Jungle Of Steel And Stone (14 page)

John F. Kennedy International Airport.

Veil glanced up at Reyna, who slowly nodded. "You do know," Reyna said softly. "Poor Toby. He thinks that all he has to do is get back to the airport in order to be transported home."

"As in most primitive tribes, K'ung learning is probably almost entirely experiential and literal. Toby will use what he knows, just as he does in the desert. In Toby's mind a plane—something he probably thinks of as magical, a device provided for his personal benefit by the Nal-toon—brought him here, so one will be waiting to take him home—if he can get to the place where it's kept. Getting there is the trial that you mentioned."

"Yes." Reyna sighed as she sat down on the floor and rested her head against a table leg. "I believe that's what Toby is thinking, and what he's trying to do. But then, I know the K'ung very well. You don't. How did you come up with this idea?"

"Dreams. Deduction. Knowledge flying on the wings of imagination. Just a bit of inspired guesswork. His route is thirteen miles as the crow flies, which is precisely the way he'll be going. We have to find him before someone else does, or before he shows up at JFK and tries to walk on a plane."

"He'll be very careful, Veil. He'll move slowly. During these past weeks I've been back and forth over that route, trying to find Toby, but also to leave totems—signs, warnings—that he can read. I'm hoping he'll read the totems, have second thoughts about what he's trying to do, go to ground, and wait for me to come around. But I don't think he will."

"I wonder what shots he had before he left."

"Lord, Veil, that's been one of my biggest concerns. He's probably already sick. He knows absolutely nothing about this environment. He'll continue to kill dogs or cats for food, which is all right, but there's no telling what he's been drinking or what he
will
drink. He has no resistance to most of our diseases, and whatever inoculations he was given will give him only limited protection. When Toby's thirsty, he drinks; he knows nothing about typhus. He could have drunk from the East River, or even from some sewage outlet." Reyna paused, looked up at Veil. Tears welled in her eyes, flowed down her cheeks. "I'm afraid that if Toby gets sick, he'll go to ground until he gets better—or until he dies."

"Well, we'll just have to find him. Will you trust me now?"

"Yes."

"Will you let me help you?"

"Yes, Veil. Thank you."

"At least it's not all bad news. If we're right about his thinking and his plans, there couldn't possibly be a better route in all of New York City for him to follow. Look at it: He's got the railroad yards in which to hide, and then— assuming he can get through the Sunnyside section of Queens—he's going to run into hundreds of acres of cemetery. After that he's got the Long Island Expressway to cross, but then he's back into another cemetery—and a golf course after that. He's back in the open then, and probably finished, but six miles of good cover in the middle of New York City certainly isn't bad. I'll have to remember to congratulate Victor on having his gallery on Sixty-ninth Street; the angle of the setting sun from there is what gave Toby this route." "It's a miracle, Veil."

"You'll get no argument from me." Veil reached down and stroked Reyna's hair. "You get some rest. I'll come back later this afternoon and we'll talk about the most efficient way to hunt for Toby. I'll pick up a portable tape recorder. You can tape a message. That way we can split up and cover more territory. I know he won't come to me, but at least he can hear you talking to him while I look for signs."

He turned and headed for the door.

"Veil?"

He turned with his hand on the knob. "Yes?"

Reyna got to her feet, then studied him in silence for a few moments. "I have a confession to make," she said at last.

He smiled. "I can't wait to hear what it is."

Reyna tugged at the sleeve of her blouse in a gesture that had by now become familiar to Veil. "Toby isn't the only man I've been looking for over the past weeks. I've also been searching for Veil Kendry."

Veil felt the muscles in his face stiffen, and his smile vanished. "I don't know what you mean, Reyna."

"For one thing, I've been back to the Raskolnikov Gallery to look at your work. You called them 'dream-paintings,' and now I see what you mean. They're haunting and beautiful, Veil—unlike anything else I've ever seen."

Veil began to relax. "Thank you."

"They're 'real,' but not quite real—like a dream. And you dream like that because of the brain damage you mentioned?"

"Yes."

"I've also been reading up on the war in Vietnam."

Veil felt his stomach muscles begin to flutter. "Why have you been reading up on the war?"

"I used to date a history professor at Columbia. His specialty is Southeast Asia, and he has a rather peculiar— at least, I used to think it was peculiar—obsession. He'd heard stories about a man—an American—fighting with the Hmong tribes in Laos as part of the CIA's secret war against the Pathet Lao. This man—he was said to have blond hair, incidentally—must have been a CIA agent, as well as a regular Army officer, because the CIA controlled everything that went on in Laos and Cambodia. My friend told me that this blond-haired man—if there ever was such a man, and my friend was never certain—had become a legend. None of the tribesmen my friend interviewed knew the man's name, but other research led my friend to believe that his code name may have been Archangel. As the legend goes, this man had won virtually every medal there was to win while he was fighting with the Special Forces in Vietnam. Then—"

Veil held up his right hand, palm out. It was at once a simple gesture yet complex, inasmuch as it involved a number of Zen teachings in the art of projecting mental force. It stopped Reyna cold. She closed her mouth in the middle of a sentence, then stared in bewilderment into the eyes, suddenly grown cold, of the man standing in the doorway of her apartment.

