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  "You do know one hell of a lot about this tribe, don't you?

  "I grew up with them, Veil. As a matter of fact, Toby was my best friend as a child; I learned to hunt and track with all the K'ung boy-children. I was a 'missionary kid.'

  "You told me that. Your parents were the first to make contact with this particular tribe."

  "Yes. Anyway, after my parents were killed by a Bantu raiding party—" I m sorry.

  "Thank you. I was twelve. I became a ward of the Missionary Society, and it assumed responsibility for my support and education. I was sent to school in France and the United States, did some of my own missionary work with the K'ung, and now I teach at Wesley while I work on my dissertation. End of story. My background may seem a bit exotic, but it's really quite simple. I'm betting that your background is exotic. I've never seen anyone fight like you do."

  Her story had not included any mention of Carl Nagle, Veil thought, but he did not want to press her further. "You're sure your friend is still in the park?"

  "Oh, yes. Toby's recuperating, resting and waiting."

  "Waiting for what?"

  "To leave."

  "Where would he go?"

  Reyna studied Veil's face for a few moments, then abruptly dropped her gaze. "We'll just have to wait and see, I guess."

  "Then the police may pick him up yet."

  "No," Reyna said, her voice and limpid, black eyes once again filled with sadness. "He'll never allow himself to be captured alive, Veil. Never."

  "Everything in Berg's articles indicated that the tribe was on its last legs—defeated, without hope, totally lethargic. I don't believe those are words I'd use to describe this Toby."

  Reyna smiled grimly, shook her head. "Indeed not. Toby was always different—the toughest and meanest member of the tribe. He and I became friends, but he always resented my parents because they were Christian missionaries; in Toby's eyes they were enemies of the Nal-toon. No member of that tribe has ever been converted to Christianity, of course, but the attitude of the others was always rather mellow, if a bit condescending; after all, they could make good use of the knives, medicine, and other things we brought them. Toby, on the other hand, was always belligerent. Everyone always felt that he had a special relationship, if you will, with the Nal-toon. If there had been an official keeper of that idol, Toby would have been it."

  "He's a zealot."

  "Mmm. A zealot and a half. I strongly suspect that he doesn't view the loss of the Nal-toon in the way the others do. He may not see it as abandonment by their god but as a test of the tribe's worthiness. The use of shilluk has some religious overtones for the K'ung, which could mean that Toby perceives this Journey as a kind of mystical rite to regain the Nal-toon's favor. If that's the case, Toby will also perceive virtually everything that happens to him as a test of his courage and faith; he will absolutely abandon himself to the belief that the Nal-toon will protect him from harm as long as he acts like a warrior."

  "That would explain his dash across Fifth Avenue. It wasn't just panic."

  "No. He believed he was protected."

  "Hey, he may be on to something," Veil said, smiling. "After all, he did make it across the street—and they haven't found him yet. I may get myself a Nal-toon."

  "Toby coming to New York City could be very bad news, Veil," Reyna said seriously. "You've seen what's happened already. He's dangerous."

  "I know."

  "All the time I was searching, I kept calling out to him. I wanted him to know he was in danger and that he could come to me. If he heard, he didn't respond." Reyna paused and sighed. "He probably doesn't trust me. He may not even think I'm real."

  "Not real?"

  "Veil, in New York, Toby might as well be a visitor from another galaxy; everything here is totally alien to him. Also, depending upon how much shilluk he brought with him, he'll view everything as part of some netherworld constructed by the Nal-toon to challenge him. He'll perceive the people here as a tribe of ghost-demons whom he can't trust but who can hurt him if he's not brave and true to his faith."

  "Then we'd better find him before the police or Mafia do. I want to help, Reyna."

  "I know. Thank you."

  "If you can get me to him, I may be able to stop Toby from hurting himself or others."

  "Yes."

  "What do you suggest we do?"

  "For now, wait."

