"Cipher, cifr, whatever you want to call him. I dreamed I was at the circus and he was the ringmaster. You were one of the clowns."

"What happened?"

"Nothing much. It was a nice dream." She sat up straight. "Harry? What has he got to do with Johnny Favorite?"

"I'm not sure. I seem to be mixed up in some sort of struggle between two magicians."

"Is cifr the man who wants you to find my father?"

"Yes."

"Harry, be careful. Don't trust him."

Can I trust you, I thought, hugging her slender shoulders. "I'll be all right."

"I love you. I don't want anything bad to happen now."

I choked back the urge to echo her words, to say I love you over and over again. "It's just a schoolgirl crush," I said, heart racing.

"I'm not a child." She stared deep into my eyes. "I gave my virginity at twelve as an offering to Baka."

"Baka?"

"An evil loa; very dangerous and bad."

"Your mother let this happen?"

"It was an honor. The most powerful houngan in Harlem performed the rite. And he was older than you by twenty years, so don't tell me I'm too young."

"I like your eyes when you get mad," I said. "They glow like embers."

"How'm I supposed to get mad at someone sweet as you?" She kissed me. I kissed her back, and we made love sitting in the overstuffed armchair surrounded by the Sunday funnies.

Later, after breakfast, I carried the stack of library books into the bedroom and stretched out with my homework. Epiphany kneeled beside me on the bed, wearing my bathrobe and her reading glasses. "Don't waste time looking at pictures," she said, taking the book from my hands and closing it. "Here." She handed me another, not much heavier than a dictionary. "The chapter I marked is all about the Black Mass. The liturgy is described in detail, everything from the backwards Latin to the virgin deflowered on the altar."

"Sounds like what happened to you."

"Yes. There are similarities. Sacrifice. The dancing. Violent passions are aroused, same as Obeah. The difference is between appeasing the force of evil and encouraging it."

"Do you really believe there's such a thing as the force of evil?"

Epiphany smiled. "Sometimes I think you're the child. Can't you feel it in your sleep at night, when cifr haunts your dreams?"

"I'd rather feel you," I said, reaching for her supple waist.

"Be serious, Harry, these aren't just another bunch of crooks. They are men of power, demonic power. If you can't defend yourself, you're lost."

"You hinting it's time to tackle the books?"

"It's nice to know what you're up against." Epiphany tapped the open page with her forefinger. "Read this chapter and the next one on invocations. Then in Crowley's book I've marked some interesting spots. The Reginald Scott you might as well skip." She stacked the books in order of importance, a hierarchy of hell, and left me to my studies.

I read until it grew dark, a do-it-yourself course in the satanic sciences. Epiphany built a fire and declined an invitation to dine at Cavanaugh's, magically reincarnating a bouillabaisse she made while I was in the hospital. We ate by firelight, shadows shifting like imps on the walls around us. There wasn't much talk; her eyes said it all. They were the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.

Even the nicest times have to end. About seven-thirty, I started getting ready for work. I dressed in jeans, a navy blue turtleneck, and a stout pair of lace-top, rubber-soled hiking boots. I loaded my black-bodied Leica with Tri-X and got the .38 out of my raincoat pocket. Epiphany, tousle-headed, watched in silence, wrapped in a blanket before the fire.

I laid everything out on the dining table: camera, two extra rolls of film, revolver, the handcuffs from my attache case, and my indispensable twirls. I added Howard Nussbaum's submaster to the key ring. In the bedroom I found a box of cartridges under my shirts and tied five extra shells in the corner of the handkerchief. I hung the Leica around my neck and pulled on a leather aviator's jacket I'd had since the war. All the service patches were removed. Nothing flashy to catch the light. It was lined with shearling and just the thing to wear on cold winter stake-outs. The Smith & Wesson went into the righthand pocket with the extra rounds; the cuffs, film, and keys went into the left.

"You forgot your invitation," Epiphany said as I reached under the blanket and pulled her close one last time.

"Don't need one. I'm crashing this party."

"What about your wallet? Think you'll need that?"

She was right. I'd left it in my jacket from the night before. We started laughing and kissing at the same time, but she broke away with a shiver and hugged the blanket tight. "Go away," she said. "Sooner you go, sooner you'll be back."