"I think we have enough to concern ourselves with, Reyna, without getting sidetracked into talking about Vietnam or half-baked war stories. I've heard dozens of stories like the one you're telling me. They're all nonsense."

"Veil, I feel very strange." "You're tired. You need some rest." "This was important. It was something I wanted to share with you, because you seem so much like this man. My friend says he's sure—"

Veil slowly moved his hand back and forth, and Reyna again fell silent. Veil was aware that at the moment he seemed a stranger—and, perhaps, a bit frightening—to Reyna. It was what he wanted. "Don't stalk me, Reyna. Please. No good will come of it."

V
eil, darling," the voice on the intercom intoned sweetly, "are you in the mood to receive a visitor?"

"It depends on who it is, Chuck."

"The sweet man says that his name is Gabriel Vahanian, and he has the
prettiest
detective's badge. He's a real hunk, Veil."

"Anybody with him?"

"Nope. He's alone."

"Send him up, Chuck. Thanks."

Veil slipped the tape recorder he had purchased under his platform bed, draped all of his canvases, then walked across the spacious loft and pulled open the sliding door. Vahanian, looking tired and anxious, emerged from the elevator. Veil stepped aside and motioned for the detective to enter.

"What's the story on the fag and the other four guys down there?" Vahanian asked as he looked around the sparsely furnished, paint-splattered loft.

"That 'fag' is a friend of mine who would have done you very serious damage if you'd tried to come up here without permission or a warrant. He and the others are occasional students of mine."

"Karate?"

"Martial arts in general. Karate is just a name for a rather specific Japanese system."

"I'd heard you were pretty good at that stuff. I didn't know you were an instructor."

"I'm not. For every eight hours they stand guard, I give an hour to share some of the things I know."

"Eight hours for one; that's expensive time."

"They're not complaining."

"Who teaches you?"

"A barber, a tugboat captain, and a stockbroker. Sometimes, when I'm judged particularly worthy, there is a special session with a fifth-grade teacher who flies in from Seattle to teach me."

"What things make you particularly worthy?"

"I never know. When I do know, I'll join their ranks."

"Kendry, I don't understand what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about secret knowledge."

"Where did you learn your basic skills?"

Veil did not reply.

Vahanian stared hard at Veil. "You used what you know to do something funny to Nagle at the gallery, didn't you?"

"I don't know what you mean. The good detective had been drinking and he threw up. I was just trying to come to the aid of an officer of the law."

"Bullshit."

"Whatever you say."

"Do you always keep bodyguards outside your loft?"

"No."

"Why now?"

"I've been suffering from anxiety attacks. Why did you come to see me, Lieutenant?"

Vahanian took a deep breath, slowly let it out as he ran his fingers through his thick, black, wavy hair. "Sorry if I sound snappish, Kendry. I've been up twenty-four hours."

"It's okay." "We're not enemies, are we?"

"I don't like the company you keep."

"Neither do I. Believe me, it's not by choice."

Veil shrugged. "As far as I'm concerned, we're not enemies."

"I came to ask you a question, which I hope you'll answer."

"Let's hear the question."

"I'd like to know what you said to my partner."

"Oh, that. I told Nagle I knew he was a Mafia enforcer, rapist, child molester, and all-around sadist. I also mentioned, in passing, that he had executed Vito Ricci, that he was on the Mafia's shit list for his somewhat excessive behavior, and that for an act of penance he's supposed to make sure that the Nal-toon is delivered safely to any one of the remaining five families. I very politely asked him to decline the Mafia assignment and request transfer to another case, since the K'ung obviously need the idol more than the Mafia does. That's about it. Is he still upset?"

Vahanian seemed stunned as he stared at Veil, his mouth slightly open, his breathing rapid and shallow. "You got anything here to drink?" he said at last.

"Scotch or bourbon?"

"Bourbon."

"Water? Ice?"

"Neat. A big one, if you don't mind."

Veil went into the kitchen, removed a bottle of bourbon from a cabinet, and poured a heavy tumbler half full. When he returned to the other room, he found Vahanian sitting on the floor, back braced against one of the support pillars that ran down the center of the loft.

"Cheers, Lieutenant," Veil said as he handed the drink to the detective. "You'll excuse me if I don't join you. It's still early, and I've got things to do."

Vahanian downed the drink in three quick swallows, then set the glass down on the polished hardwood floor. "I'm with the New York State Police, Kendry, on special assignment to the NYPD. I've been investigating Nagle for close to a year, and I only know maybe half of what you just told me."

"So the NYPD is on to Nagle?"

Vahanian nodded. "They've suspected for some time, especially since the last big problem he had. But it's tough to nail him down. He's very good at what he does, Kendry, and he covers his tracks well."

"Oh, he has great technique. It's called terror."

"Are you sure of your information?"

"Yes."

Vahanian studied Veil for a few moments, then nodded. "I can see that you are. Will you give me the name of your informant?"

"No. I won't even confirm that I got the information through an informant."

Vahanian sighed with resignation. "One of the biggest problems we've been having is getting anyone to testify against him. Terror isn't the word for what Nagle instills in his victims—and we suspect there are a lot of them. Do you know of anyone who might be willing to come forward?"