  Again, Reyna had averted her gaze, and Veil had the definite impression that she was hiding something— holding something back. "Would you like more coffee? Something to eat?"

  Reyna shook her head, then looked at him and offered what seemed to Veil a slightly forced smile. "No, thank you. I guess what I'd really like is a little more information about you. You already know everything important there is to know about me."

  "I strongly doubt that."

  "It's true. But I know next to nothing about you—except that you're an artist, fight like nobody I've ever seen, and seem to be my guardian angel. Even your name is mysterious. Is Veil a family name?"

  "More like a family prayer."

  Reyna smiled warmly and cocked her head. "Please tell me about it."

  "I was born with a very high fever, and a caul, and the doctors gave me about two hours to live. My parents had a metaphysical streak in them, so they immediately named me Veil. Who knows? Maybe my name saved my life."

  Reyna laughed softly. "Then you do have your Nal-toon: your name."

  "Why not?"

  "You said you weren't religious."

  "I'm not. I believe in gravity and mathematics. But I also, most definitely, believe in mystery. To me there's more mystery in one ordinary day in the life of any ordinary human being than there is in all of the religious fables ever told or written."

  "Well, obviously I think differently. To me Our Lord Jesus is mankind's Savior and the Son of God." Suddenly Reyna put her hand over her mouth in a strikingly childlike gesture and giggled. "But I won't try to convert you."

  "I'm relieved."

  "I like you, Veil."

  "Thank you. And I like you."

  "Wow," Reyna said with a grin as she studied the solidly built man with the broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms sitting across from her. As solid as he was, she had never seen anyone as quick and lithe. "You certainly survived, all right."

  Veil considered his reply carefully. Secretive by nature, the bizarre residue of his fever was something he almost never discussed, an affliction that was known only to a very few friends, like Victor Raskolnikov and a certain dwarf. And Sharon. Now, however, he decided that he would share this part of himself with Reyna Alexander, in the hope that she might come to appreciate the gift and share her own secrets—secrets he was certain she held and which he suspected could involve the Nal-toon, Toby, and his own new and powerful enemy, Carl Nagle.

  "The fever left me with some permanent brain damage," Veil said at last.

  Reyna's smile faltered, as if she were uncertain as to whether or not he might be joking. "Well, you certainly could have fooled me."

  "If there's such a thing as a kind of psychic membrane separating the conscious from the unconscious, then the fever I was born with burned it away. It left me vulnerable, you might say, to my dreams. I'm what's known in the literature as a vivid dreamer; my dreams are every bit as real to me as what's happening at this moment."

  "You mean, you can't tell when you're dreaming?"

  "Now I can. For most of my life I couldn't, though."

  Reyna thought about it, then suddenly frowned. "Nightmares . . . ?"

  "Oh, as a kid, I not only was chased by the usual ogres and dragons, I was usually caught and eaten."

  "Lord, Veil, I know you're minimizing it. The terror you must have felt!"

  Veil shrugged, smiled easily. "It caused me some problems. For one thing, it made me into a very cranky kid, adolescent, and—for a good many years—adult. But that's another story or two."

  "I'd like to hear all your stories."

 
"We'll see. Anyway, painting proved to be a kind of therapy. By more or less painting my dreams, I got to the point where I could recognize dreams and even control them. Now, when I start to have a nightmare, I just go away—unless I feel it could have some value."

  "What possible value could a nightmare have?"

  "Oh, you never know. We resolve a lot of things in dreams. In any case, that approach to painting lent my work a certain style, and it's been my good fortune to have people pay for it occasionally."

  "I'm sorry to say that I've never seen any of your work, but you must be very good if you're shown in the Raskolnikov Galleries."

  "Victor's kind. He thinks I'm going to be good."

  "Nonsense. I know you're good now."

  "Reyna, I'd like to know more about you."

