He drifted about the apartment, dreaming, nibbling at the rose. He ate the petals, one by one; they were soft, hard, moist, dry on his tongue, with a tang and flavor all their own. He ate the flower down to the stem, grinning and nodding, swallowing it all.
He took his gear from the hallway closet; ice ax, rucksack, nylon line, boots, crampons, jacket, knitted watch cap. He wondered about sandwiches and a thermos-but what did he need with food and drink? He was beyond all that, outside the world’s pull and the hunger to exist.
It was remarkable, he thought happily, how efficiently he was operating; the call to the garage to bring his car around, the call to a doorman-who turned out to be Charles Lipsky-to help him down with his gear. He moved through it all smiling. The day was sharp, clear, brisk, open, and so was he. He was in the lemon sun, in the thin blue sac filled with amniotic fluid. He was one with it all. He hummed a merry tune.
When Valenter opened the door and said, “I’m thorry, thir, but Mith Montfort ith not-” he smashed his fist into Valenter’s face, feeling the nose crunch under his blow, seeing the blood, feeling the blood slippery between his knuckles. Then, stepping farther inside, he hit the shocked Valenter again, his fist going into the man’s throat, crushing that jutting Adam’s apple. Valenter’s eyes rolled up into his skull and he went down.
So Daniel Blank walked easily across the entrance hall, still humming his merry tune. What was it? Some early American folksong; he couldn’t remember the title. He climbed the stairs steadily, the ice ax out now, transferred to his right hand. He remembered the first time he had followed her up these stairs to the room on the fifth floor. She had paused, turned, and he had kissed her, between navel and groin, somewhere on the yielding softness, somewhere…Why had she betrayed him?
But even before he came to that splintered door, a naked Anthony Montfort darted out, gave Daniel one mad, frantic glance over his shoulder, then dashed down the hall, arms flinging. Watching that young, bare, unformed body run, all Blank could think of was the naked Vietnamese girl, burned by napalm, running, running, caught in pain and terror.
Celia was standing. She, too, was bare.
“Well,” she said, her face a curious mixture of fear and triumph. “Well…”
He struck her again and again. But after the first blow, the fear faded from her face; only the triumph was left. The certitude. Was this what she wanted? He wondered, hacking away. Was this her reason? Why she had manipulated him. Why she had betrayed him. He would have to think about it. He hit her long after she was dead, and the sound of the ice ax ceased to be crisp and became sodden.
Then, hearing screams from somewhere, he transferred the ice ax to his left hand, under the coat, hidden again, and rushed out. Down the stairs. Over the fallen Valenter. Out into the bright, sharp, clear day. The screams pursued him: screams, screams, screams.
They were all on their feet in the radio room, listening white-faced to Tiger One’s furious shouts, a scream from somewhere, “Fernandez is-”, shots, roar of a car engine, squeal of tires, metallic clatter. Tiger One’s radio went dead.
Captain Delaney stood stock-still for almost 30 seconds, hands on hips, head lowered, blinking slowly, licking his lips. The men in the room looked to him, waiting.
He was not hesitating as much as deliberating. He had been through situations as fucked-up as this in the past. Instinct and experience might see him through, but he knew a few seconds of consideration would help establish the proper sequence of orders. First things first.
He raised his head, caught MacDonald’s eye.
“Sergeant,” he said tonelessly, raised a hand, jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “on your way. Take both cars. Sirens. I’ll stay here. Report as soon as possible.”
MacDonald started out. Delaney caught up with him before he reached the hallway door, took his arm.
“In the outside toilet,” he whispered, “in the cabinet under the sink. A pile of clean white towels. Take a handful with you.”
The sergeant nodded, and was gone.
The Captain came back into the middle of the room. He began to dictate orders to the two radiomen and the two telephone men.
“To Bulldog Two, remain on station and assist.”
“To Bulldog Three, take Danny Boy. Extreme caution.” Both cars cut in to answer; the waiting men heard more shots, curses, shouts.
“To downtown Communications. Operation Lombard top priority. Four cars New York entrance to George Washington Bridge. Detain black Chevy Corvette. Give them license number, description of Danny Boy. Extreme caution. Armed and dangerous.”
“You and you. Take a squad. Up to George Washington Bridge. Siren and flasher. Grab a handful of those photos of Danny Boy and distribute them.”
“To Communications. Officer in need of assistance. Ambulance. Urgent. Give address of Castle.”
“To Deputy Inspector Thorsen: ‘He’s running. Will keep you informed. Delaney.’”
“To Assault-Homicide Division. Crime in progress at Castle. Give address. Urgent. Please assist Operation Lombard.”
“To Bulldog Ten. Recall to Barbara with car.”
“To Bulldog One. Seal Danny Boy’s apartment in White House. Twenty-one H. No one in, no one out.”
“To Stryker. Seal Danny Boy’s office. No one in, no one out.”
“You and you, down to the Factory to help Stryker. Take Ten-0’s car when he arrives.”
“To Special Operations. Urgently need three heavy cars. Six men with vests, shotguns, gas grenades, subs, the works. Three snipers, completely equipped, one in each car. Up here as soon as possible. Oh yes…cars equipped with light bars, if possible.”
“You and you, pick up the Mortons, at the Erotica on Madison Avenue, for questioning.”
“You, pick up Mrs. Cleek at the Factory. You, pick up the owner of The Parrot on Third Avenue. You, pick up Charles Lipsky, doorman at the White House. Hold all of them for questioning.”
“To Communications. All-precinct alert. Give description of car and Danny Boy. Photos to come. Wanted for multiple homicide. Extreme caution. Dangerous and armed. Inform chief inspector.”
Delaney paused, drew a deep breath, looked about dazedly. The room was emptying out now as he pointed at men, gave orders, and they hitched up their guns, donned coats and hats, started out.
The radio crackled.
“Barbara from Searcher One.”
“Got you, Searcher One.”
“MacDonald. Outside the Castle. Fernandez down and bleeding badly. Tiger One down. Unconscious. At least a broken leg. Bulldog Three gone after Danny Boy. Bulldog Two and Searcher Two blocking off the street. Send assistance. Am now entering Castle.”
Delaney heard, began speaking again.
“To Communications. Repeat urgent ambulance. Two officers wounded.”
“To Assault-Homicide Division. Repeat urgent assistance needed. Two officers wounded.”
“Sir, Deputy Inspector Thorsen is on the line,” one of the telephone operators interrupted.
“Tell him two officers wounded. I’ll get back to him. Recall guard on Monica Gilbert and get men and car over here. Recall taps on Danny Boy’s phone and Monica Gilbert’s phone. Tell them to remove all equipment, clean up, no sign.”
“Barbara from Searcher One.”
“Come in, Searcher One.”
“MacDonald here. We have one homicide: female, white, black hair, early thirties, five-four or five, a hundred and ten, slender, skull crushed, answering description of the Princess. White, male boy, about twelve, naked and hysterical, answering description of Anthony Montfort. One white male, six-three or four, about one-sixty or sixty-five, unconscious, answering description of houseman Valenter, broken nose, facial injuries, bad breathing. Need two ambulances and doctors. Fernandez is alive but still bleeding. We can’t stop it. Ambulance? Soon, please. Tiger One had broken right leg, arm, bruises, scrapes. Ambulances and doctors, please.”