CHAPTER SEVEN
Chicago was a bit intimidated by the affluent row of Upper East Side town houses when they reached the address on the driver’s license. Every house comes with three lawyers, he noted darkly.
“Doesn’t this qualify as interfering with a police investigation?” Chicago inquired.
Jericho climbed the brick stairs. “We’re private citizens having a private conversation with another private citizen. They haven’t found a way to outlaw that … yet.” He pushed the doorbell.
“Sounds like something you end up explaining to the judge,” Chicago warned.
No one answered the doorbell.
Jericho looked around and noticed broken glass on the stoop. There were also pieces of a broken table strewn about. Alarmed, he pounded the door hard.
They heard a faint scream from somewhere above.
“Going in!” Jericho yelled.
Chicago didn’t hesitate. They hit the door together, kicking it in. With practiced efficiency they covered each other as they sprang inside. They moved swiftly across a marble hallway, weapons cocked.
A muffled scream drew them to the stairs. A man stood on the upper landing with his back to them. Without warning he whirled and fired, spattering them with debris as they dove behind a wall.
“You wearing your vest?” Chicago asked tersely.
“No. You?”
“No.”
Jericho peered around the wall. “Remember, it’s your turn to get shot.”
Another scream jerked him into action. “Stairs!” Jericho yelled. The moment he sprinted for the stairs, Chicago stepped into the open, gun blazing.
The man on the landing ducked for cover, and Jericho headed upstairs. A sudden cluster of bullets spattered the wall above Chicago’s head. He turned and fired blindly at a second intruder coming across the hall.
* * *
At the sound of gunfire, the man pinning Christine to the bed paused.
The dagger poised above her throat wavered and he glanced at the door. Someone entered. Christine tried to wrench free, but the man put his weight on her limbs. He turned and jerked his head toward the hall.
“I need time to finish the rites,” he said with a trace of urgency.
The other man nodded and left the room. Christine continued to buck wildly, but the man pinning her down was too strong—and too fierce. His dark eyes blazed with manic fervor as he lifted the dagger.
“May Christ, the true shepherd, acknowledge you as one of his flock,” the man intoned. “May he forgive all of your sins and set you among those he has chosen. May you see your redeemer face to face and enjoy the vision of God forever—amen!”
On amen he swung the dagger down.
Desperate, Christine twisted, and the dagger punctured the mattress. With savage intensity she bit her attacker’s knife hand, and heaved him aside. Wrenching free, she rolled to the floor.
The man jumped after her, knife slashing. Christine snatched a painting from the wall and held it as a shield. The man jabbed through the painting. Christine threw it at him and ran to the fireplace. She grabbed an iron poker and swung it hard, driving the attacker back.
A clatter of gunfire erupted just outside the door.
* * *
Jericho charged up the stairs, gun ready. But just as he hit the landing, somebody huge slammed him against the wall. The gun fell from his hand.
At the same time Chicago exchanged bullets with the intruder downstairs. His precise shot clipped the intruder’s ear, and the man bolted for the back door. Chicago ran after him, leaving Jericho to handle the rest.
Unfortunately, Jericho’s attacker was quite large, and knew judo. He spun Jericho against the rail and reached down for the fallen Glock. Jericho put a knee in his groin, driving him back, then grabbed the intruder’s hair and slammed him into the wall, putting his face through the plaster.
The man shook off the plaster and charged Jericho. His forearm smacked Jericho’s jaw, and he reeled back. With surprising swiftness for a big man, the intruder scooped up the Glock.
Jericho’s hand clamped the man’s wrist and they locked in a frenzied struggle for the gun. There was a click as the hammer cocked. Jericho roared, jerking his arm up as the gun went off.
The attacker stepped away, staring at Jericho. When he lifted the gun, blood spurted from a large, fuming hole in his chest. Slowly, the man tumbled down the stairs. As he fell, Jericho snatched his Glock.
Jericho heard a woman shouting and raced down the hall. He burst through the closed door, and saw the blond girl brandishing a poker at an attacker armed with a knife.
Immediately the attacker dove through the bathroom and headed down the hall. Jericho followed, almost slipping on the wet, bloody floor in the bathroom. The man scrambled up a rear stairway. Jericho tried a quick shot. The gun was empty. He hurried after the attacker and caught up to him on the roof.
The man whirled and swiped at Jericho with his knife, backing toward the edge of the roof. Suddenly he bolted for the edge with Jericho right behind him. Jericho reached for the man as he leaped, His fingers hooked a gold chain, which snapped as the man vaulted across the wide gap to the roof next door.
Jericho watched the attacker jump from one roof to another before finally scuttling down a fire escape to the street. He looked at the gold chain in his hand.
There was a small amulet dangling from the chain. Jericho examined it closely. The enameled crest showed a red heart on a black background. A silver sword pierced the crimson heart.
The sword had the same shape as the attacker’s silver dagger.
Then Jericho remembered something. The wet, bloody floor in the bathroom …
* * *
Detective Marge Francis studied the body floating in the bloody Jacuzzi with professional detachment.
“Eighteen jets, variable speed. That’s what I call dying in style,” she muttered. She gave Chicago a weary scowl. “What kind of girl lives in a place like this anyway?”
“Orphan, actually,” Chicago said. “Both parents killed in a car accident. The nurse was her godmother, and after their deaths, she became sole guardian.”