  This time Reyna did not look away, but her eyes clouded, and she quickly shook her head as she plucked nervously at the sleeve of her blouse. "You know all there is to know."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, thanks to you."

  "Those two are gone from the park by now, and I strongly doubt that they'll be back. Are you sure you wouldn't like to go back and look for Toby's footprints together?"

  The dark-haired woman with the troubled, dark eyes thought about it as she slowly folded her napkin, then set it down beside her empty cup. "No," she said at last. "He'll never show himself if you're with me. I think it's best just to let things sit for a while."

  "Reyna, I keep getting the feeling that you're keeping something from me—something important. What is it?"

  "Please don't, Veil," Reyna whispered.

  "You can trust me."

  "I think so."

  "Know so."

  "Veil, everything's happened so quickly. I . . . have a lot of thinking to do. By myself."

  "All right," Veil said, reaching across the table and pressing her hand. "Then I'll take you home."

  "It's not necessary, unless you're going that way."

  "To tell the truth, I wasn't planning on it. There's somebody I'd like to talk to."

  Reyna patted Veil's arm as she rose. "Then you go ahead and take care of your business. I really am all right. I'll take a cab home."

  Veil paid the bill, then walked Reyna out to the curb and hailed a cab. When the taxi pulled away, he crossed the street and headed for the subway.

  Chapter Six

  Veil searched the streets around Columbia University, then headed into Morningside Park. Fifteen minutes later he found Picker Crabbe. The tall, gaunt man was seated on a park bench near West 120th Street, casually leafing through the latest issue of Hustler while he waited for customers. The man glanced up and saw Veil approaching. He flung the magazine to one side, jumped up, and started running down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Veil easily caught up with him, grabbed him by the arm, and spun him around.

  "What the hell's the matter with you, Picker? This is the second time you've run away when you saw me."

  "You're a crazy man," Crabbe said, wincing and raising his arms in front of his face as if to ward off a blow. It was just past ten in the morning, but the man's pupils were already dilated from the effects of cocaine.

  Veil laughed as he released Picker Crabbe's thin arm. "If you ran every time you saw a crazy man in New York, you'd die of exhaustion before noon."

  Crabbe sniffed, then pushed a strand of greasy gray-brown hair away from his eyes. He looked as if he wanted to run, but he stayed where he was. "You beat up on me pretty good."

  "That was a year and a half ago."

  "It was the kind of beating a man don't forget. You thought about what you were doing to me. Man, I ain't never been beat on like that."

  "I don't see any lasting damage."

  "Damage ain't the point, man. It hurt."

  "It was supposed to hurt, and you were supposed to remember it the next time you were tempted to get into the child pornography and prostitution game. One of the kids you were pimping for had been kidnapped three months before, beat on, and drugged."

  "I didn't do no kidnapping, and I didn't do none of that other stuff. I was just working for a piece of the action."

  "I know. The man who did do the kidnapping is dead. You are out of that business now, aren't you?"

  "Yes!"

  "Good. Maybe you deserved to die, Picker. At the time I did give some thought to killing you. I didn't, so I figure you owe me something."

  "What do you want?"

  "Information. What were you doing parked on Sixty-ninth last night? I know you were supposed to be watching the art gallery, so give me the condensed version of the story."

  Crabbe blinked slowly. "What art gallery?"

  Veil sighed. "Picker, I just had a talk with those two jerks you got to tail the woman. Incidentally, they asked me to tell you that they resign."

  "Oh, Jesus."

  "So let's cut through the bullshit, okay? What were you doing there?"

  "You're right. I was supposed to keep an eye on the place. There were other guys too. It was my bad luck to have you come along on my shift."

  "Why were you supposed to watch the place?"

  "To make sure that idol wasn't stolen. If it was, to try to

  stop the guy; if I couldn't, to get a good look at who it was doing the stealing."

  "Somehow I find that funny, Picker. You're telling me a thief was sent out to make certain the statue wasn't stolen by another thief?"

