'Brother Connell, I need a word with you.'
'How did you-? Never mind.' He was going to ask how Fournier had found his office number, but realized what a ridiculous question that was. 'About my sister?'
'Yes. We have a photo.'
His gut coiled. Already?
'You've found her?'
'We need you to look at the photo. I am outside on the street. Shall I come up?'
'No, I'll come down.'
He threw on his coat and took the stairs-he needed the exercise. All the way down he debated what to say if the photo showed Weezy. If he told the truth, they'd have her-and for what purpose, he still didn't know. If he lied, he might be found out later. What were the consequences of that?
Maybe he should have kept his damn mouth shut. Well, too late for that. Had to see this through.
He found Fournier standing to the side of the office building entrance, smoking with the secretaries on their cigarette break. He stepped away from them as Eddie walked over to him.
'Take a look,' Fournier said, handing him a three-by-five photo. 'Is this her?'
Not wanting to give anything away, Eddie set his features before looking. He felt a sinking sensation as he recognized the blurred face. She'd lost weight since he'd last seen her, but no question: Weezy.
So soon? They'd sent out the fax only yesterday.
He tried to guess where they'd taken it-on a street, in a restaurant?-but it was so closely cropped he couldn't tell.
What to do? How about stonewalling?
'I'm not saying. Because the Order still hasn't explained its interest in her.'
Fournier shrugged as he took back the photo. 'That is not my decision.' He held up the photo. 'So… you are saying this is not your sister?'
'Keep looking.' Eddie was ready to turn away when something occurred to him. 'Oh, by the way… as I was waiting around at the Lodge, I overhead a couple of people talking about 'Jihad.' I thought that an odd thing for a couple of Kickers to be discussing.'
Fournier frowned. 'Jihad? I have not heard any talk of this. Just chatter, I am sure. I know of no Muslims who are Kickers. I do not think they would be allowed in.'
'Well, no one can know everything about every Kicker.'
'No.' He looked Eddie in the eye. 'No one can know everything about anyone, n'est-ce pas?'
11
Munir paced his apartment, going from room to room, cursing himself. Such a fool! Such an idiot! But he couldn't help it. He'd lost control. When he'd looked back and seen that man walk up to the paper bag and reach inside it, all rationality had fled. The only thing left in his mind had been the sight of Robby's little finger tumbling out of that envelope last night.
After that, everything was a blur.
The phone began to ring.
Oh, no! It's him. Please, Allah, let him be satisfied. Grant him mercifulness.
He lifted the receiver and heard the voice.
'Quite a show you put on there, Mooo-neeer.'
'Please. I was upset. You've seen my severed finger. Now will you let my family go?'
'Now just hold on there a minute, Mooo-neeer. I saw a finger go flying through the air, but I don't know for sure if it was your finger.'
Munir froze with the receiver jammed against his ear.
'Wh-what do you mean?'
'I mean, how do I know that was a real finger? How do I know it wasn't one of those fake rubber things you buy in the five-and-dime?'
'It was real! I swear it! You saw how your man reacted!'
'He was just a wino, Mooo-neeer. Scared of his own shadow. What's he know?'
'Oh, please! You must believe me!'
'Well, I would, Mooo-neeer. Really, I would. Except for the way you grabbed him afterward. Now it's bad enough you went after him, but I'm willing to overlook that. I'm far more generous about forgiving mistakes than you are, Mooo-neeer. But what bothers me is the way you grabbed him. You used both your hands the same.'
Munir felt his blood congealing, sludging through his arteries and veins.
'What do you mean?'
'Well, I got a problem with seeing a man who just chopped off one of his fingers doing that, Mooo-neeer. I mean, you grabbed him like you had two good hands. And that bothers me, Mooo-neeer. Sorely bothers me.'
'Please. I swear-'
'Swearing ain't good enough, I'm afraid. Seeing is believing. And I believe I saw a man with two good hands out there this morning.'
'No. Really…'
'So I'm gonna have to send you another package, Mooo-neeer.'
'Oh, no! Don't-'
'Yep. A little memento from your wife.'
'Please, no.'
He told Munir what that memento would be, then he clicked off.
'No!'
Munir jammed his knuckles into his mouth and screamed into his fist.
'NOOOOO!'
12
Jack stood outside Richard Hollander's door.
No sweat getting into the building. The address in the personnel file had led Jack to a rundown walk-up in the far west Forties. He'd checked the mailboxes in the dingy vestibule and found R. HOLLANDER listed for 3B. A few quick strokes with the notched credit card Jack kept handy, and he was in.
He knocked-not quite pounding, but with enough urgency to bring even the most cautious resident to the peephole.
Three tries, no answer. Jack pulled out his bump key set and checked out the deadbolt. A Quickset. He found a Quickset bumper and inserted it. These were so much better than the standard rake-and-tension-bar method he'd learned as a kid. He was rusty at that anyway. Might have taken him up to a minute that way, and a minute was a long time when you were standing in an open hallway fiddling with someone's lock-the closest a fully-clothed man could come to feeling naked in public.
He took off his shoe, gave the bump key a gentle tap as he twisted, and the cylinder turned. He drew his Kel- Tec backup and entered in a crouch.
Quiet. Didn't take long to check out the one-bedroom apartment. Empty. He started to toss the place.
Neat. The bed was made, the furniture dusted, clothes folded in the bureau drawers, no dirty dishes in the sink. Hollander either had a maid or was a neatnik. People who could afford maids didn't live in this building; that made him a neatnik. Not what Jack had expected from a guy who got fired because he couldn't get the job done.
