The Manhattan Hunt Club (22 page)

CHAPTER 28

I
t wasn’t Jeff,
Mary Converse told herself again as she emerged from Grand Central Station into an incongruously bright morning.

It couldn’t have been Jeff.

Jeff is dead!

The words had become a mantra, her lips now forming them as unconsciously as they formed the words of the prayers she’d been reciting every day for as long as she could remember. Yet this was not the mantra of a prayer, for in prayer she had always found hope and solace.

Even though the words she’d heard on the telephone only a few hours ago should have made her heart swell and her spirit soar, the reality of two days ago was still fresh in her mind. Every time she recalled the words—the broken phrases uttered by a voice that tore at her heart—the pain only grew worse.

“. . . Mo—are you . . . it’s me, Mo—“

“Mom, it . . . me . . . I . . . dead . . .”

But she’d seen his body, seen her son lying in a drawer in the morgue.

She’d also heard her husband deny that the body was Jeff’s. She hadn’t believed Keith, of course—hadn’t been willing even to accept the possibility that a mistake could have been made. He’d been in a guarded van on the way to Rikers Island—how could there have been any kind of mistake?

But as she strode across Forty-sixth Street toward Fifth Avenue, and the broken voice kept echoing in her head, she suddenly stopped.

What if Keith was right and it had
all
been a mistake?

What if Jeff’s arrest had been a mistake?

What if his trial had been a mistake?

What if his conviction had been a mistake?

But that wasn’t possible—God wouldn’t have allowed such injustice to occur.

“. . . it’s me, Mo—“

As she turned onto Fifth Avenue, the cacophony in her head—a jumble of echoing words and conflicting emotions—threatened to overwhelm her. By the time she passed through the massive doors of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, every nerve in her body was on edge. She paused at the font, dipped her fingers in the water and genuflected, and the vast, quiet space of the cathedral began to calm her. Though there were people all around—tourists taking pictures, a scattering of penitents on their knees in the pews and in front of the shrines—the immense structure reduced their voices to a soothing murmur. The peace she had always found in church began to calm her nerves and still the chaos in her head.

The Lady Chapel.

That was where Father Benjamin had told her the mass would be held.
“It’s at the far end of the cathedral—intimate, very beautiful.”
As she walked down the long aisle on the left, past the display cases documenting the history of the cathedral, past the niches holding icons of the saints, her fragile sense of peace grew stronger and more certain, until finally the voice she’d heard on the telephone—the voice that couldn’t possibly have been Jeff’s—was silenced. As she passed the altar, the thunderous opening chords of Bach’s D Minor Toccata and Fugue suddenly resounded through the cathedral, the tones so deep that she could feel them as much as hear them.

At last she came to the end of the aisle, turned left, and found the Lady Chapel opening before her like a tiny jewel box.

There were only twelve rows of pews, divided by a single aisle. The chapel was dominated by a large statue of the Holy Virgin, her face tilted slightly downward so her eyes seemed to focus on the pews themselves. The statue had been carved from white stone, and the altar beneath it was white as well.

The pews were empty, and for a moment Mary had a terrible feeling that something had gone wrong—that she’d told people the wrong time, or that perhaps she was in the wrong place. But then she glanced at her watch and understood.

She was nearly two hours early.

Should she leave? But if she did, where would she go?

She genuflected once more, then slipped into a pew and dropped to her knees, ignoring their painful protest.

She was dimly aware of the voices of a boys’ choir somewhere behind her, resonating through the vast chamber of the cathedral. Clasping her hands before her, she gazed up into the eyes of the Virgin Mother.

Is this how you felt?
she silently asked.
Is this the pain you felt when you watched your child die on the cross?

Her eyes filled with tears, and the statue before her blurred. But as she continued to gaze into the face of the Mother of God, the image seemed to smile at her. It was a soft, gentle smile that finally dispelled the last of the torment that had gripped Mary ever since the phone rang early that morning, and now, as the voices of the singing boys soared in the background, another voice whispered in her head.

Believe . . .

