Jack and Rebecca headed back toward Vastagliano's place and were almost there when someone called to them. Jack turned and saw Harry Ulbeck, the young officer who had earlier been on watch at the top of Vastagliano's front steps; Harry was leaning out of one of the three black-and-whites that were parked at the curb. He said something, but the wind ripped his words into meaningless sounds. Jack went to the car, bent down to the open window, and said, "Sorry, Harry, I didn't hear what you said," and his breath smoked out of him in cold white plumes.

"Just came over the radio," Harry said. "They want you right away. You and Detective Chandler."

"Want us for what?"

"Looks as if it's part of this case you're working on. There's been more killing. More like this here. Maybe even worse* even bloodier."

VII.

Their eyes weren't at all like eyes should be. They looked, instead, like slots in a furnace grate, providing glimpses of the fire beyond. A silver-white fire. These eyes contained no irises, no pupils, as did human and animal eyes. There was just that fierce glow, the white light from within them, pulsing and flickering.

The creature on the stairs moved down from the last step, onto the cellar floor. It edged toward Penny, then stopped, stared up at her.

She couldn't move back even one more inch. Already, one of the metal shelves pressed painfully across her shoulder blades.

Suddenly she realized the music had stopped. The cellar was silent. Had been silent for some time. Perhaps for as long as half a minute. Frozen by terror, she hadn't reacted immediately when Frosty the Snowman Frosty the Snowman was concluded. was concluded.

Belatedly she opened her mouth to scream for help, but the piano started up again. This time the tune was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which was even louder than the first song.

The thing at the foot of the stairs continued to glare at her, and although its eyes were utterly different from the eyes of a tiger, she was nevertheless reminded of a picture of a tiger that she'd seen in a magazine. The eyes in that photograph and these strange eyes looked absolutely nothing alike, yet they had something in common: They were the eyes of predators.

Even though her vision was beginning to adjust somewhat to the darkness, Penny still couldn't see what the creatures looked like, couldn't tell whether they were well-armed with teeth and claws. There were only the menacing, unblinking eyes, adance with white flame.

In the cellar to her right, the other creatures began to move, almost as one, with a single purpose.

She swung toward them, her heart racing faster than ever, her breath caught in her throat.

From the gleam of silvery eyes, she could tell they were leaping down from the shelves where they'd perched.

They're coming for me.

The two on the work table jumped to the floor.

Penny screamed as loud as she could.

The music didn't stop. Didn't even miss a beat.

No one had heard her.

Except for the one at the foot of the stairs, all the creatures had gathered into a pack. Their blazing eyes looked like a cache of diamonds spread on black velvet.

None of them advanced on her. They waited.

After a moment she turned to the stairs again.

Now, the beast at the bottom of the stairs moved, too. But it didn't come toward her. It darted into the cellar and joined the others of its kind.

The stairs were clear, though dark.

It's a trick.

As far as she could see, there was nothing to prevent her from climbing the stairs as fast as she could.

It's a trap.

But there was no need for them to set a trap. She was already already trapped. They could have rushed her at any time. They could have killed her if they'd wanted to kill her. trapped. They could have rushed her at any time. They could have killed her if they'd wanted to kill her.

The flickering ice-white eyes watched her.

Mrs. March pounded on the piano.

The kids sang.

Penny bolted away from the shelves, dashed to the stairs, and clambered upward. Step by step she expected the things to bite her heels, latch onto her, and drag her down. She stumbled once, almost fell back to the bottom, grabbed the railing with her free hand, and kept going. The top step. The landing. Fumbling in the dark for the doork.n.o.b, finding it. The hallway. Light, safety. She slammed the door behind her. Leaned on it. Gasping.

In the music room, they were still singing Rudolph the Red- Nosed Reindeer Rudolph the Red- Nosed Reindeer.

The corridor was deserted.

Dizzy, weak in the legs, Penny slid down and sat on the floor, her back against the door. She let go of the carry-all. She had been gripping it so tightly that the handle had left its mark across her palm. Her hand ached.

The song ended.

Another song began. Silver Bells Silver Bells.

Gradually, Penny regained her strength, calmed herself, and was able to think clearly. What were were those hideous little things? Where did they come from? What did they want from her? those hideous little things? Where did they come from? What did they want from her?

Thinking clearly wasn't any help. She couldn't come up with a single acceptable answer.

A lot of really dumb answers kept occurring to her, however: goblins, gremlins, ogres* Cripes. It couldn't be anything like that. This was real life, not a fairy tale.

