march over the private services made for an efficient system of communication. It also had the advantage of bypassing law enforcement, the general media, and municipal government, who only got wind of the event when it was too late to stop it.
“It’s been a long time,” Mrs. Wisher was saying, “a very long time since a child could walk in New York City without fear. But now, even adults are afraid. We’re afraid to walk the streets, to stroll through the park… to ride the subway.”
An angry murmur rose at this reference to the recent massacre. Smithback added his own voice to the crowd’s, knowing that Mrs. Wisher had probably never hung from a strap in her life.
“Tonight!” she cried suddenly, eyes glittering as she surveyed the crowd. “Tonight we will change all that. And we will start by taking back Central Park. At midnight we will stand, unafraid, on the Great Lawn!”
A roar rose from the crowd, growing in intensity until the pressure of it seemed almost to constrict Smithback’s chest. He turned off his cassette recorder and stuffed it into his pocket; it couldn’t handle the noise, and besides, he wouldn’t need any help remembering this event. He knew that, by now, other journalists would have arrived in force, national as well as local. But he, Smithback, was the only journalist with exclusive access to Anette Wisher, the only reporter provided with details of the march. Not long before, a special afternoon edition of the
The sun had fallen behind the towers and minarets of Central Park West, and a warm summer evening was gathering in the air. Mrs. Wisher lit a small candle, then nodded to the clergymen to do the same.
“Friends,” she said, holding the candle above her head, “let our small lights, and our small voices, unite into one raging bonfire and one unmistakable roar. We have but one goal, a goal that cannot be ignored or resisted: to
As the crowd took up the chant, Mrs. Wisher moved forward into Grand Army Plaza. With a final shove, Smithback forced himself past the front row and into the small entourage. It was like being inside the eye of a hurricane.
Mrs. Wisher turned toward him. “I’m delighted you could make it, Bill,” she said, as calmly as if Smithback were attending a tea party.
“Delighted to be here,” Smithback replied, grinning widely in return.
As they moved slowly past the Plaza Hotel and onto Central Park South, Smithback turned back to watch the great mass of people swinging in behind them, like some vast serpent sliding its bulk along the boundaries of the park. Now he could see more people ahead of them as well, flowing out from Sixth and Seventh Avenues, coming down to join them from the west. There was a healthy scattering of old-monied blue bloods in the crowd, sedate and gray. But Smithback could see growing masses of the young men Kozinsky had been talking about—bond salesmen, bank AVPs, brawny-looking commodity traders—drinking, whistling, cheering, and looking as if they were spoiling for action. He remembered how little it had taken to rouse them into throwing bottles at the mayor, and he wondered just how much control Wisher could exert on the crowd if things got ugly.
The drivers of the vehicles along Central Park South had given up honking and had left their vehicles to watch or join the throng, but a vast caterwauling of horns was still rising from the direction of Columbus Circle. Smithback breathed deeply, drinking in the chaos like fine wine.
A young man hustled up to Mrs. Wisher. “It’s the mayor,” he panted, holding out a cellular phone.
Tucking the microphone into her purse, Mrs. Wisher took the phone. “Yes?” she said coolly, without breaking stride. There was a long silence. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but the time for permits is long past. You don’t seem to realize this city is in an emergency. And we’re putting you on notice. This is your final chance to bring peace to our streets.” There was a pause while she listened, placing a hand over her free ear to shut out the noise of the crowd. “I’m grieved to hear that the march is hindering your policemen. And I’m pleased to know that the Chief of Police is mounting some operation of his own. But let me ask you a question. Where were your policemen when my Pamela was murdered? Where were your—”
She listened impatiently. “No. Absolutely not. The city is drowning in crime and you are threatening
She handed the phone back to her assistant. “If he calls again, tell him I’m engaged.”
She turned to Smithback, slipping one hand into his arm. “This next stop is the site where my daughter was killed. I need to be strong for this, Bill. You’ll help me, won’t you?”
Smithback licked his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
D’AGOSTA FOLLOWED Margo down a dusty, poorly lit hall on the first floor of the Museum. Once part of an ancient exhibit, the hall had been sealed from public view for years, and was now used primarily as overflow storage space for the mammalian collection. Various stuffed beasts, in postures of attack or defense, lined both sides of the narrow corridor. D’Agosta nearly snagged his jacket on the claw of a rearing grizzly. He found himself keeping his arms close to his sides to avoid brushing against the rest of the moldering specimens.
As they rounded a corner into a cul-de-sac, D’Agosta saw a huge stuffed elephant dead ahead, its much- repaired gray skin tattering and flaking. Beneath its massive belly, hidden in shadow, was the two-story metal door of a freight elevator.
“We gotta make this quick,” he said as Margo pressed the elevator button. “One Police Plaza has been mobilizing all afternoon. Looks like they’re getting ready to storm the Normandy beaches. Besides that, there’s some kind of surprise rally by Take Back Our City forming along Fifth Avenue.” There was a smell in the air that reminded him of certain summer crime scenes he’d visited.
“The preparation lab is just down the hall,” Margo said, watching as D’Agosta’s nose wrinkled. “They must be macerating a specimen.”
