The afternoon lasted an eternity, and it seemed to Frank and Hector that all had been lost.
They had had a great deal of explaining to do. The two cops, out of jurisdiction, had found themselves in the middle a suicide where a father had nearly taken his infant child with him. This of course didn't include the multitude of other circumstances they had been involved with over the last thirty-six hours. Now, to their great misfortune, it had to come out into the open.
It took the rest of the day explaining to officials from both the 13th and 57th precincts what they had found, how they got involved, and where it all led to. From the incident in the alley to the discovery of Gross and the other baldies in the sketches. The interview with the Racines and the confrontation with Gross. The receipt in Gross' apartment and how it led them to Village clothing. Judas and the surveillance tape with Bobby Lindsay. They painstakingly detailed how they figured it all tied in, the murders, the prior kidnappings and the speculation of an FBI cover-up. Then finally, the cult theory, how Harold Gross, Bobby Lindsay and the others on file—James Hilton and Edward Farrell—may have all been involved.
Their story ended at the trail of blood leading to the apartment of the Latino.
However, conveniently, they left some things out.
The day had been long enough, so to start delving into all the truly unexplainable issues would carry their interrogation well into the night. For one, the tunnels. Their existence had been common knowledge, yet no details other than some passing commentary had been voiced, their purpose seemingly shrugged off; good thing, as Frank could offer no revelation, either logical or far-fetched. As well, it seemed none of the other cops could either.
They revealed no word of their discovery on the internet, leaving only their musings of cult practice on the table—a theorization founded purely on intuitive instinct, of course. To reveal the alienistic babblings of Sanskrit as a lead to potential answers other than cultish reverence would only embarrass the cops, and possibly condemn them in the eyes of their peers.
And then the strange black object. The biggest enigma of all. At first its presence intrigued Frank, then consumed him, driving him to seek out its function in this entire mess. At first Hector had written it off to remote speculation on Frank's part, then labeled it as an icon of religious fervor.
Now?
It had shown up at two of the crime scenes. In the alley early yesterday morning, and now, retrieved by Frank in the apartment of the Latino who nearly took his baby out the window.
With one in their possession, new theories would surely rise.
By the time Frank and Hector finally escaped the 57th precinct in the Bronx, the sun had begun its descent behind the city's skyscrapers. They rode in silence back into the city to a parking garage on 56th and Park. They located a diner a half block away and entered, helping themselves to a booth in the rear by the kitchen. The smallish, brightly lit restaurant housed mostly men, who probably, like Frank, had no one special at home to prepare a warm meal for them at the end of the day. He rubbed his tired eyes—which had seen their share of tragedy today—and listened to the Latin chatter of the cooks and waitresses behind the two swinging doors that led into the kitchen.
A young waitress with long brown hair emerged. She took their orders—grilled cheese and tomato soup for Frank, a burger and fries for Hector. When she left, Frank fished the object from his jacket pocket and placed it down on the table between them.
"I can't believe it," Hector said, shaking his head at the sight of the object. "You really had that thing in your pocket this whole time?"
Frank nodded. Believe it or not, now was the first time he had had the chance to get a good long look at it since pocketing it eight hours ago, waiting for the perfect moment to bring it out into the light and examine it, wanting, feeling the need for privacy before showing Hector his find. He stared and stared at it, unbelieving that he, Frank Ballaro, had finally taken possession of the biggest most mysterious object that had ever stimulated his consciousness.
"So what in God's name is it?" Hector asked.
Frank shrugged. He felt a sudden sweeping feeling, as if he were being hypnotized. In the trance he saw a strange wondrous place, a place of brilliant sunshine, laughs and smiles, a place that catered solely to lonely and desperate people, that brought joy to the despondent. Frank considered accepting its offer, to comply to the chance to relieve the loneliness tormenting his life since Diane had left him five years back. Yes, he thought, perhaps all his answers lay right here on the table before him...
"Sir?" The waitress returned with his dinner. Through waves of confusion, Frank let his eyes wander over her. Young, in her late teens, her name-tag was scribbled in black pen: Sam.
"Oh, cool. Atmosphere."
A shock flooded Frank at her mention of the ominous word. What was complete darkness in his life at the moment instantly exploded with a fire as big and as bright as the sun. He thought briefly of the Latino in the apartment, his child swathed in blood; the harsh whisper that had leaked from his mouth.
Atmosphere...
"What did you say?"
"That thing—Atmosphere. It looks like the new nightclub that opens tonight. It's on all the signs. See?" Sam pointed through the dampened window to a telephone pole outside. Frank could see a small poster stapled there.
"Pardon us." Frank nudged passed Sam and rushed outside, Hector not far behind. He hunched his shoulder against the drizzle coming down, facing the small poster.
There it was, the object, a sketch of a building with six cylindrical columns on its roof. Above, words printed in ink as black as coal made an offer: Experience Atmosphere, Saturday Night, October 23rd. West Side Train Yard.
"What do you think, Smoky?"
Unanimously, the answer was clear. "All three of me thinks we should go check out Atmosphere."
Hector grimaced in confusion, but asked no questions. He agreed too.