about twenty feet from Price’s elevated position. Price looked carefully around and saw no one else.
“You came alone. Good.”
“Well, that’s what you wanted,” Crowley said. “I want you to let my aunt go.”
Price grimaced. How the man’s English accent grated on his nerves. Crowley’s face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, but Price imagined that hard, defiant expression. The man’s disdain would do him no good here.
“Where’s the journal?”
Crowley reached into his pocket and lifted the small, scuffed black book into view. Price smiled, a sigh escaping. After so long, he would finally gain the half he had been denied.
“Come on then,” Price said, gesturing with one hand. With the other, he lifted a small gun into plain sight, moonlight glinting off the short barrel. “And don’t be foolish enough to try to fight me, Jake Crowley. You may be much bigger and stronger than me, but I am not in the mood. I will shoot you dead at the first false move you make.” In the dark of the night, Crowley looked bigger than ever.
“Fair enough,” Crowley said. He held the book up in one hand and raised the other too, palm out. Keeping both hands raised, he ascended the sloping path beside the statue and around onto the grass. Price tracked him with his gun the whole time.
Crowley stopped some twenty feet away.
“Hand it over!” Price barked, his patience wearing thin. He would shoot Crowley dead the moment the book was in his hands, and he began to tremble with anticipation.
Crowley tossed the book forward. It fluttered in the air, covers opening like wings as the pages flickered. Price winced, terrified the treatment would damage something so old and fragile. As the journal hit the grass, Crowley ducked to one side.
Price fired, a reflex more than an intention, the gun bucking hard in his grip. The shot went wide. Crowley hit the ground, rolled, and came up running.
His hood had fallen back, and as the man ran, Price saw it wasn’t Crowley at all. No wonder he had looked so large. Price recognized the great oaf from the underground. He was one of those mole people who were always skulking around. Most of them ran the other way when Price was about, but not that one. He had a curious mind. Price would have to do something about that.
Price fired again, trying to track the man as he ran. But Price had never been particularly comfortable with guns and was no great marksman. Hitting a moving target in the dark with a handgun would be a challenge for anyone, and Price missed twice more. He cursed violently, not only because he had missed, but simply because Crowley had the audacity to play these games with him. What the hell was he thinking? His aunt would die for this defiance.
Grinding his teeth, he crouched and retrieved the journal, already knowing what he would find. A fake. Crowley would pay dearly for this.