The Manhattan Hunt Club (9 page)

What did he think he might find, out on the platform?

Did he believe Jeff might be down there waiting for him?

If it had even been Jeff that the old drunk on the sidewalk had seen. Chances are the man just made up the story, wanting the five dollars he’d been waving in front of him like a fly above a trout.

But the bum had seen someone getting out of the back of the van. And not just getting out, either—the drunk had said:
“The guy Scratch took outta the van.”

Not “got” out, or “let” out. “Took” out.

But after the fire, there’d been someone in the van—someone who burned to death.

Someone they’d told him was Jeff.

Or he was wrong, and the drunk was either confused or making up a story to get the money.

It all came back to the body in the Medical Examiner’s office. If he was right, and the body wasn’t Jeff’s, then maybe the drunk was right, too. Maybe someone had let Jeff out of the van before it burned. But he had to know—had to know with absolute certainty whether the body was Jeff’s or not. And now he realized there was a way—it had been staring him in the face all the time.

If they said the body was Jeff’s, they would have to release it to him. He was Jeff’s father, wasn’t he? So when they were done with the autopsy, done with whatever examinations they were performing, they would release the body to him.

And then he could have his own tests done.

DNA tests.

Wheeling around, he went back up the stairs almost as fast as he’d gone down them, yelled at a cab that had stopped for the light at Bowery, and five minutes later was once more in the Medical Examiner’s office.

“I want to claim a body,” he told the woman at the reception counter. “My son’s body.”

Not so much as a flicker of sympathy—or even concern—passed over the woman’s face. Instead she simply pulled out a form and pushed it across the counter to him.

Keith filled it out, turned it around, and pushed it back.

The woman glanced down at it, then looked up again, frowning. “You here for the Converse case?” she asked. “Jeffrey Converse?”

Keith nodded. “Is there a problem? I just want to arrange to have his body transferred to a funeral home whenever your office is done.”

The woman turned to a computer terminal, tapped a few keys, and her frown deepened. “I’m afraid he’s not here anymore.”

“Not here?” Keith repeated, his head suddenly swimming. What was going on? How could the body not be here? But the woman on the other side of the counter was already telling him.

“It was released yesterday afternoon,” she said.

“Released?” Keith echoed. “What are you talking about, released?”

The woman’s eyes never left the computer terminal. “To a Mary Converse.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed angrily. “How could you do that? I’m his father, for Christ sake. How come nobody called me?”

The woman behind the counter shrugged helplessly. “Mrs. Converse was listed as his next of kin in all our records, sir. Either her, or a Keith Converse.” She glanced at him almost disinterestedly. “I guess that would be you?”

“You guess right,” Keith growled. “And you better get whoever authorized this down here right now.” The woman’s expression hardened, and Keith realized his mistake. “Look,” he added, trying to mollify her. “I didn’t really mean it the way it sounded. But he was my son! It just seems like—”

The woman softened slightly. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but all the procedures were followed. If you like, I can tell you where the body was sent.” Before Keith could answer, her efficient fingers tapped at the keyboard once more. “Ah, here it is.” She copied down the address on a card and pushed it across the counter. “Vogler’s,” she said. “They’re up on Sixth Street, I think. They picked up the body at—let me see—yes, here it is. Five twenty-three.” She smiled brightly, as if having come up with the precise minute at which the body had left the Medical Examiner’s should somehow mollify him.

Keith, though, was already out the door, and as soon as he was back on the sidewalk, he punched in Mary’s number.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

Mary, understanding what must have happened, sighed heavily. “I should have called you, I suppose, but I just didn’t want to get into another argument. And knowing how you feel—what you think—” She fell silent for a moment, then went on. “I decided to take care of it myself.” Her voice took on the faintly superior tone that he knew meant she was about to wrap her religion around herself as a protective, and utterly impenetrable, shield. “He
was
my son, and no matter what he did, I have an obligation to him. There’s going to be a memorial mass at St. Barnabas next week.”

Keith frowned. Memorial mass? What was she talking about? If she was sure it was Jeff who had died, wasn’t she going to have a funeral? But before he could ask the question, she answered it.

“I decided a funeral would just be too hard—too hard for everyone. And now that he’s gone . . .”

Keith’s anger smoldered as her voice trailed off. But even though she wouldn’t do it herself, he had no trouble finishing her thought:
now that he’s gone, I don’t have to deal with him anymore.
“Where’s the body?” he demanded. “Is it still at this Vogler place?”