  "It's the truth."

  "Who hired you?"

  "I can't tell you that, man."

  "Now, Picker . . ."

  To Veil's astonishment, tears welled in Crabbe's eyes, then picked up grime like mascara as they rolled down his cheeks. "I'm being straight with you, man," Crabbe said in a near whimper. "I don't mind telling you most of what I know, because I don't know that much. But I can't give you that name. I know you can bust me up, and God knows I don't want you to, but I can't give you the name. He's as crazy as you are, man; you're two sides of the same coin— except that you'll hurt me for this but you won't kill me. This guy'll hurt me worse than you did, and then he'll kill me. For sure. He likes it."

  "How would he know you told me?"

  "I ain't takin' no chances, man. I don't want to be tortured, and I don't want to die."

  Veil looked at the trembling man before him, saw the tears in his eyes and the defeated sag of his shoulders. Suddenly he was disgusted with the terror in the world and ashamed of that part of it he had, with whatever justification, helped nurture. Picker Crabbe made him feel profoundly sad. There were too many Picker Crabbes in the world, he thought; victims who victimized, producing victims who victimized.

  "Forget it, Picker," Veil said quietly. "I don't want the name of the man who put you on the job. But tell me this: If your man is so interested in the statue, why didn't he just have you steal it?"

  "I'm not sure. He may have been afraid there was a police stakeout."

  "So you and the others were put in place just to make certain that the police did their job?"

  "I'm just guessing. He moved so fast, nobody could have stopped him."

  "Why do these people want the statue?"

  "I don't know."

  "The two men you sent out told me you were going to give them a grand each if they brought you back the idol. Is that true?"

  "Yeah."

  "Do you have the money?"

  "I could've got it."

  "From the man whose name you won't give me?"

  "Him or others. It was a street contract. The word was out that the statue was worth five grand to certain people." Crabbe paused, put a dirty index finger beside his nose. "I'd heard about the contract, but I knew those other two hadn't. I figured I had nothing to lose by promising those two guys a thousand each to follow the girl, then grab the idol from that guy if she found him. I'd still clear three grand."

  "All right, then there's a general street contract out on the statue; anyone who brings it in and hands it over to certain people can collect
the reward. Was it your idea to follow the woman?"

  "Nah. The same guy who put me on the street to watch the gallery gave me the woman's address and suggested that I keep an eye on her."

  * * *

  Veil sat in the cool shadows at the rear of the church sanctuary throughout the afternoon. At four-thirty, a door to the left of the altar opened and a priest stepped through. The man was around six feet, Veil's height, and in his mid- to late fifties. His hair was thick and black, with a few pronounced streaks of gray. A solid man with broad shoulders, he walked with a severe limp that caused his body to roll from side to side as he moved to the center of the altar rail, kissed his purple vestment, then knelt and prayed for a few minutes. Finally he rose and entered the confessional to the far left. Veil looked around, determined that he was alone, then walked quickly to the confessional, went in, and sat down on the narrow wooden bench inside.

  "I've come to talk about sin, Father," Veil said softly as a small door opened in the partition separating the two men.

  There was a long pause, then, "Veil?" The priest's voice was hoarse and gravelly, as if something had been broken in his throat.

  "Yes."

  There was another equally long pause. When the priest finally spoke, there was a note of dry humor in his voice. "Am I to assume that you've found your way to God?"

  "No, Father. I'm afraid I'll have to seek salvation in other ways."

  "There are no other ways."

  "For now I'll settle for having found my way to you."

  "What do you want with me, Veil?"

  "I need information that you may have, Father."

  "Veil, this is a confessional."

  "I'm aware of that, Father, and I don't mean to be disrespectful—but this is Little Italy, and I don't want to risk having anyone see you talking to me. I've attracted quite a following since yesterday, and I haven't quite figured out who's watching whom."

  "God protects me, Veil."

  "I need to get plugged in on some family business, Father."