The genuine concern in Lacey's voice made Carole a believer, but sudden fear stabbed her.
"Hurry," Carole said. She flipped the safety cover closed on the button in her pocket and broke into a fast walk. "We've got to get you back before he goes out searching for you. Once he's away from the church he's in danger."
JOE . . .
They'd started the search with the church grounds—the convent, the rectory, the graveyard—and then crossed the street to the office building. Finding that empty, Joe and the five other men in the search party, all armed to the teeth, had moved through the surrounding houses and buildings. The discovery of a man named Enrico stabbed to death in a neighboring Victorian had shaken them all, especially Joe. He'd opened every door to every room in the old house with the expectation that he'd find Lacey in the same condition.
But no. No sign that she'd ever been in the house. Lacey seemed to have vanished without a trace.
Finally, at Joe's insistence, they'd returned to the office building because that was the last place Lacey had been seen.
Joe stood now at the head of the stairs in the dark third-floor hallway. He turned off his flashlight—to heighten his hearing as much as to save the batteries—and called her name.
"Lacey! Lacey, can you hear me?"
He stood statue still and listened, but all he heard were the voices of the other members of the search party on the floors below.
He felt numb, heartsick. Lacey... how had he let this happen? She'd made it all the way down here from Manhattan on her own, and now she was gone, snatched from under his protective wing. He could see how it had happened. She'd felt safe here with other living around, armed with crosses and guns, ready for anything. She'd let her guard down, got careless . . .
"Lacey! Please!"
And then he heard it. A sound . . . scratching ... so soft it was barely audible. He opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut again, trying to locate the sound. It seemed to come from everywhere at first, echoing off the walls of the hallway, but as he concentrated he felt sure it was coming from somewhere ahead and to his left. He opened his eyes and flicked on his flashlight.
There. An open doorway with a red plaque saying something about AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY—ALARM WILL SOUND. No, it won't. It needed electricity for that. And besides, the door was already open.
Joe played his beam along the concrete steps within. They ran one way: up. To the roof. The scratching sound was louder here. Definitely coming from the top of the empty stairwell. Someone was scratching on the other side of the roof door.
"Lacey?" he called as he took the steps two at a time. "Lacey, is that you?"
He hesitated at the door, hand on the knob, afraid to turn it, afraid to see what was on the other side, afraid it might be Lacey, horribly injured. And afraid it might not be Lacey. Might be one of them, lying in wait for a victim.
He'd hung his big silver cross around his neck before leaving tonight. He unslung it and held it ready, to wield as either club or firebrand. But still he hesitated. This was foolish. He should call for the others, go out there as a group.
He turned and was about to call them when he heard the voice, a faint, agonized rasp.
"Help me . . . please. . . help''
"Lacey!"
Joe shoved the door open and stepped up onto the moonlit roof. Something heavy struck him at the base of his neck, sending shockwaves of pain down his arms and driving him to his knees. He lost his grip on the cross. Then a thick quilted blanket was thrown over him. Before he could react he was knocked flat, rolled, and trussed up like an Oriental rug. Panicked, he kicked and twisted, but he was helpless. He shouted for the others but knew his cries were too muffled by the fabric to be heard.
Joe felt himself lifted by his feet, dragged along the roof, and then he was falling. They'd thrown him off the roof!
No. The cold, steely grip never released his ankles. And now he was rising instead of falling, being carried through the air.
But to where?
- PART TWO -
TWILIGHT MAN
- 6 -
JOE . . .
Joe had lost all track of time during the seemingly endless flight. But he knew when it ended: the cold fingers released their grip on his ankles and he fell. Before he could cry out his terror, he hit hard, head first. Only the multi-layered padding of his blanket cocoon kept him from cracking his skull.
"This is the priest," said a harsh voice. "Search him and take him upstairs. Franco is waiting for him."
Joe was then rolled over—kicked over was more like it. As he felt the ropes binding him loosen, he tightened his fists and prepared to fight. But when the blanket was pulled away from his face he found himself blinded by light.
Fluorescent light. Somebody had electricity.
As he blinked in the brightness he was kicked again, in the ribs this time. He struggled to a sitting position and felt something cold and hard as steel slam against the side of his head.
"Easy, god-boy," said a new voice to his left, and someone on his right brayed a harsh laugh.
Joe groaned with the pain and clutched his stinging scalp. He blinked again, and finally he could see.
He sat on a sidewalk in a pool of light outside the brass and glass revolving doors of a massive granite building. The rest of the world around him lay dark and quiet. A red canopy blocked out much of his view above. He did notice the number 350 above the revolving doors. Surrounding him were half a dozen men wearing earrings he knew too well. The nearest held a huge revolver; most likely its long barrel was what had slammed against his head.
Vichy.
The one next to the gun-toter was playing with a knife with a nasty reverse-curve blade, twirling it on a fingertip as he said, "This supposed to be one of them vigilantes from down the shore, huh? The guy that killed Gregor?" He kicked Joe's thigh. "Don't look so tough. Hey, Barrett. What say we soften him up before passin him on to Franco?"
Vigilante? Joe thought. Zev had mentioned something about a group that was killing off the local Vichy. Was that why he'd been brought here— wherever it was?
"Not on my watch," said the one with the gun. Barrett. The same voice that had called him god-boy. He was dressed in a tan silk Armani suit with a white shirt open at the collar. It looked tailor-made for him. "He won't want damaged goods. When the damage gets done, Franco will want to do it."
Joe looked around. "Where am I?"
"In big trouble," said Barrett.
The one with the knife, bearded and denimed, brayed again. "Yeah. Big trouble! Wouldn't wanna be you no-how."
"Drag him up to the office," said Barrett. "We'll search him there."
A pair of the Vichy grabbed him under the arms and roughly hauled him through a glass door set beside the revolving door. They entered a vaulted lobby of polished gray-beige marble. At the opposite end, floor to ceiling in chrome and marble, was a bas relief image of a building known the world over.
The Empire State Building. I'm in New York.
They'd kidnapped him and flown him to Manhattan. For what purpose?
And then he remembered . . . Franco is waiting. . .
The old Saturday Night Live running gag about General Franco still being alive flashed through his brain, then fled in terror.