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freezing and wild, transforming the afternoon melt into a cutting mantle of
ice. The warmer air that had lingered over the city became clouds and
blew away to the south, and remaining in the sky were the few stars that
defied the electric flood below, and a crescent moon rising over the towers.
The bitter wind flooded along the avenues of Manhattan, carrying with it an
ancient wildness that seldom reached the inner sanctum of the city; it was as
if the very soul of the frowning north had swept from its moorings and
now ran free in the streets.
Buses crunched along the ice-slick pavements, their tire-chains
clattering and their engines wheezing. From steaming grates came the rumble
of subways. Here and there a taxicab prowled in search of the few people
willing to venture into the cold. Doormen huddled close to the
glittering entryways of luxurious apartment buildings or stood in
lobbies staring out at the wind. Inside these buildings normally docile
radiators hissed and popped as overstrained heating systems fought to maintain
comfort against the freeze.
The last light had disappeared from the sky when Becky opened her eyes. Beyond
the bedroom door she heard the drone of the evening news. Dick, Wilson, and
Ferguson were there watching. She rolled over onto her back and stared out the
window at the sky. In her field of vision there were no stars, only
the bottom point of the moon slicing the darkness, cut off by the
top of the window. She sighed and went into the bathroom.
Seven-thirty p.m.
She had slept for two hours. Disconnected images from her dreams seemed
to rush at her from the air; she splashed water on her face, ran a brush
through her hair. She shook her head. Had they been nightmares, or mere
dreams? She couldn t quite remember. Her face looked waxy in the mirror; she
took out her lipstick and applied a little. She washed her hands. Then
she returned to the bedroom and pulled on her thermal underwear, then
threw on jeans, a flannel shirt, and added a heavy sweater. The wind moaned
around the corner of the building, making the window bulge and
strain.
Long fingers of frost were appearing on the glass, twinkling softly as they
grew.
Becky walked into the living room. Welcome to the real world, her
husband said.
You missed the show.
Show?
The Commissioner announced that Evans was killed by a gang of nuts. Cult
murder.
Wordlessly Wilson waved a copy of the
News
.
Becky shook her head, didn t bother to comment, Werewolf Killers Stalk
Park Two
Dead. So ridiculously confused, so mindless. The Commissioner just couldn t
grasp the truth, none of them could. She found her cigarettes and lit one,
then flopped down on the couch between her husband and Wilson. Ferguson,
slumped in their reclining chair, had not spoken. His face was drawn, the skin
seeming to have stretched back over the bones, giving him a cadaverous
appearance. His mouth was set, his eyes staring blindly in the general
direction of the television set. The only movement he made was to rub his
hands slowly along the arms of the chair.
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Becky wanted to draw him out of it. Doctor Ferguson, she said, what s your
opinion of all this?
He smiled a little and shook his head. I think we d better get our proof. He
felt his pocket for the rustle of paper. His notes on Beauvoy s hand signals
were there, ready for reference in case his memory slipped.
He means we ve run out of time, Wilson said.
So what else is new. Any of you guys hungry?
Everybody was very hungry. They wound up ordering two pizzas from a place down
the street Beer and Cokes they had in the refrigerator. Becky was just as
glad, she didn t particularly care to cook for four people. She leaned back on
the couch crossing her legs, feeling the weight of the two men beside her. We
got everything? she asked.
Two radios and the camera. What else is there to get?
Nothing I guess. Anybody been upstairs?
Their plan was to stake out the roof and man it in relays. One would stay
there with the camera while the other three waited below. The reason that they
didn t go up in pairs was that they hoped it would help to keep the chance of
being scented to a minimum. The three in the apartment would keep in touch
with the one on the roof via the handheld radios they had bought. Dick
had purchased them at an electronics store, two CB
walkie-talkies. They could have checked out a couple of police-issue
models but they didn t want their traffic overheard on the police band. No
sense in attracting attention. By tomorrow morning it wouldn t matter; they
would have the pictures they needed. Becky s eyes went to the camera, its
black bulk resting on the dining room table. It looked more like a
flat-ended football than a camera. Only the shielded lens, reposing
like a great animal eye deep in its hood, revealed the thing s function.
They had all handled it earlier, getting used to the awkward shape and
the overly sensitive controls. You could take pictures almost without
realizing you had started the camera, and the focusing mechanism could
be very frustrating to work if your depth of field was changing rapidly.
How soldiers had ever used it in battle was beyond understanding. And it was
terribly delicate, threatening to break at the least jostle or to lose its
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