We’d all spent the day together in Hill’s penthouse apartment while he dismantled and repurposed the wide array of communications equipment clogging the main room. I found Winslow annoying in his insistence on turning any topic of conversation to himself, which might have been fine if he’d had an interesting life, but he hadn’t. Most of his existence had been spent sitting alone in a room typing. His favorite subject seemed to be the supposedly wonderful novella he’d written about his stay in a parallel world, but that, again, was about himself. The only topic he seemed to like more was Hari. He kept asking about her—I sensed he’d developed an instant crush—but the three of us had met her only shortly before he had, so we couldn’t add much. That didn’t stop him from pestering us about her.
To get away from him I spent much of the afternoon watching the cable news channels, desperate for an explanation as to why the sun had risen late, but all I found were talking heads with impressive degrees who offered nothing but spews of empty speculation.
Ellie had immersed herself in Burbank’s—the original Burbank’s—hoard of antiquarian books. She stayed behind when the three of us went out to eat. Hill led us to a cozy bistro he frequented. I grabbed the check and insisted on paying since he was hosting us in his apartment. As the two of us argued about who would pay, Winslow ordered a coffee and Kahlua.
Back at the penthouse we anxiously watched the sun slide down the western sky. Sunset was scheduled for 8:06 but the orange globe was gone by 7:55. A fearful nausea rippled through me and I was afraid I’d lose the shrimp and capellini I’d had for dinner. We’d lost sixteen minutes of daylight today. I had a crawling certainty that tomorrow would be worse. Where would it end?
That was when Ellie had begun herding us down to Central Park to “see the show.” Typically, she refused to say just what that show might be.
So now the four of us waited in silence, lost in our own thoughts. Well, make that three of us.
“The sun rose five minutes late this morning and set eleven minutes early tonight,” Winslow said, restating the obvious. “That’s the kind of stuff I wrote about in Dark Apocalypse, the novel Septimus didn’t want me to publish.”
“You mentioned that before,” I said. “And you say they sent someone to kill you?”
He had to be mistaken. Ellie and I had been to the Septimus Lodge earlier. Although I’d stayed outside, and had no idea what had transpired within, I doubted they or anyone else would have reason to kill this inconsequential man.
“Yep,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt and puffing up his chest. “I’m guessing I got just a leeetle too close to the truth about them.”
Hill said, “I think I’m going to head back to the penthouse. I’ve got a good view from there.”
“No, wait,” Ellie said. “It won’t be the same as being—”
“Hey!” Winslow said, pointing toward the Sheep Meadow. “Isn’t that Hari?”
I squinted through the dimness and made out her form moving about in the center of the field.
“She shouldn’t be out there,” Ellie said. “Someone get her and bring her back here—now, before it’s too late.”
Too late for what? I wondered as Winslow took off running.
Yes, he did indeed have a crush on Hari.
HARI
Hari stopped dead center on the Sheep Meadow.
What the hell am I doing? she thought. I’ve gone certifiably nuts.
Earlier she’d come out to locate the spot in daylight, then she’d left a marker—a miniature American flag—stuck in the grass. Once night had fallen, she’d had trouble finding the little flag, but she’d managed. And now she claimed her spot.
For what? Revenge on a killer?
Belgiovene’s initial reaction to her call had been shock. Only a very select few had his number. Hari had barreled on before he could hang up. It had taken a lot of cajoling and even threatening to convince him to meet her face to face. After all, the whole idea of operating from the dark net was the anonymity it afforded. But Donny’s painstaking and laser-sharp research had provided her with enough info to convince him that his anonymity was a fiction where she was concerned. She had his phone number, she had his address, she knew of his Septimus connection, and even knew that he’d botched his last assignment against a certain writer.
That had been the clincher. No one was supposed to know about the Winslow hit and it convinced him that Hari had somehow opened a direct line into his life. She neglected to mention she’d heard it from the writer himself.
She convinced Belgiovene she wanted to hire him, but only on a face-to-face basis with payment in old-fashioned cold hard cash.
After much hemming and hawing and ranting and raving, he’d finally agreed, probably thinking no one could pull a fast one on him out here in the wide-open space of the Sheep Meadow. But he’d be standing directly over the Prime Frequency generator, with no idea of what lurked below and what it could do.
At least what Hari had been told it could do.
Hari had survived some horrifying experiences in the past twenty-four hours, yet none so unforgettable as giant spider legs springing from a young girl’s back as she pulled on that subterranean door. What sort of madness had spawned that?
And yet the girl herself seemed unperturbed. A different story with her mother. Barbara had blamed the Prime Frequency for changing Ellie, had even attacked the generator.
But if the Prime Generator could do that to Ellie, what would it do to Belgiovene? Would it do anything?
Crazy.
But not as crazy as meeting a contract killer face to face in Central Park.
Knowing things could go south very suddenly tonight,