Mary stiffened, her fingers tightening on her own hands until her skin was as pale as the stone of the statue upon which she gazed. Her vision cleared, and the face of the Virgin once more came into focus. Now her eyes seemed to be fastened directly on Mary Converse’s own, and her smile held a cast of mystery.

Believe,
the voice whispered inside her head.
Believe
. . .

As the voice once again fell silent, the last notes of the choir died away, and a calm such as Mary had never before experienced washed over her.

Then, as if it were coming from somewhere far, far away, she heard another voice.

“It’s me, Mom,”
the voice whispered.

Jeff’s voice, unmistakable now.

“I’m not dead, Mom.

“I’m alive. I’m alive. . . .”

As Jeff’s voice faded into silence, Mary rose from her knees and sank onto the pew. She gazed up into the placid face of the Virgin, studied the perfectly carved stone. The eyes no longer seemed to be staring directly into hers and the smile had lost its mystery, but the words she’d heard still rang in her head. Finally she answered them with words of her own.

“It’s the sign I’ve been waiting for,” she whispered to herself. “I do believe. . . .”

Rising to her feet, the pain in her knees and the exhaustion in her body forgotten, Mary Converse hurried back the way she’d come and burst through the doors of the cathedral. She raced down the steps and yanked open the door of the first cab she saw. “Broadway,” she said. “The corner of 109th.”

T
illie was starting to wonder if something had gone wrong. She’d been sitting in the park for almost an hour and a half—she’d asked half a dozen people what time it was, and even though three of them hadn’t even acknowledged that she was there, let alone given her the time of day, the other three had all agreed that it was almost eleven. She was sure it was Saturday, too, and not only because there were more people than usual in the park, but because she’d checked the date on a paper a man on the next bench had been reading.

So if it was the right day, and the right time, then where was Miss Harris?

Tillie was sure she hadn’t made a mistake—she wasn’t half crazy, like Liz Hodges. Besides, it had only been yesterday that she’d seen Miss Harris, and she’d said to meet her right here—on the same bench—at nine-thirty. Tillie had made sure not to be late, too. Not because Miss Harris would have been mad at her—she never seemed to get mad at anyone—and not because of the money, either. Tillie made sure she wasn’t late simply because she knew Miss Harris was a busy woman—even busier than most of the surface people seemed to be—and she just plain liked her. Being on time was the least she could do.

Until this morning, Miss Harris had never been late.

Still, Tillie was prepared to wait all day if she had to. It wasn’t as if she had anything else that needed doing. Besides, it was a nice day, and there hadn’t been many nice days since last fall, when it got too cold to be outside at all, and she’d have to retreat into the tunnels for the winter.

Like a bear going into hibernation, she thought to herself. Maybe that’s what she’d turned into—an old bear that curls up for the winter. The thought left her chuckling out loud, but a young couple pushing a baby carriage gave her a look that made the laughter die on her lips. That was the one thing Tillie hated about living the way she did—she could always tell that most people thought she was crazy. She was wondering if maybe she ought to have some fun with the couple by acting really crazy, but then she saw Jinx walking briskly down the path, a combative look on her face.

“You said the hunters only went after criminals,” Jinx said, her voice tight, her eyes glittering with anger.

Tillie frowned. What was the girl talking about? “Well, of course they do.”

“Not this time,” Jinx said, her voice rising.

“You want to tell me what you’re talkin’ about, or you just want to stand there yellin’?”

“Jeff Converse,” Jinx said. Her voice was still rising, and as Tillie recognized the name, she glanced around. Nobody seemed to have heard Jinx, at least not yet, but you didn’t talk about the hunters on the surface—in fact, most people didn’t talk about them at all. Tillie grabbed Jinx’s arm. “Now you just calm down,” she said, scanning the area in one final search for Eve Harris. With no sign of her, Tillie decided not to wait any longer and started walking toward the river, her hand still clamped on Jinx’s arm, steering her along the path.

“Let go of me,” Jinx complained, trying to shake Tillie’s arm loose.

