One of them bit off part of his ear.

Wickedly pointed little teeth sank into his chin.

He heard himself mouthing the same pathetic pleas that he had heard from Ross Morrant. Then the darkness grew deeper and an eternal silence settled over him.

PART ONE.

Wednesday, 7:53 A.M.-3:30 P.M.

Holy men tell us life is a mystery.

They embrace that concept happily.

But some mysteries bite and bark and come to get you in the dark.

-The Book of Counted Sorrows A rain of shadows, a storm, a squall!

Daylight retreats; night swallows all.

If good is bright, if evil is gloom, high evil walls the world entombs.

Now comes the end, the drear, Darkfall.

-The Book of Counted Sorrows

Chapter One.

I.

The next morning, the first thing Rebecca said to Jack Dawson was, "We have two stiffs."

"Huh?"

"Two corpses."

"I know what stiffs are," he said.

"The call just came in."

"Did you order two stiffs?"

"Be serious."

"I didn't order two stiffs." didn't order two stiffs."

"Uniforms are already on the scene," she said.

"Our Shift doesn't start for seven minutes."

"You want me to say we won't be going out there because it was thoughtless of them to die this early in the morning?"

"Isn't there at least time for polite chit- chat?" he asked.

"No."

"See, the way it should be* you're supposed to say, 'Good morning, Detective Dawson.' And then I say, 'Good morning, Detective Chandler.' Then you say, 'How're you this morning?' And then I wink and say- "

She frowned. "It's the same as the other two, Jack. b.l.o.o.d.y and strange. Just like the one Sunday and the one yesterday. But this time it's two two men. Both with crime family connections from the sound of it." men. Both with crime family connections from the sound of it."

Standing in the grubby police squad room, half out of his heavy gray overcoat, a smile incompletely formed, Jack Dawson stared at her in disbelief. He wasn't surprised that there had been another murder or two. He was a homicide detective; there was always always another murder. Or two. He wasn't even surprised that there was another another murder. Or two. He wasn't even surprised that there was another strange strange murder; after all, this was New York City. What he couldn't believe was her att.i.tude, the way she was treating him-this morning of all mornings. murder; after all, this was New York City. What he couldn't believe was her att.i.tude, the way she was treating him-this morning of all mornings.

"Better put your coat back on," she said.

"Rebecca-"

"They're expecting us."

"Rebecca, last night-"

"Another weird one," she said, s.n.a.t.c.hing up, her purse from the top of a battered desk.

"Didn't we-"

"We've sure got a sick one on our hands this time," she said, heading for the door. "Really sick."

"Rebecca-"

She stopped in the doorway and shook her head. "You know what I wish sometimes?"

He stared at her.

She said, "Sometimes I wish I'd marred Tiny Taylor. Right now, I'd be up there in Connecticut, snug in my all- electric kitchen, having coffee and Danish, the kids off to school for the day, the twice-a-week maid taking care of the housework, looking forward to lunch at the country club with the girls*"

Why is she doing this to me? he wondered.

She noticed that he was still half out of his coat, and she said, "Didn't you hear me, Jack? We've got a call to answer."

"Yeah. I-"

"We've got two more stiffs."

She left the squad room, which was colder and shabbier for her departure.

He sighed.

He shrugged back into his coat.

He followed her.

II.

Jack felt gray and washed out, partly because Rebecca was being so strange, but also because the day itself was gray, and he was always sensitive to the weather. The sky was flat and hard and gray. Manhattan's piles of stone, steel, and concrete were all gray and stark. The bare-limbed trees were ash- colored; they looked as if they had been severely scorched by a long- extinguished fire.

He got out of the unmarked sedan, half a block off Park Avenue, and a raw gust of wind hit him in the face. The December air had a faint tomb-dank smell. He jammed his hands into the deep pockets of his overcoat.

Rebecca Chandler got out of the driver's side and slammed the door. Her long blond hair streamed behind her in the wind. Her coat was unb.u.t.toned; it flapped around her legs. She didn't seem bothered by the chill or by the omnipresent grayness that had settled like soot over the entire city.

Viking woman, Jack thought. Stoical. Resolute. And just look at that profile!

Hers was the n.o.ble, cla.s.sic, feminine face that seafarers had once carved on the prows of their ships, ages ago, when such beauty was thought to have sufficient power to ward off the evils of the sea and the more vicious whims of fate.

Reluctantly, he took his eyes from Rebecca and looked at the three patrol cars that were angled in at the curb. On one of them, the red emergency beacons were flashing, the only spot of vivid color in this drab day.