There was another silence, then she said, “There isn’t any body, Keith,” her voice breaking. “I—I had him cremated. After what happened, I just couldn’t stand the thought of—well—” There was a short silence before she concluded, “It just seemed like the best thing to do, that’s all.”

But Keith was no longer listening.

Cremated.

The body—whoever it was—was gone, and gone with it was any possibility of proving whether it had been Jeff.

So all he had left were the words of the drunk.

And a subway station.

Wondering if he shouldn’t go back home and just try to do as Mary wanted—try to accept what had happened—he started back toward the garage where he’d parked the car. But instead of going into the garage, he kept on walking.

Kept walking until he was back at the subway station on Delancey Street.

CHAPTER 13

B
y seven o’clock Eve Harris was almost four hours behind in her work. Not surprising, considering that she’d managed to fit two committee meetings into the day, along with lunch with the mayor and a carefully planned but apparently impromptu drop-in on Perry Randall—in which she’d succeeded in extracting the check he’d promised at last night’s banquet. She was now wrapping up a meeting on Delancey Street, at Montrose House itself, where she’d been pleased to be able to deliver Perry Randall’s check in person.

“By the way, did you hear about Al Kelly?” Sheila Hay asked as Eve was pulling on her coat. The councilwoman’s brows rose questioningly, and Sheila unconsciously brushed a strand of her prematurely graying hair from her forehead as she pulled off her glasses and let them drop on their gold chain to rest on her ample bosom, as she did at the end of every meeting. “Louise and Harry found him in an alley this morning.”

The words hung in the air:
“found him.”

Not “found his body,” or even “found him
dead
.”

Just “found him.”

The rest was implied.

What kind of world are we living in? Eve wondered. What kind of world is it that we just assume that if someone was found, they were dead? But she knew what kind of world it was—it was the world she’d been dealing with all her life. “Did they say what happened to him?” she asked.

Sheila Hay shook her head as much in resignation as in sadness. “You know how these things go—unless there’s someone around to make a fuss, who’s going to ask?”

Again Eve knew exactly what the other woman meant without having it spelled out. “Did the police even take a look?”

Sheila rolled her eyes. “Sure—that’s their job, isn’t it? And I’ll bet I can tell you exactly what the report says, too—’assailant unknown.’ There’ll be enough gobbledy-gook to make it look like a report, and that’ll be that.” Her eyes met Eve’s, and now Eve saw the sadness in them. “Who can even say they’re wrong—it probably
was
some junkie looking for money, and how many thousands of those do we have? Like Al would have had any money. He didn’t even have a place to live, for God’s sake!”

“Louise and Harry didn’t see anything?”

Sheila shrugged. “Come on, Eve. You know what they’re like—even if they saw it happen, they wouldn’t tell the police. Or me. Or you, either. They don’t trust us.”

“Is there a reason why they should?” Eve asked. Then, seeing the hurt in Sheila Hay’s eyes, she quickly softened her words. “I don’t mean you, Sheila. You know how it is—it’s
us
. All of us. I mean, there they are, living like animals, and all they ever hear are promises. But they never see anything change! They—” She cut off her words as quickly as they’d come. “What am I telling you for? You know it all as well as I do.”

Saying good-bye to Sheila, she considered going back to the office, then quickly changed her mind. Whatever messages were waiting for her could wait until tomorrow, and the two reports she had to review by tomorrow morning—one on the need for more public housing, the other on the failure of the public housing that already existed—were already in the ever-present leather bag she carried slung over her shoulder. Not that she needed to read them to know what was in them, since she was fairly certain that both reports contained far more lobbyists’ arguments than actual facts. Indeed, she’d weighed the option of leaving them on her desk unread, but in the end the weight of her own conscience was far heavier, so she’d stuffed the two thick reports into her bag.

Two minutes later she was hurrying down the stairs to the subway station, barely looking around as she passed through the turnstile and descended to the platform. Though rush hour was over, there were still a few dozen people waiting for trains, and Eve moved toward the far end of the platform where the crowd was thinnest before reaching into her bag and pulling out one of the reports. She was just starting to leaf through it when she heard an insistent voice from farther down the platform.

“All I’m asking is if you were here yesterday morning!” The man sounded strident, almost angry. “A little after five.”