How could she ever tell anyone about her experience in the cellar without seeming childish or, worse, even slightly crazy? Of course, grown-ups didn't like to use the term "crazy" with children. You could be as nuts as a walnut tree, babble like a loon, chew on furniture, set fire to cats, and talk to brick walls, and as long as you were still a kid, the worst they'd say about you-in public, at least-was that you were "emotionally disturbed," although what they meant by that was "crazy." If she told Mr. Quillen or her father or any other adult about the things she had seen in the school bas.e.m.e.nt, everyone would think she was looking for attention and pity; they'd figure she hadn't yet adjusted to her mother's death. For a few months after her mother pa.s.sed away, Penny had had been in bad shape, confused, angry, frightened, a problem to her father and to herself. She had needed help for a while. Now, if she told them about the things in the bas.e.m.e.nt, they would think she needed help again. They would send her to a "counselor," who would actually be a psychologist or some other kind of head doctor, and they'd do their best for her, give her all sorts of attention and sympathy and treatment, but they simply wouldn't been in bad shape, confused, angry, frightened, a problem to her father and to herself. She had needed help for a while. Now, if she told them about the things in the bas.e.m.e.nt, they would think she needed help again. They would send her to a "counselor," who would actually be a psychologist or some other kind of head doctor, and they'd do their best for her, give her all sorts of attention and sympathy and treatment, but they simply wouldn't believe believe her-until, with their own eyes, they saw such things as she had seen. her-until, with their own eyes, they saw such things as she had seen.

Or until it was too late for her.

Yes, they'd all believe then then-when she was dead.

She had no doubt whatsoever that the fiery-eyed things would try to kill her, sooner or later. She didn't know why why they wanted to take her life, but she sensed their evil intent, their hatred. They hadn't harmed her yet, true, but they were growing bolder. Last night, the one in her bedroom hadn't damaged anything except the plastic baseball bat she'd poked at it, but by this morning, they had grown bold enough to destroy the contents of her locker. And now, bolder still, they had revealed themselves and had threatened her. they wanted to take her life, but she sensed their evil intent, their hatred. They hadn't harmed her yet, true, but they were growing bolder. Last night, the one in her bedroom hadn't damaged anything except the plastic baseball bat she'd poked at it, but by this morning, they had grown bold enough to destroy the contents of her locker. And now, bolder still, they had revealed themselves and had threatened her.

What next?

Something worse.

They enjoyed her terror; they fed on it. But like a cat with a mouse, they would eventually grow tired of the game. And then*

She shuddered.

What am I going to do? she wondered miserably. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

VIII.

The hotel, one of the best in the city, overlooked Central Park. It was the same hotel at which Jack and Linda had spent their honeymoon, thirteen years ago. They hadn't been able to afford the Bahamas or Florida or even the Catskills. Instead, they had remained in the city and had settled for three days at this fine old landmark, and even that that had been an extravagance. They'd had a memorable honeymoon, nevertheless, three days filled with laughter and good conversation and talk of their future and lots of loving. They'd promised themselves a trip to the Bahamas on their tenth anniversary, something to look forward to. But by the time that milestone rolled around, they had two kids to think about and a new apartment to get in order, and they renegotiated the promise, rescheduling the Bahamas for their fifteenth anniversary. Little more than a year later, Linda was dead. In the eighteen months since her funeral, Jack had often thought about the Bahamas, which were now forever spoiled for him, and about this hotel. had been an extravagance. They'd had a memorable honeymoon, nevertheless, three days filled with laughter and good conversation and talk of their future and lots of loving. They'd promised themselves a trip to the Bahamas on their tenth anniversary, something to look forward to. But by the time that milestone rolled around, they had two kids to think about and a new apartment to get in order, and they renegotiated the promise, rescheduling the Bahamas for their fifteenth anniversary. Little more than a year later, Linda was dead. In the eighteen months since her funeral, Jack had often thought about the Bahamas, which were now forever spoiled for him, and about this hotel.

The murders had been committed on the sixteenth floor, where there were now two uniformed officers-Yeager and Tufton-stationed at the elevator alcove. They weren't letting anyone through except those with police ID and those who could prove they were registered guests with lodgings on that level.

"Who were the victims?" Rebecca asked Yeager. "Civilians?"

"Nope," Yeager said. He was a lanky man with enormous yellow teeth. Every time he paused, he probed at his teeth with his tongue, licked and pried at them. "Two of them were pretty obviously professional muscle."

"You know the type," Tufton said as Yeager paused to probe again at his teeth. "Tall, big hands, big arms; you could break ax handles across their necks, and they'd think it was just a sudden breeze."

"The third one," Yeager said, "was one of the Carramazzas." He paused; his tongue curled out, over his upper teeth, swept back and forth. "One of the immediate family, too." He scrubbed his tongue over his lowers. "In fact- " Probe, probe. "-it's Dominick Carramazza."

"Oh, s.h.i.t!" Jack said. "Gennaro's brother? brother?"

"Yeah, the G.o.dfather's little brother, his favorite brother, his right hand," Tufton said quickly, before Yeager started to answer. Tufton was a fast-spoken man with a sharp face, an angular body, and quick movements, brisk and efficient gestures. Yeager's slowness must be a constant irritant to him, Jack thought. "And they didn't just kill him. They tore him up bad. There isn't any mortician alive who can put Dominick back together well enough for an open-casket funeral, and you know how important funerals are to these Sicilians."

