Jungle Of Steel And Stone

but brightly decorated one-bedroom apartment. There were a number of paintings, most of them reflecting religious themes. On one wall hung a huge crucifix. Another wall was covered by a montage of photographs of Reyna as a child, a man and woman Veil assumed were her parents, and a gathering of tribesmen he recognized as K'ung.

Reyna went into the kitchen to make coffee. When she returned, she found Veil leaning on a table; before him was a section of a map of New York City—Manhattan, with Central Park as its rectangular, emerald-green heart.

'Toby went into the park here,' Veil said, pointing to Fifth Avenue and Sixty-ninth Street. 'I think we can assume he also came out about the same place, since the mugger was killed near there. He stayed in the park, near water and living on, say, dog meat until his wound had healed sufficiently for him to travel. Now he knows where he wants to go—or he thinks he knows where he wants to go. There were reported sightings all over the city, but most of those are due to the mass hysteria you mentioned.' Veil paused and moved his finger to the island in the middle of the East River. 'One of the reports came from a security guard on Roosevelt Island. That, I believe, was the only accurate sighting. There's no way of knowing how he got across the river; he certainly didn't get swimming lessons in the Kalahari. He could have crossed hand over hand on the tramway cable or managed to float across on debris. He may even have floated across on the Nal-toon. What I am sure of is that he's heading southeast. He's clever and incredibly strong-willed; if he needed to get across the river, he'd have found a way.

'I know a few things about so-called 'primitive tribesmen,' Reyna. Toby may be a savage on the loose in the city, but he's not lost—at least not in the sense that he's forced to wander around aimlessly. This is a man who can hunt for days in open desert and still find his way back to his tribe's camp. The sun was low in the sky when you picked him up, and it didn't set until just after you'd reached Victor's gallery. The setting sun is the only point of reference Toby needed to orient himself.'

Veil unfolded another section of the map, which showed the borough of Queens. With his index finger he traced along the red line he had drawn from Roosevelt Island through Queens to a large X in the middle of a purple patch of color next to Jamaica Bay.

John F. Kennedy International Airport.

Veil glanced up at Reyna, who slowly nodded. 'You do know,' Reyna said softly. 'Poor Toby. He thinks that all he has to do is get back to the airport in order to be transported home.'

'As in most primitive tribes, K'ung learning is probably almost entirely experiential and literal. Toby will use what he knows, just as he does in the desert. In Toby's mind a plane—something he probably thinks of as magical, a device provided for his personal benefit by the Nal-toon—brought him here, so one will be waiting to take him home—if he can get to the place where it's kept. Getting there is the trial that you mentioned.'

'Yes.' Reyna sighed as she sat down on the floor and rested her head against a table leg. 'I believe that's what Toby is thinking, and what he's trying to do. But then, I know the K'ung very well. You don't. How did you come up with this idea?'

'Dreams. Deduction. Knowledge flying on the wings of imagination. Just a bit of inspired guesswork. His route is thirteen miles as the crow flies, which is precisely the way he'll be going. We have to find him before someone else does, or before he shows up at JFK and tries to walk on a plane.'

'He'll be very careful, Veil. He'll move slowly. During these past weeks I've been back and forth over that route, trying to find Toby, but also to leave totems—signs, warnings—that he can read. I'm hoping he'll read the totems, have second thoughts about what he's trying to do, go to ground, and wait for me to come around. But I don't think he will.'

'I wonder what shots he had before he left.'

'Lord, Veil, that's been one of my biggest concerns. He's probably already sick. He knows absolutely nothing about this environment. He'll continue to kill dogs or cats for food, which is all right, but there's no telling what he's been drinking or what he will drink. He has no resistance to most of our diseases, and whatever inoculations he was given will give him only limited protection. When Toby's thirsty, he drinks; he knows nothing about typhus. He could have drunk from the East River, or even from some sewage outlet.' Reyna paused, looked up at Veil. Tears welled in her eyes, flowed down her cheeks. 'I'm afraid that if Toby gets sick, he'll go to ground until he gets better—or until he dies.'

'Well, we'll just have to find him. Will you trust me now?'

'Yes.'

'Will you let me help you?'

'Yes, Veil. Thank you.'

'At least it's not all bad news. If we're right about his thinking and his plans, there couldn't possibly be a better route in all of New York City for him to follow. Look at it: He's got the railroad yards in which to hide, and then— assuming he can get through the Sunnyside section of Queens—he's going to run into hundreds of acres of cemetery. After that he's got the Long Island Expressway to cross, but then he's back into another cemetery—and a golf course after that. He's back in the open then, and probably finished, but six miles of good cover in the middle of New York City certainly isn't bad. I'll have to remember to congratulate Victor on having his gallery on Sixty-ninth Street; the angle of the setting sun from there is what gave Toby this route.' 'It's a miracle, Veil.'

'You'll get no argument from me.' Veil reached down and stroked Reyna's hair. 'You get some rest. I'll come back later this afternoon and we'll talk about the most efficient way to hunt for Toby. I'll pick up a portable tape recorder. You can tape a message. That way we can split up and cover more territory. I know he won't come to me, but at least he can hear you talking to him while I look for signs.'

He turned and headed for the door.

'Veil?'

He turned with his hand on the knob. 'Yes?'

Reyna got to her feet, then studied him in silence for a few moments. 'I have a confession to make,' she said at last.

He smiled. 'I can't wait to hear what it is.'

Reyna tugged at the sleeve of her blouse in a gesture that had by now become familiar to Veil. 'Toby isn't the only man I've been looking for over the past weeks. I've also been searching for Veil Kendry.'

Veil felt the muscles in his face stiffen, and his smile vanished. 'I don't know what you mean, Reyna.'

'For one thing, I've been back to the Raskolnikov Gallery to look at your work. You called them 'dream- paintings,' and now I see what you mean. They're haunting and beautiful, Veil—unlike anything else I've ever seen.'

Veil began to relax. 'Thank you.'

'They're 'real,' but not quite real—like a dream. And you dream like that because of the brain damage you mentioned?'

'Yes.'

'I've also been reading up on the war in Vietnam.'

Veil felt his stomach muscles begin to flutter. 'Why have you been reading up on the war?'

'I used to date a history professor at Columbia. His specialty is Southeast Asia, and he has a rather peculiar— at least, I used to think it was peculiar—obsession. He'd heard stories about a man—an American—fighting with the Hmong tribes in Laos as part of the CIA's secret war against the Pathet Lao. This man—he was said to have blond hair, incidentally—must have been a CIA agent, as well as a regular Army officer, because the CIA controlled everything that went on in Laos and Cambodia. My friend told me that this blond-haired man—if there ever was such a man, and my friend was never certain—had become a legend. None of the tribesmen my friend interviewed knew the man's name, but other research led my friend to believe that his code name may have been Archangel. As the legend goes, this man had won virtually every medal there was to win while he was fighting with the Special Forces in Vietnam. Then—'

Veil held up his right hand, palm out. It was at once a simple gesture yet complex, inasmuch as it involved a number of Zen teachings in the art of projecting mental force. It stopped Reyna cold. She closed her mouth in the middle of a sentence, then stared in bewilderment into the eyes, suddenly grown cold, of the man standing in the doorway of her apartment.

'I think we have enough to concern ourselves with, Reyna, without getting sidetracked into talking about Vietnam or half-baked war stories. I've heard dozens of stories like the one you're telling me. They're all nonsense.'