But Tillie held fast, and a few minutes later they had skirted around the baseball diamond that lay on the shelf above the river and pushed through a nearly invisible hole cut in the high fence separating the park from the railroad tracks. More than a score of men were scattered around the weed-choked area, wearing the numerous layers of clothing that marked them as homeless. Mostly they were sitting in groups of two or three, but a few were standing like sentries, their backs to the rotting concrete columns that supported the highway, almost like a parody of the guards at Buckingham Palace.

Tillie nodded to most of the men as she steered Jinx past them, even spoke a few words to two of the sentries. It wasn’t until the gloom of the railway tunnel had swallowed them up that she spoke to Jinx again.

“Now you tell me,” she said, her eyes fixed on the girl. “What are you talking about?”

“He didn’t do it!” Jinx said, her voice quivering with anger.

“Who didn’t do what?” Tillie demanded. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“The guys that came to the co-op—the ones you kicked out yesterday morning?”

Tillie’s expression darkened. “What about ’em?”

“I don’t know about the big one, but the other one—Jeff Converse?—he didn’t do anything.”

“You said that to me this morning, but that’s not what it said in the paper.”

“I know what it said in the paper. I know what it said in all the papers, ‘cause I went down to the library today and read them. And guess what? They’re wrong! I told you, I was there. I saw what happened that night. That guy was trying to help her. It was Bobby Gomez who did it. He was muggin’ her, and the other guy got off a train.”

Tillie only shrugged. “Even if you’re right, it don’t make any difference now—the hunters are already after him. He’s as good as dead.”

“Not if he gets out.”

“But he ain’t gonna get out,” Tillie countered. “None of ’em get out.”

Jinx took a step back from Tillie. “None of ’em ever had any help.”

“What are you—” But before she finished the question, Tillie understood what Jinx intended to do. She reached out to grab the girl, but Jinx was too fast for her. Darting out of Tillie’s reach, she went deeper into the tunnel, quickly disappearing in darkness. “Jinx!” Tillie called out. There was no reply, and a few seconds later she watched the girl’s dark shadow pass through the pool cast by one of the dim lights fastened high on the tunnel wall. “You come back here,” Tillie hissed. “Even if you find them, all that’ll happen is the hunters’ll kill you, too!”

But Jinx was running now. Tillie could hear the sound of the girl’s pounding feet blending with the fading echo of her own words.

A moment later even those sounds died away and the tunnel fell silent.

P
erry Randall sat at the desk in his walnut-paneled library overlooking Central Park. His desk faced the window, and the curtains were wide open, allowing morning sunlight to flood the room. Had he paused to appreciate the view, he would have seen the profusion of color that momentarily filled the park as the spring flowers entered their full, brief glory.

But Perry Randall had not looked out the window—indeed, since he’d heard the message intended for Heather, he had been on the telephone. He’d called half a dozen people, and when no one had been able to provide him with an answer to his question, he’d instructed them to meet him at eleven o’clock that morning. “At the club,” he told them. Though he was a member of four clubs scattered around Manhattan, including the Bar Association, the Metropolitan, and the Yale Club, everyone he called knew that he meant The 100 Club. Over a century old, to its members it was simply “the club,” and to those outsiders who knew of it and hoped to become members it was “The Hundred.”

To everyone else, it was entirely unknown.

The Hundred had been formed with a single purpose in mind: to provide a private retreat for the hundred most powerful people in the city with no regard whatsoever to gender, race, or religion. The petty snobberies and bigotries of the better-known clubs that were spread across the city were abjured by every member of The Hundred, at least when it came to fellow members. Far smaller than Perry Randall’s other clubs, The Hundred still occupied the nineteenth-century brownstone at 100 West Fifty-third Street which had been built to house it, and little else had changed during the years since its creation. Since the membership would never expand, there had never been a need to move. Recognizing that the tides of power would inevitably shift over time, the charter of The Hundred provided that five percent of the membership be dropped every five years, and a new five percent elected. The policy ensured that there were never any senile old folks dozing away their days in the members’ lounge, and that no matter what happened, the power brokers of the city—whoever they might be—would have a place to meet in complete privacy.