"There'll be blood in the streets now," Jack said wearily.

"Gang war like we haven't seen in years," Tufton agreed.

Rebecca said, "Dominick*? Wasn't he the one who was in the news all summer?"

"Yeah," Yeager said. "The D.A. thought he had him nailed for-"

When Yeager paused to swab his yellowed teeth with his big pink tongue, Tufton quickly said, "Trafficking in narcotics. He's in charge of the entire Carramazza narcotics operation. They've been trying to put him in the stir for twenty years, maybe longer, but he's a fox. He always walks out of the courtroom a free man."

"What was he doing here in the hotel?" Jack wondered.

"I think he was hiding out," Tufton said.

"Registered under a phony name," Yeager said.

Tufton said, "Holed up here with those two apes to protect him. They must've known he was targeted, but he was. .h.i.t anyway."

"Hit?" Yeager said scornfully. He paused to tend to his teeth and made an unpleasant sucking sound. Then: "h.e.l.l, this was more than just a hit. This was total devastation. This was crazy, totally off the wall; that's what this this was. Christ, if I didn't know better, I'd say these three here had been was. Christ, if I didn't know better, I'd say these three here had been chewed chewed, just chewed to pieces."

The scene of the crime was a two-room suite. The door had been broken down by the first officers to arrive. An a.s.sistant medical examiner, a police photographer, and a couple of lab technicians were at work in both rooms.

The parlor, decorated entirely in beige and royal blue, was elegantly appointed with a stylish mixture of French provincial and understated contemporary furniture. The room would have been warm and welcoming if it hadn't been thoroughly splattered with blood.

The first body was sprawled on the parlor floor, on its back, beside an overturned, oval-shaped coffee table. A man in his thirties. Tall, husky. His dark slacks were torn. His white shirt was torn, too, and much of it was stained crimson. He was in the same condition as Vastagliano and Ross: savagely bitten, mutilated.

The carpet around the corpse was saturated with blood, but the battle hadn't been confined to that small portion of the room. A trail of blood, weaving and erratic, led from one end of the parlor to the other, then back again; it was the route the panicked victim had taken in a futile attempt to escape from and slough off his attackers.

Jack felt sick.

"It's a d.a.m.ned slaughterhouse," Rebecca said.

The dead man had been packing a gun. His shoulder holster was empty. A silencer-equipped.38 pistol was at his side.

Jack interrupted one of the lab technicians who was moving slowly around the parlor, collecting blood samples from various stains. "You didn't touch the gun?"

"Of course not," the technician said. "We'll take it back to the lab in a plastic bag, see if we can work up any prints."

"I was wondering if it'd been fired," Jack said.

"Well, that's almost a sure thing. We've found four expended sh.e.l.l casings."

"Same caliber as this weapon?"

"Yep."

"Find any of the loads?" Rebecca asked.

"All four," the technician said. He pointed: "Two in that wall, one in the door frame over there, and one right through the upholstery b.u.t.ton on the back of that armchair."

"So it looks as if he didn't hit whatever he was shooting at," Rebecca said.

"Probably not. Four sh.e.l.l casings, four slugs. Everything's been neatly accounted for."

Jack said, "How could he have missed four times in such close quarters?"

"d.a.m.ned if I know," the technician said. He shrugged and went back to work.

The bedroom was even bloodier than the parlor. Two dead men shared it.

There were two living men, as well. A police photographer was snapping the bodies from every angle. An a.s.sistant medical examiner named Brendan Mulgrew, a tall, thin man with a prominent Adam's apple, was studying the positions of both corpses.

One of the victims was on the king-size bed, his head at the foot of it, his bare feet pointed toward the headboard, one hand at his torn throat, the other hand at his side, the palm turned up, open. He was wearing a bathrobe and a suit of blood.

"Dominick Carramazza," Jack said.

Looking at the ruined face, Rebecca said, "How can you tell?"

"Just barely."

The other dead man was on the floor, flat on his stomach, head turned to one side, face torn to ribbons. He was dressed like the one in the parlor: white shirt open at the neck, dark slacks, a shoulder holster.

Jack turned away from the gouged and oozing flesh. His stomach had gone sour; an acid burning etched its way up from his gut to a point under his heart. He fumbled in his coat pocket for a roll of Tums.

Both of the victims in the bedroom had been armed. But guns had been of no more help to them than to the man in the parlor.

The cadaver on the floor was still clutching a silencer-equipped pistol, which was as illegal as a howitzer at a presidential press conference. It was like the gun on the floor in the first room.

The man on the bed hadn't been able to hold on to his weapon. It was lying on the tangled sheets and blankets.

"Smith & Wesson.357 Magnum," Jack said. "Powerful enough to blow a hole as big as a fist right through anyone in its way."