"Try not to worry," I said.

She smiled to show me everything was okay, but her eyes were large and wet. "Take care of yourself."

"That's my motto."

"I'll be waiting for you."

"Keep the chain on the door." I got my wallet and a knitted navy watch cap. "Time to go."

Epiphany ran down the hall, shedding the blanket like an emerging nymph. She kissed me long and deeply at the door. "Here," she said, pressing a small object into my hand. "Keep this with you always." It was a leather disk with a crudely drawn tree flanked by zigzag lightning bolts inked on the suede side.

"What's this?"

"A hand, a trick, a mojo; people call it different things. A charm. The talisman is the symbol of Gran Bois, a loa of great power. He overcomes all bad luck."

"You once said I needed all the help I can get."

"You still do."

I pocketed the charm, and we kissed again, somewhat chastely. Nothing more was said. I heard the chain slide into place as I started for the elevator. Why didn't I tell her I loved her when I had the chance?

I took the Eighth Avenue IND downtown to 14th Street where I caught the BMT over to Union Square and hurried down the iron stairs to the IRT platform, just missing an uptown local. I had time to eat a penny's worth of peanuts before the next train. The car was nearly empty, but I didn't take a seat. I leaned against the closed double doors watching the dirty white tiles slide by as we left the station.

The lights blinked off and on when the train rounded a bend after entering the tunnel. The metal wheels screamed like wounded eagles against the rails. I gripped a pole for balance and stared out into blackness. We gathered speed and a moment later it was there.

You had to look close to see it. Only the lights of our passing train reflecting on the soot-covered tiles revealed the ghostly presence of the abandoned 18th Street station. Most passengers, making this same trip twice every working day of their lives, probably never noticed it. According to the official subway map, it didn't exist.

I could make out the mosaic numerals decorating each tile column and saw a shadowy stack of trash cans against the wall. Then, we were back in the tunnel, and it was gone, like a dream you no longer remember.

I got off at the next stop, 23rd Street. I climbed the stairs, crossed the avenue, descended, and shelled out fifteen cents for another token. There were several people on the platform waiting for the downtown train, so I stood around admiring the new Miss Rheingold who had a ballpoint mustache and SUPPORT MENTAL HEALTH penciled across her forehead.

A train marked "Brooklyn Bridge" pulled in, and everyone got on except me and an old woman loitering at the end of the platform. I strolled along in her direction looking at wall posters, pretending to be interested in the smiling man who got his job through the New York Times and the cute Chinese kid munching a slice of rye bread.

The old woman ignored me. She wore a shabby black overcoat with several buttons missing and carried a shopping bag. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her climb up on the wooden bench, reach above her head to open the wire cage around the light, and quickly unscrew the bulb.

She was off the bench and had the lightbulb in her shopping bag by the time I strolled up. I smiled at her. "Save your strength," I said. "Those bulbs won't do you any good. They've all got a left-hand thread."

"Don't know what you're talking about," she said.

"The Transit Department uses a special lightbulb with a left-handed thread. To discourage theft. They won't fit an ordinary socket."

"I got no idea what you're talking about." She hurried away from me down the platform, not once looking back. I waited until she was safely in the ladies restroom.

An uptown express roared through as I started down the narrow metal ladder at the end of the platform. A pathway alongside the tracks led away into darkness. At distant intervals along the tunnel wall the feeble glow of low-wattage bulbs marked the way through the gloom. Between trains it was very quiet, and I surprised several rats scuttling among the cinders on the track bed beside me.

The subway tunnel was like an endless cave. Water dripped from the ceiling, and the dirty walls were slick with slime. Once, a downtown local sped past, and I pressed back against the clammy wall and stared up at lighted cars flashing only inches from my face. A little boy kneeling on the seat spotted me, his bland expression expanding with astonishment. His car was gone even as he started to point.

It seemed as if I had walked many more than five city blocks. There were occasional alcove openings with conduits and metal ladders leading up. I hurried along, my hands in my pockets. The checkered grip of the .38 felt rough and comforting.

