John Saul - The Manhattan Hunt Club

"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."

Though 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."