The monk had struck him from behind, taken his service Glock. Byrne had fallen to his knees, dizzied but not out. He closed his eyes, waiting for the thunder of the gunshot, the white infinity of his death. But it didn't come. Not yet.
Byrne now knelt in the center of the room, his hands behind his head, his fingers interlaced. He faced the camera on the tripod in front of him. Colleen was behind him. He wanted to turn around, to see her face, to tell her it was going to be all right. He couldn't risk it.
When the man in the monk's robe touched him, Byrne's mind reeled with the images. The visions pulsed. He felt queasy, light-headed. Colleen. Angelika. Stephanie. Erin.
Afield of torn flesh. An ocean of blood.
"You didn't take care of her," the man said.
Was he talking about Angelika? Colleen?
"She was a great actress," he continued. He was behind him now. Byrne tried to calculate his position. "She would have been a star. And I don't mean just a star. I mean one of those rare supernova stars who captures the attention of not only the public, but also the critics. Ingrid Bergman. Jeanne Moreau. Greta Garbo."
Byrne tried to trace his steps into the bowels of this building. How many turns had he taken? How close was he to the street?
"When she died, they just moved on," he continued. "You just moved on."
Byrne tried to organize his thoughts. Never easy when there may be a gun pointed at you. "You… have to understand," he began. "When the medical examiner rules a death accidental, there's nothing the Homicide Unit can do about it. There's nothing anyone can do about it. The ME rules, the city records it. That's how it's done."
"Do you know why she spelled her name that way? With a k? Her given name was spelled with a c. She changed it."
He wasn't listening to a word Byrne was saying. "No."
"Angelika is the name of a famous art house theater in New York."
"Let my daughter go," Byrne said. "You have me."
"I don't think you understand the play."
The man in the monk's robe walked around in front of Byrne. In his hand was a leather mask. It was the same mask worn by Julian Matisse in Philadelphia Skin. "Do you know Stanislavksy, Detective Byrne?"
Byrne knew he had to keep the man talking. "No."
"He was a Russian actor and teacher. He founded the Moscow Theater in 1898. He more or less invented method acting."
"You don't have to do this," Byrne said. "Let my daughter go. We can end this without any more bloodshed."
The monk put Byrne's Glock under his arm for a moment. He began to unlace the leather mask. "Stanislavsky once said: 'Never come into the theatre with mud on your feet. Leave your dust and dirt outside. Check your little worries, squabbles, petty difficulties with your outside clothing-all the things that ruin your life and draw your attention away from your art-at the door.'
"Please put your hands behind your back for me," he added.
Byrne complied. His legs were crossed behind him. He felt the weight on his right ankle. He began to lift the cuff of his pants.
"Have you left your petty difficulties at the door, Detective? Are you ready for my play?"
Byrne lifted the hem another inch. His fingers touched the steel as the monk dropped the mask onto the floor in front of him.
"In a moment, I will ask you to put on this mask," the monk said. "And then we will begin."
Byrne knew he could not take the chance of a shootout in here, not with Colleen in the room. She was behind him, strapped to the bed. Crossfire would be deadly. "The curtain is up." The monk stepped to the wall, flipped a switch. A single bright spotlight filled the universe. It was time. He had no choice.
In one smooth motion Byrne drew the SIG-Sauer from his ankle holster, leapt to his feet, turned toward the light, and fired.
92
The gunshots were close, but Jessica couldn't tell where they came from. Was it this building? Next door? Upstairs? Had the detectives outside heard it?
She spun around in the darkness, Glock leveled. She could no longer see the door through which she had entered. It was too dark. She had lost her bearings. She had traversed a series of small rooms, and she had forgotten how to get back.
Jessica sidled up to a narrow archway. A musty curtain hung over the opening. She peered through. Ahead, another dark room. She stepped through the opening, her weapon out front, her Maglite over the top. To the right, a small Pullman kitchen. It smelled of old grease. She ran her Maglite along the floor, the walls, the sink. The kitchen had not been used in years.
Not for cooking, that is.
There was blood on the side of the refrigerator, a wide fresh swath of scarlet. The blood streaked toward the floor in thin rivulets. Blood splatter from a gunshot.
Beyond the kitchen was yet another room. From where Jessica stood it looked like an old stockroom, lined with broken shelves. She continued forward, and nearly tripped over the body. She knelt down. It was a man. The right side of his head had been almost taken off.
She shone her Maglite on the figure. The man's face was destroyed, a wet mass of tissue and shredded bone. Brain matter slithered onto the dusty floor. The man was wearing jeans and running shoes. She moved her Maglite up the body.
And saw the PPD logo on the dark blue T-shirt.
Bile rose in her throat, thick and sour. Her heart kicked hard in her chest, rattling her arms, her hands. She tried to calm herself as the horrors piled up. She had to get out of this building. She had to breathe. But she had to find Kevin first.
She raised her weapon out front rolled to her left, her heart hammering in her chest. The air was so thick it felt like liquid entering her lungs. Sweat poured down her face, salting her eyes. She wiped at them with the back of one hand.
She summoned her courage, slowly glanced around the corner, down the wide hallway. Too many shadows, too many places to hide. The grip of her weapon now felt slick in her hand. She changed hands, wiped her palm on her jeans.
She glanced back over her shoulder. The far door led to the hallway, the stairs, the street, safety. Ahead of her lay the unknown. She stepped forward, slid into an alcove. Eyes scanning the interior horizon. More shelves, more cases, more display counters. No movement, no sound. Just the clock-hum of silence.
Staying low, she moved down the hall. At the far end was a door, perhaps leading to what was once a stockroom or employee lounge. She edged forward. The doorjamb was battered, chipped. She slowly turned the knob. Unlocked. She threw open the door, scanned the room. The scene was surreal, sickening: A big room, twenty by twenty… impossible to clear from the entrance… bed to the right… a single overhead bulb… Colleen Byrne tied to the four posts… Kevin Byrne standing in the middle of the room… kneeling infront of Byrne is the monk in the red robe… Byrne has a gun to the man's head… Jessica glanced into the corner. The camera was smashed to bits. No one back at the Roundhouse, or anywhere else, was watching this.
She reached deep inside herself, to a place unknown to her, and stepped fully into the room. She knew that this moment, this brutal aria, would score the rest of her life.
"Hey, partner," Jessica said, softly. There were two doors to the left. To the right, a huge window, painted black. She was so disoriented that she had no idea onto what street the window faced. She had to turn her back on those doors. It was dangerous, but there was no choice.
"Hey," Byrne replied. He sounded calm. His eyes were cold emerald stones in his face. The monk in the red robe was motionless, kneeling in front of him. Byrne had the barrel of a weapon to the base of the man's skull. Byrne's hand was firm and steady. Jessica she could see that it was a SIG-Sauer semi-auto. It was not Byrne's service weapon.
Don't Kevin.
Don't.
"You okay?" Jessica asked.