I didn't see the abandoned station until I was ten feet from the ladder. The soot-covered tiles gleamed like a ruined temple in the moonlight. I stood very still and caught my breath, my heart bumping against the Leica hanging under my jacket. In the distance, I heard a baby cry.

FORTY-FOUR.

The sound echoed in the darkness. I listened for a long time before deciding it came from the opposite platform. Crossing four sets of tracks didn't look like fun, and I debated the risks of using my penlight before remembering I'd left it at home.

Distant lights from the tunnel gleamed along twin ribbons of track. Although it was dark, I could make out rows of iron girders like shadowed tree trunks in a midnight forest. What I couldn't see were my own feet, and I felt the lurking menace of the third rail, lethal as a hidden rattlesnake in the gloom.

I heard a train approaching and looked back down the tunnel. Nothing in sight on my track bed. It was an uptown local, and when it passed through the abandoned station, I took advantage of the cover to step between the girders over two sets of third rails. I followed the trackbed of the downtown express, measuring my pace to the spacing of the ties.

The sounds of another train alerted me. I checked my rear and felt an adrenaline surge. The train was highballing down the tunnel. I stepped between the girders separating the express tracks and wondered if the motorman had me spotted. The train roared through like an angry dragon, spitting sparks from its clattering wheels.

I made a final third-rail crossing, and the deafening noise covered any sounds of my climbing onto the opposite platform. As the four red lights on the rear car flickered out of sight, I was flat against the cold tiles of the station wall.

The baby was no longer crying. At least not loud enough to be heard over the drone of chanting. It sounded like gobbledygook, but I knew from my afternoon's research that it was Latin in reverse. I was late for church.

I got the .38 out of my pocket and eased along the wall. A faint, ephemeral curtain of light hung in the air ahead. Soon, I could discern grotesque silhouettes swaying in what was once the entrance alcove of the station. The turnstiles and gates had been removed long ago. From the corner I saw the candles: fat, black candles arranged along the inner wall. If this was by the book, they were made from human fat, like the ones in Maggie Krusemark's bathroom.

The congregation wore robes and animal masks. Goats, tigers, wolves, horned creatures of every variety, all chanting a backwards litany. I slipped my pistol into my pocket and took out the Leica. The candles surrounded a low altar draped in black cloth. A cross hung upside down on the tile wall above it.

The presiding priest was plump and pink. He wore a black chasuble embroidered with cabalistic symbols in a riot of gold thread. It was open down the front. Underneath he was naked, his erection trembling in the candlelight. Two young acolytes, naked under their thin cotton surplices, stood on either side of the altar swinging censers. The smoke had the acrid sweetness of burning opium.

I took a couple of pictures of the priest and his pretty young punks. There wasn't enough light to do much more. The priest recited the looking-glass prayers, and the congregation responded with howls and grunts. An uptown express came rattling through, and I counted the crowd in the flickering light. Seventeen including the priest and the altar boys.

From what I could tell, the congregation were all naked beneath their swirling capes. I thought I spotted Krusemark's hard old-man's body. He was wearing the mask of a lion. I saw the flash of his silver hair as he shuffled and howled. I took four more shots before the train was gone.

The priest beckoned, and from out of the shadows came a lovely adolescent girl. Her waist-length blonde hair fell across her mourner's cape like sunlight dispelling night. She stood absolutely still as the priest undid the fastenings. The cape slid in silence to the ground, revealing slender shoulders and budding breasts, a patch of pubic floss like spun gold in the candlelight.

I snapped more pictures as the priest escorted her to the altar. Her dull and languorous movements suggested heavy sedation. She was lowered onto the black cloth and lay on her back, legs dangling and arms spread. In each upturned palm the priest placed a squat black candle.

"Accept the unblemished purity of this virgin," the priest intoned. "O Lucifer, we implore thee." He dropped to his knees and kissed the girl between her legs, leaving tangled pearls of spittle shining there. "May this chaste flesh honor your divine name."

He rose and one of the altar boys handed him an open silver box. He withdrew a sacramental wafer, then turned the box over, scattering the translucent disks at the feet of the congregation. There was more reverse-gear Latin as the worshipers stamped on the wafers. Several urinated noisily against the pavement.