“What’s it to you?” another voice said, sounding even angrier than the first. “I got a right to be anywhere I want—”

Eve looked up from the report to see two men. One of them—a black man who could have been anywhere between forty and sixty—was wearing the uniform of the homeless: several layers of bulky clothes, all of them threadbare, none of them clean.

The other one—the one she’d heard first—looked like he had to be from out of town, though Eve couldn’t have said exactly why. There was just something about his khaki pants, his denim shirt, and his work boots—or perhaps the unself-consciousness with which he wore them—that told her he didn’t live in the city. And yet, for some reason, she thought she recognized him.

“I didn’t say you didn’t have a right to be here,” she heard the out-of-towner saying. “I’m just asking—”

“You got no right!” the other man cut in, his voice rising.

Shoving the report back into her bag, Eve walked quickly down the platform to where the two men were standing. “Can I help you?” she asked.

The black man wheeled around, his eyes blazing, but the fire quickly died away, to be replaced by a look of uncertainty. “I got a right to be here,” he said. “It’s a public place, right? So I got a right to be here!”

“Of course you do,” Eve said soothingly. “You have as much right to be here as anybody else.”

“See?” the man said, turning to face the other man. “I told you! I got a right!”

“I’m not saying you don’t,” the other man said doggedly. “I’m just asking you to look at a picture.” He was holding out a wallet, and Eve glanced at the photograph.

Suddenly, she knew why she recognized this man. She’d seen him on the news the day before yesterday, when they’d reported on the sentencing of Jeff Converse.

“You’re his father,” she said. “You’re Jeff Converse’s father.”

Keith’s brows rose. “You know my son?”

“I know he almost killed a girl, and I know he got sentenced to a year in jail for it.” But then Eve’s voice changed, some of the anger draining away. “And I heard he was killed in an accident yesterday morning.” She hesitated, then said, “That must have been very difficult for you.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed. “What’s really difficult is—” He cut himself short as he realized he was talking to a total stranger. “There’s just a bunch of stuff I don’t get, that’s all.”

Eve frowned. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m not sure I do, either,” Keith said grimly. “But one thing I’m finding out fast—so far it doesn’t seem like there’s one damn person in this city except me who cares if it really was my son that died yesterday morning.”

Recalling Heather Randall insisting that Jeff Converse couldn’t possibly have been guilty of the crime of which he’d been convicted, the councilwoman decided the reports in her bag would have to wait. She held out her hand. “I’m Eve Harris,” she said. “Maybe we should talk.”

T
hough he knew he’d been asleep—suspected he must have slept for several hours—Jeff felt as tired as if he’d been awake for days. The damp chill of the concrete walls and floor of the subterranean chamber had penetrated every muscle and bone in his body, and a bank of disorienting fog seemed to have settled on his brain.

Part of it was the simple fact that he no longer had any idea of what time it was. It was so long since he’d been allowed to wear a watch that he’d stopped missing it—in fact, he hadn’t really needed a watch in jail. What use was a watch when everything happened according to someone else’s schedule, and it didn’t matter at all whether you kept track of time or not?

Someone told you when to get up.

Someone told you when to eat.

Someone told you where to go, and made sure you got there.

Someone even told you when to go to sleep, assuming you could sleep in jail at all.

But since he’d been locked in this windowless, featureless room, there was nothing to mark the passage of time except the occasional appearance of the man he’d made the mistake of following into the subway tunnel—a man whose name seemed to be Scratch. Even with the light on, as it had been recently, every real indicator of time had vanished.

Food appeared every now and then, always in the form of the same stewlike gruel he and Jagger had first been given. Usually there were two men with Scratch when he delivered the food, and the last time they’d appeared, Jeff had asked one of them what time it was.

“Animals don’t care what time it is,” the man retorted.

“I’m not an animal,” Jeff shot back, “I’m a human being.”

The man chuckled—a dark, hollow sound that carried far more menace than humor. “That’s what you think.”

The door had closed again, the bolt was thrown, and he and Jagger squatted down to share the bowl of the same gamy-tasting stew that was all they’d been given.

After he’d eaten—maybe an hour later, maybe two—he’d fallen asleep.

Now he was awake again, and his entire body ached, and his mind felt foggy.

And someone was watching him.

Jagger.

