Reliquary

They winged the glasses into space, leaning over the parapet to watch as they flashed in a downward arc, landing in the pond with a splash. As he watched, Nick noticed that the sun-bathers, roller skaters, and various Park loungers were now gone, and the base of the castle was deserted. He’d better get the show on the road. Plunging his hand into his jacket pocket, he removed the box and handed it to her. He stepped backward, watching proudly as she opened it.

“Nick, my God!” she cried. “It must have cost a fortune!”

“You’re worth a fortune,” Nick smiled as she placed it on her finger, then pulled her to him and gave her a quick, hard kiss. “You know what it means?” he asked.

She turned to him, eyes shining. Over her shoulders, the gloom was starting to gather in the trees.

“Well?” he urged.

She kissed him back and whispered in his ear.

“Until death do us part, baby,” he replied, and kissed her again, longer this time, cupping one of her breasts in his hand.

“Nick!” she said, laughing and pulling away.

“There’s nobody here,” he said, placing his other hand on her rear and pulling her hips hard against his.

“Just the whole city watching,” she said.

“Let them. They might learn something.” His hand slipped inside her shirt and teased her hard little nipple as he glanced around at the encroaching darkness. “We’d better move this to my apartment,” he whispered into her ear.

She smiled, then moved away from him toward the stone stairs. Watching her, admiring the natural grace in her walk, Nick felt the expensive champagne running through his veins. Nothing like a champagne buzz, he thought. Goes straight to the head.

Straight to the bladder, too. “Hold on,” he said aloud. “I’ve got to drain the main vein.”

She turned to wait as he walked to the tower. There were rest rooms hidden on its back side, he remembered, beside the metal maintenance staircase that led up to the weather equipment and down to the pond. Under the shadow of the tower it was still; the sounds of the traffic on the East Drive seemed muffled and distant. He located the men’s room door and pushed through, unzipping his fly as he crossed the scuffed tile, past the row of dark stalls toward the bank of urinals. The room was deserted, as he knew it would be. He leaned against the cool porcelain and closed his eyes.

He opened them again quickly as a slight sound broke his champagne reverie. No, he realized; it was nothing. He laughed, shaking his head at the paranoia that was always bubbling just under the skin of even the most jaded New Yorker.

The sound came again, much louder, and he turned in surprise and fear, his dick still in his hand as he saw that someone was in one of the stalls, after all, and was coming out, fast.

Tanya waited, standing at the parapet, the night breeze quickening on her face. She felt the engagement ring, heavy and foreign on her finger. Nick was taking his sweet time. The Park was dark now, the Great Lawn deserted, the bright lights of Fifth Avenue winking off the surface of the pond.

Impatient, she walked toward the tower, then skirted around its dark bulk. The men’s room door was shut. She knocked, timidly at first, then louder.

“Nick? Hey, Nick! You in there?”

There was no sound, only the wind sighing through the trees. The wind carried a strange smell: a pungent odor that reminded her, unpleasantly, of feta cheese.

“Nick? Stop playing games.”

She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

For a moment, silence settled again over Belvedere Castle. And then the screams began: ululating, rising louder and louder as they rent the soft summer night.

= 17 =

SMITHBACK TOOK A seat at the counter of his favorite Greek coffeeshop, nodding at the griddleman for his usual breakfast order: two poached eggs on a double portion of red flannel hash. He sipped the cup of coffee that was placed in front of him, sighed contentedly, and slipped the newspapers out from under his arm. He turned first to the Post, frowning slightly as he scanned Hank McCloskey’s front- page article on the Belvedere Castle murder. His own piece on the rally at Grand Army Plaza had been demoted to page four. By rights, he should have owned the front page that day, with his story on the Museum’s involvement and the teethmark angle. But he’d promised Margo. Tomorrow would be different. Besides, maybe his forbearance would land him more scoops down the road.

The breakfast arrived and he dug into the hash with relish, putting aside the Post and cracking open the New York Times as he did so. He scanned the top headlines—tastefully understated and tidy—with derision. Then his eye, traveling below the fold, stopped at a one-column headline that read merely “Museum Beast Returns?” It was bylined Bryce Harriman, Special to the Times.

Smithback read on, the hash turning to wallpaper paste in his mouth.

August 8—Scientists at the New York Museum of Natural History are continuing their analysis of the headless corpses of Pamela Wisher and an unknown person, trying to determine if teeth marks found on the bones are the postmortem work of feral animals or possibly the cause of death itself.

The brutal murder and decapitation of Nicholas Bitterman at Belvedere Castle in Central Park yesterday evening has increased the pressure on the forensic team to find answers. Several deaths among homeless persons over the past months also may fit the pattern. It is not known if these corpses will also be brought to the Museum for analysis. Pamela Wisher’s remains have been returned to her family, and will be interred in a 3:00 P.M. service this