One acolyte handed the priest a tall silver chalice; the other stooped and gathered bits of broken wafer off the floor, placing them inside. The congregation snuffled and grunted like rutting swine as he balanced the chalice on the perfect belly of the teenage girl. "O Astaroth, Asmodeus, princes of friendship and love, I beg you to accept this blood which is shed for thee."

A baby's lusty howls pierced the bestial grunting. The altar boy stepped out of the shadows carrying a squirming infant. The priest grasped it by a leg and held it high in the air, kicking and screaming. "O Baalberith, O Beelzebub," he cried, "this child is offered in thy name."

It happened very quickly. The priest gave the baby to an acolyte and was handed a knife in return. The bright blade caught the candlelight as they cut the infant's throat. The tiny creature bucked for life, his cries a muffled gargle. "I sacrifice you to Divine Lucifer. May the peace of Satan always be with you." The priest held the chalice under the spouting blood. I finished the roll as the baby died.

The congregation's throaty moaning grew louder than the accelerating rumble of an oncoming train. I slumped against the wall and reloaded the camera. No one was paying any attention to me. The acolyte shook the limp child to catch the final precious drops. A vivid splattering glistened on the dirty walls and across the pale flesh of the girl on the altar. I wished every frame I'd shot had been a bullet and other blood darkened the forgotten tiles.

A train came crashing through, casting its bold light on the proceedings. The priest drank from the chalice and hurled what was left out over the crowd. The masqueraders howled with delight. The dead baby was discarded. The acolytes stood jerking each other off, heads back and laughing.

Tossing his chasuble aside, the plump, pink priest kneeled above the blood-splattered virgin, entering her with short, doglike thrusts. The girl made no response. The candles remained upright in her outstretched hands. Her wide-open eyes stared sightlessly into the darkness.

The congregation went wild. Casting off cloaks and masks, they coupled frantically on the pavement. Men and women in every possible combination, including a quartet. The stark light of the passing train cast their frenzied shadows against the subway wall. Their howls and moans carried above the violent clatter of the wheels.

I saw Ethan Krusemark cornholing a hairy little man with a potbelly. They were standing in the men's room entrance and looked like a silent stag movie in the flickering light. I shot a whole roll of the shipping tycoon in action.

The party went on for at most half an hour. It was early in the season for subway orgies, and the cold, clammy air eventually sapped the enthusiasm of even the most ardent devil worshiper. Soon, they were all hunting for lost clothing, grumbling over hard-to-find shoes in the dark. I kept my eye on Krusemark.

He packed his costume in a valise and gave some of the others a hand cleaning up. The black altar cloth and inverted cross were removed, the blood wiped away with rags. At length, the candles were extinguished, and the group began dispersing in singles and pairs. Some headed uptown, others down. Several with flashlights started across the tracks to the other side. One carried a heavy, dripping sack.

Krusemark was among the last to go. He stood whispering to the priest for several minutes. The blonde girl slouched like a zombie behind them. They said goodbye and shook hands like Presbyterians at the close of service. Krusemark passed within an arm's length as he walked uptown along the deserted platform.

FORTY-FIVE.

Krusemark entered the tunnel, walking rapidly along the narrow pathway. This wasn't the first time he'd taken a stroll in the subway. I let him get as far as the first naked lightbulb before following. I matched his pace, step for step, soundless as a shadow on my rubber-soled boots. If he chanced to look back, the game was up. Tailing a man in a tunnel was like staking out a divorce case by hiding under the hotel room bed.

The approach of a downtown train gave me the opening I needed. As the rumbling thunder of the oncoming express built to an iron crescendo, I started running for all I was worth. The train's roar drowned the slap of footfalls. The .38 was in my hand. Krusemark never heard a thing.

As the last car shot past, Krusemark disappeared. He was less than ten yards away, and then he was gone. How could I have lost him in a tunnel? Another five strides and I saw the open doorway. It was a service exit of some kind, and Krusemark was starting up a metal ladder fastened to the back wall.

"Freeze!" I held the Smith & Wesson at arm's length in a two-handed grip.

Krusemark turned, blinking in the half-light. "Angel?"

"Turn around and face the ladder. Place both hands on a rung above your head."

"Be reasonable, Angel. We can talk this over."