He was dressed like one of the extras they had seen at the train station-red monk's robe, black mask.
The monk had struck him from behind, taken his service Glock. Byrne had fallen to his knees, dizzied but not out. He closed his eyes, waiting for the thunder of the gunshot, the white infinity of his death. But it didn't come. Not yet.
Byrne now knelt in the center of the room, his hands behind his head, his fingers interlaced. He faced the camera on the tripod in front of him. Colleen was behind him. He wanted to turn around, to see her face, to tell her it was going to be all right. He couldn't risk it.
When the man in the monk's robe touched him, Byrne's mind reeled with the images. The visions pulsed. He felt queasy, light-headed. Colleen. Angelika. Stephanie. Erin.
Afield of torn flesh. An ocean of blood.
"You didn't take care of her," the man said.
Was he talking about Angelika? Colleen?
"She was a great actress," he continued. He was behind him now. Byrne tried to calculate his position. "She would have been a star. And I don't mean just a star. I mean one of those rare supernova stars who captures the attention of not only the public, but also the critics. Ingrid Bergman. Jeanne Moreau. Greta Garbo."
Byrne tried to trace his steps into the bowels of this building. How many turns had he taken? How close was he to the street?
"When she died, they just moved on," he continued. "You just moved on."
Byrne tried to organize his thoughts. Never easy when there may be a gun pointed at you. "You… have to understand," he began. "When the medical examiner rules a death accidental, there's nothing the Homicide Unit can do about it. There's nothing anyone can do about it. The ME rules, the city records it. That's how it's done."
"Do you know why she spelled her name that way? With a k? Her given name was spelled with a c. She changed it."
He wasn't listening to a word Byrne was saying. "No."
"Angelika is the name of a famous art house theater in New York."
"Let my daughter go," Byrne said. "You have me."
"I don't think you understand the play."
The man in the monk's robe walked around in front of Byrne. In his hand was a leather mask. It was the same mask worn by Julian Matisse in Philadelphia Skin. "Do you know Stanislavksy, Detective Byrne?"
Byrne knew he had to keep the man talking. "No."
"He was a Russian actor and teacher. He founded the Moscow Theater in 1898. He more or less invented method acting."
"You don't have to do this," Byrne said. "Let my daughter go. We can end this without any more bloodshed."
The monk put Byrne's Glock under his arm for a moment. He began to unlace the leather mask. "Stanislavsky once said: 'Never come into the theatre with mud on your feet. Leave your dust and dirt outside. Check your little worries, squabbles, petty difficulties with your outside clothing-all the things that ruin your life and draw your attention away from your art-at the door.'
"Please put your hands behind your back for me," he added.
Byrne complied. His legs were crossed behind him. He felt the weight on his right ankle. He began to lift the cuff of his pants.
"Have you left your petty difficulties at the door, Detective? Are you ready for my play?"
Byrne lifted the hem another inch. His fingers touched the steel as the monk dropped the mask onto the floor in front of him.
"In a moment, I will ask you to put on this mask," the monk said. "And then we will begin."
Byrne knew he could not take the chance of a shootout in here, not with Colleen in the room. She was behind him, strapped to the bed. Crossfire would be deadly. "The curtain is up." The monk stepped to the wall, flipped a switch. A single bright spotlight filled the universe. It was time. He had no choice.
In one smooth motion Byrne drew the SIG-Sauer from his ankle holster, leapt to his feet, turned toward the light, and fired.