Harry Ulbeck, a uniformed officer of Jack's acquaintance, was standing on the steps in front of the handsome, Georgian-style, brick townhouse where the murders had occurred. He was wearing a dark blue regulation greatcoat, a woolen scarf, and gloves, but he was still shivering.

From the look on Harry's face, Jack could see it wasn't the cold weather bothering him. Harry Ulbeck was chilled by what he had seen inside the townhouse.

"Bad one?" Rebecca asked.

Harry nodded. "The worst, Lieutenant."

He was only twenty-three or twenty-four, but at the moment he appeared years older; his face was drawn, pinched.

"Who're the deceased?" Jack asked.

"Guy named Vincent Vastagliano and his bodyguard, Ross Morrant."

Jack drew his shoulders up and tucked his head down as a vicious gust of wind blasted through the street. "Rich neighborhood," he said.

"Wait till you see inside," Harry said. "It's like a Fifth Avenue antique shop in there."

"Who found the bodies?" Rebecca asked.

"A woman named Sh.e.l.ly Parker. She's a real looker. Vastagliano's girlfriend, I think."

"She here now?"

"Inside. But I doubt she'll be much help. You'll probably get more out of Nevetski and Blaine."

Standing tall in the shifting wind, her coat still unb.u.t.toned, Rebecca said, "Nevetski and Blaine? Who're they?"

"Narcotics," Harry said. "They were running a stakeout on this Vastagliano."

"And he got killed right under their noses?" Rebecca asked.

"Better not put it quite like that when you talk to them," Harry warned. "They're touchy as h.e.l.l about it. I mean, it wasn't just the two of them. They were in charge of a six-man team, watching all the entrances to the house. Had the place sealed tight. But somehow somebody got in anyway, killed Vastagliano and and his bodyguard, and got out again without being seen. Makes poor Nevetski and Blaine look like they were sleeping." his bodyguard, and got out again without being seen. Makes poor Nevetski and Blaine look like they were sleeping."

Jack felt sorry for them.

Rebecca didn't. She said, "Well, d.a.m.nit, they won't get any sympathy from me. It sounds as if they were were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around." s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around."

"I don't think so," Harry Ulbeck said. "They were really shocked. They swear they had the house covered."

"What else would you expect them to say?" Rebecca asked sourly.

"Always give a fellow officer the benefit of the doubt," Jack admonished her.

"Oh, yeah?" she said. "Like h.e.l.l. I don't believe in blind loyalty. I don't expect it; don't give it. I've known good cops, more than a few, and if I know know they're good, I'll do anything to help them. But I've also known some real jerks who couldn't be trusted to put their pants on with the fly in front." they're good, I'll do anything to help them. But I've also known some real jerks who couldn't be trusted to put their pants on with the fly in front."

Harry blinked at her.

She said, "I won't be surprised if Nevetski and Blaine are two of those types, the ones who walk around with zippers up their b.u.t.ts."

Jack sighed.

Harry stared at Rebecca, astonished.

A dark, unmarked van pulled to the curb. Three men got out, one with a camera case, the other two with small suitcases.

"Lab men're here," Harry said.

The new arrivals hurried along the sidewalk, toward the townhouse. Something about their sharp faces and squinted eyes made them seem like a trio of stilt-legged birds eagerly rushing toward a new piece of carrion.

Jack Dawson shivered.

The wind shook the day again. Along the street, the stark branches of the leafless trees rattled against one another. That sound brought to mind a Halloween-like image of animated skeletons engaged in a macabre dance.

III.

The a.s.sistant medical examiner and two other men from the pathology lab were in the kitchen, where Ross Morrant, the bodyguard, was sprawled in a mess of blood, mayonnaise, mustard, and salami. He had been attacked and killed while preparing a midnight snack.

On the second floor of the townhouse, in the master bathroom, blood patterned every surface, decorated every corner: sprays of blood, streaks of it, smears and drops; b.l.o.o.d.y handprints on the walls and on the edge of the tub.

Jack and Rebecca stood at the doorway, peering in, touching nothing. Everything had to remain undisturbed until the lab men were finished.

Vincent Vastagliano, fully clothed, lay jammed between the tub and sink, his head resting against the base of the toilet. He had been a big man, somewhat flabby, with dark hair and bushy eyebrows. His slacks and shirt were blood soaked. One eye had been torn from its socket. The other was open wide, staring sightlessly. One hand was clenched; the other was open, relaxed. His face, neck, and hands were marked by dozens of small wounds. His clothes had been ripped in at least fifty or sixty places, and through those narrow rents in the fabric, other dark and b.l.o.o.d.y injuries could be seen.

"Worse than the other three," Rebecca said.

"Much."