The first time it had happened, he’d woken up to find the big man hunkered down on the floor next to him, rocking slowly back and forth as he stared into his eyes.

Rocking, and humming something that sounded almost like a lullaby.

Jeff had rolled away and quickly sat up, automatically pulling his legs up against his chest.

Jagger’s eyes had narrowed. “What the matter?” he asked. “You afraid of me?”

Jeff had hesitated, then shook his head, even though it was true. In fact, as Jagger’s cold blue eyes continued to bore into him, it was all he could do not to draw still farther away.

Jagger had glanced toward the far corner and said, “There was a rat sniffin’ around—figured you wouldn’t want him climbin’ all over you.”

Jeff’s skin crawled just thinking about it, and the fear induced by the man’s intense gaze eased slightly. “Thanks,” he said. “I guess I’m just jumpy.”

Now Jeff could hear that lullaby again, and even with his eyes closed, he could feel Jagger watching him.

Then, before he could roll away, he heard the bolt on the door slide back with a clunk. Jagger’s odd melody silenced.

A moment later the door opened.

Scratch came into the room, followed by two other men, both dressed in the same kind of clothes Scratch himself wore: frayed and filthy pants, ragged shirts, and jackets so stained and greasy they could have been almost any color at all. One of the men had a tattered woolen scarf wrapped around his neck. The other wore a stocking cap with so many holes in it that great clumps of his unkempt hair were poking through.

“Well, I guess it’s time,” Scratch drawled. “You ready?”

Jeff and Jagger glanced at each other, then both of them peered suspiciously at Scratch. “Ready for what?” Jeff finally asked.

Scratch’s lips curled into a twisted smile. “Ready to play.” When neither Jeff nor Jagger spoke, Scratch snapped his fingers and one of the other men tossed a bundle toward the mattress.

Jagger’s hands snatched it out of the air before it landed.

“Nice reflexes,” Scratch observed. “They’ll like that.”

As Jagger began ripping the bundle open, Scratch said, “That’s all you get. And remember the rules—get to the surface, you win. Otherwise, you lose.”

Jeff’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How do I win? The police are going to be looking for me.”

Scratch shook his head. “No they’re not—as far as they’re concerned, you’re dead.” His eyes flicked toward Jagger. “Both of you are. So if you get out, nobody’s going to be looking for either one of you.” His cold smile gave way to a mocking grin. “
If
you get out.” He jerked a thumb at the third man, who stepped forward, pulling his right hand from his jacket pocket.

The hand held a heavy pistol.

“It’s a .45,” Scratch explained. “And Billy here’s a really good shot. So think of it as hide-and-go-seek, okay? After we leave, you count to a hundred real slow. If you do, you’re on your own. But if you come through that door too soon, Billy’ll have a good time blowin’ a couple’a holes in you.”

A few seconds later they were gone, but though the door closed behind them, they didn’t hear the familiar clunk of the bar. As Jeff went to the door and pressed his ear against it, Jagger finished tearing open the bundle. All he found inside were two flashlights and two sets of clothes as ragged as the ones Scratch and the others had been wearing, and even filthier. The smell that rose from them nauseated Jeff, but Jagger was already ripping off his orange coveralls. He tossed them in a corner and started pulling on the largest of the pants from the bundle, kicking the second set toward Jeff. “Don’t matter how bad they stink,” he said. “They ain’t orange, and they don’t say Rikers Island on ’em.” He finished pulling on the filthy clothes, then picked up one of the flashlights and started toward the door.

“How do you know they won’t shoot you as soon as you go out there?”

“Can’t be any worse than sittin’ here wondering what’s going to happen,” Jagger replied. He pulled the door open, hesitated a second, then stepped out into the darkness beyond.

Nothing happened.

“You coming?” he asked. “Because I ain’t waiting.”

Ripping off his own clothes, Jeff pulled on the ill-fitting pants and shirt that still lay on the floor, then picked up the second flashlight. He was about to turn it on, then thought better of it. If the batteries ran out in one, they’d need the other.

Moving through the door, he peered into the darkness that stretched away in both directions. “Which way?” he asked.

“Up,” Jagger replied. “Except we haven’t got a ladder.”

From somewhere far off in the darkness to the right, they heard something.

It sounded like a shot, followed by a scream.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Jagger said. Without waiting for a reply, he moved quickly into the blackness to the left.

A second later, before Jagger would disappear completely, Jeff followed.