Detective Francis beamed approvingly. “I think it’s adorable the way you talk like a real cop.”
As they bantered, Jericho wandered into a small library area. He was struck by the impressive collection of religious books, including a group of books on heraldry. One of them had a curled sign on the cover that he had seen before.
Jericho removed the book and put it in his pocket. Then he walked over to the bedroom and surveyed the signs of struggle. He was also interested in Christine York’s private world. The stuffed animals on the bed suggested a little girl was hiding inside a woman’s body. Jericho’s gaze went to the dresser and he noticed a music box.
As Jericho picked it up, he caught a glimpse of something in the mirror. The bathroom door was partially open and Jericho saw Christine York. She was taking a pill.
Christine looked up and saw him watching her. Slightly embarrassed, Jericho fumbled with the music box. The lid popped open and a tiny ballerina began to twirl to the tinkling music.
Christine came out of the bathroom, holding a prescription bottle. “Calms me down,” she said, extending the bottle. “Want some?”
“No thanks—I drink.” Jericho tried to turn off the music box, but couldn’t figure it out. He gave her a sheepish smile. “My little girl had one just like it.”
Christine took it from his hands and stopped the music. “Yeah? You rummage through her stuff without asking?”
Jericho’s smile faded. “When I was looking for something.”
“And what are you looking for?” she challenged, green eyes meeting his.
“A connection,” he said softly.
Christine’s eyes wavered and she half smiled. “Most days I don’t feel connected to anyone.”
She was quite beautiful when she wasn’t breaking balls, Jericho noted. Extraordinary actually, with her lithe dancer’s body and classic face. But there was a calm intensity about her, as if she were on some unspoken mission.
“I noticed a lot of religious books in your library,” he said evenly.
“They’re my mom’s.”
“Is she a big believer?”
Christine looked up. The challenging look had returned. Then she smiled. Perhaps she remembered that Jericho had just saved her life. More likely it’s the pills, he thought.
“No big believer,” she said softly. “It’s just kind of a hobby with her.”
“Do you know a priest named Thomas?”
Jericho watched her face closely, but there was no visible reaction.
“No…” she said, somewhat confused.
But as Jericho began to pace, trying to fit the pieces together, it suddenly dawned on Christine what he was implying.
“Is that your connection?” she asked, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Religion?”
It was Jericho’s turn to challenge. His cobalt blue eyes regarded her with cool certainty. “I’ve seen a lot of attempted murders,” he said quietly. “But no one’s ever performed the last rites before.”
Christine wrapped her arms across her chest as if chilled. Aware that she already had too much to think about, Jericho backed off. He idly began picking shards of broken glass from the bed.
“Don’t bother,” she said with a rueful smile. “Can’t imagine I’ll actually sleep tonight.”
“Neither will I.”
She seemed surprised. Their eyes met, and this time they saw each other.
“Christine?” The voice shattered the mood.
Christine moved to the door. “In here.” Jericho turned and saw a sleek, expensively dressed woman, a couple of face-lifts over forty, enter the room. She pulled Christine into an embrace, then looked her over from head to toe.
Must be Mabel Rand, her guardian, Jericho speculated.
“They told me what happened,” she said breathlessly. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
“I’m all right, but Carson…” Christine began to weep.
“I know,” she murmured, embracing Christine. “I know.” As she rocked Christine in her arms, Mabel smiled at Jericho. “I’m just so thankful you came along when you did.”
Jericho didn’t believe her. There was something unnerving about her cold smile and blank, unblinking eyes.
* * *
The hungers of the flesh temporarily satisfied, the green-eyed man allowed Donald Abel to escort him to the temple. They left the cab and walked down a side street a few blocks below Times Square. They stopped in front of an abandoned movie theater. The plywood covering the glass doors was sprayed with bizarre graffiti.
Donald went to a side door and pushed it open. The green-eyed man went inside. He had hoped for better from Donald, but it fulfilled the main requirement. It was totally anonymous. At one time it had been a fine theater, built to accommodate both live vaudeville and film. Donald shut the door and led the way between the dust-caked chairs to an area behind the movie screen.
They followed a trail of symbolic graffiti to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and down a short stairway into a torch-lit chamber. There was an altar at one end and the walls were painted with stark satanic talismans.
The green-eyed man sat on the altar while Donald made a furtive call on his cell phone. Dr. Abel was arranging a meeting with their woman of destiny. From her loins would rise the dark prince of the new millennium.
From Donald’s apologetic smile as he approached the altar, the man guessed there was a delay. But he did not accept the news Donald stammered in his ear.
Time to reshuffle my staff, the man decided. Dr. Abel has been coasting since the girl was born.
Without responding to his head priest’s lame report, the man stood and strode out of the chamber.
Heart racing with sudden fear, Donald watched him leave. A damp layer of sweat soaked his shirt as the man walked up the stairs. Donald’s heartbeat boomed louder and something pressed down on his chest, like a giant foot squeezing his ribs. Panicked, Donald realized he was having a coronary.
An instant later his heart burst.
The man kept walking, his anger mollified, but not his sense of purpose. If anything he was more intent on consummating his unholy tryst with Christine.
“I’ll handle the details personally,” the man said under his breath. “The mountain will go to Christine.”