Prologue

 

New York, March 1984

 

Malicious humor shimmered in the pair of blue eyes observing the strange performance.

The slim black lady wrestled a skinny blond figure out of the passenger seat of the low-slung sports car. It wasn’t that the kid was fighting. Whoever it was, boy or girl, at first impossible to distinguish from the stringy hair and torn jeans, hung onto the woman. The clinging figure looked like a large rag doll with its arm draped across the woman’s shoulders and its head flopping against her chest. On the trip from the car to the wall of elevators, their feet became entangled and the woman did a fast shuffle to keep them both from falling. The spectator continued to wait in the darkened hall as the pair stumbled by. So close they came that if the woman lost her hold, the rag doll would have crumpled in front of the open stairwell. This chance discovery didn’t concern the watcher. Had it occurred and allowed the woman to become aware of her audience, a simple laugh could suffice to explain the unexpected presence.

It didn’t happen.

Artificial lighting in the garage revealed even more of a contrast between the two. On closer scrutiny, it was obvious the rag doll was a boy and would fit in perfectly with the watcher’s plans. The skinny blond wore filthy clothing only a little better than rags. His ankles showed no socks and the dirty worn sneakers were ripped in several places. The stylish cut of the woman’s tailored linen suit almost certainly never held a retail tag and the quality leather pumps on her feet showed no excessive wear.

The woman propped her burden against the wall and shoved her left shoulder into his chest to hold him there. She fumbled in her handbag. She pulled out a ring of keys. By the time the woman got the elevator unlocked, the semi-conscious youth had slid down the wall to a sitting position on the floor. There was a grunted ‘damn’ as she flung her leather handbag into the elevator. Taking hold of both wrists she dragged the boy’s limp body into the lift. Her breaths had become audible gasps by the time she managed to pull the boy in. She had to step back out to lift his legs and swing him about before the door would close. A disgusting sight, but a bit humorous as the watcher smiled slightly but still offered no assistance.

The person watching from the shadows of the stairwell in the underground parking garage considered this lady a cancer—a slow growing malignancy. For years the Watcher had planned for the time when this cancer would require surgery.

The floor indicator above the private elevator signaled its upward movement. The Watcher counted each flash until it read nine and then stepped from cover and moved to the small entrance door that led to the street. There was no hurried steps, no rush for the exit, and no concern about encountering security. There was, they decided, even time enough for a bite of supper.