Timothy Zahn - The Green And The Gray

Roger's desperate punch hadn't even rocked Ingvar back on his heels. The white line hurled him three feet backward to sprawl onto the pavement. He rolled up onto his side, twisting his wrist over again—

"Come on!" Roger's voice snapped in Caroline's ear. Before she could even turn around, he had grabbed her wrist and was dragging her between the parked cars and down the cross-street toward Greenwich Avenue. It took two staggering steps for her to catch up to his stride; and then they were sprinting together down the sidewalk. Caroline heard the sudden change in engine noise as the car behind them shot past their cross-street and kept going.

No one stopped them or shot at them. A taut half minute later, they emerged onto the avenue.

"Wait," Caroline gasped as Roger turned them to the right and slowed to a fast walk. "What about Ingvar?"

"What about him?"

"Did whoever was in that car run him down?" Caroline clarified. "We can't just leave him back there."

"He'd probably have left us there."

"You don't know that."

Roger hissed an annoyed sigh. "We'll go over to St. Vincent," he said, pointing to the hospital across the street. "There are bound to be some cops there. They can go check it out."

"I suppose that'll—" Caroline broke off, jumping as a vehicle suddenly squealed to a halt at the curb beside them.

She spun toward it, expecting to see the blue car with Bergan glaring at her through the windshield.

To her relief, it was only a taxi. "Cab?" the driver shouted out the window at them.

"No, thanks," Roger said.

"Actually," a soft voice said from behind Caroline, "you should."

Carefully, Caroline turned. But again it wasn't Bergan. Instead, it was a pair of slender young men with black hair and eyes and dark, Mediterranean features.

And long, slender knives held inside their open coats.

"Oh, no," she murmured.

"Get in," the Green ordered. His voice was still quiet, still civilized, almost pleasant.

Caroline looked at Roger. He nodded, his posture drained of all its earlier energy. Too many shocks, she realized, coming too quickly on each other's heels.

Silently, she slid into the backseat. The driver, she saw now to her complete lack of surprise, also had black hair and olive skin.

Roger climbed in after her, one of the Greens getting in beside him as the other Green took the front passenger seat. "Just sit back and relax," the driver said over his shoulder as he pulled away from the curb. "It's a nice day for a drive."

"So," Fierenzo murmured aloud, parking his fists on his hips as he stood by the iron fence at the mouth of the alley. "This is the place."

There was no answer. Not that he'd expected one, of course. Aside from the usual assortment of trash, the alley where the Whittiers claimed to have been accosted was pretty much empty.

For a minute he gazed over the fence, taking it all in. Alleys were alleys, as far as he was concerned, but this one at least had the virtue of an interesting layout. Three different buildings faced into it, with a six-foot concrete wall along the right cutting off a small courtyard that didn't seem to serve any purpose he could see. A door led from the courtyard into the building on that side, a door the Whittiers' mugger might have found useful if he'd been able to get over the wall.

Of course, if he'd gotten up on the wall, he could just as easily have gone up the fire escape at the back end. Alternatively, he might have made it up the concrete steps beyond the fire escape, gone across the platform that filled the back quarter of the alley, and climbed over the chain-link fence at the far end. Whittier claimed he'd only turned his back for a second, but Fierenzo knew how unreliable witnesses were at judging times and distances.

One thing that was certain was that this whole thing was becoming as frustrating as hell. On the one hand, he had the Whittiers and their wild story, which sounded almost plausible until you started poking at its various corners. On the other hand, he had a collection of equally improbable stories from such diverse sources as the Whittiers' building manager and the cops who broke up whatever the hell was happening in Yorkville last night. On the third hand, he had his own observations, ranging from the strange marks on the Whittiers' trees to whatever had made him drive his car up the side of a lamppost this morning.

And on the fourth hand, he had not a single shred of tangible evidence to tie any of it together.

He shifted his attention to the fence in front of him. The lock on the gate was good and solid, and looked new. A key type, too, which meant it could be picked by someone who knew what he was doing.

"Can I help you?" a deep but courteous voice called.

Fierenzo looked up. A smallish woman was standing on the landing just outside the building to the right, half hidden behind a large black man with the word "Security" embroidered on his shirt.

"Yes," Fierenzo told him, digging his badge wallet out of his pocket and holding it up for the other's inspection. "You have the key to this gate?"

"Yes, sir," the security guard said.

"I'd like to take a look inside," Fierenzo told him. "Tell me, how new is this lock?"

"I put it on Thursday morning," the guard said, pulling a key ring out of his pocket as he came down the steps.

The morning after the Whittiers had allegedly found the gate standing wide open. "What happened to the old one?"

"Someone broke it," the guard said. "Looked like they took a sledge hammer or something to it."

"Did you keep it?"

The other shook his head. "May I ask what you're looking for?"

"Evidence of a possible crime," Fierenzo told him. "Do you mind if I go inside?"

The guard's lips puckered. He'd undoubtedly been carefully drilled in the laws regarding building searches and when and where warrants were and weren't needed. But he'd probably never had anyone ask to inspect his alley before. "You can come in with me if you want," Fierenzo added, trying to smooth over his uncertainty.

"No, I need to get back," the other said, reaching down and unlocking the gate. "Can I trust you not to try opening any of the windows or doors?"

"Scout's honor," Fierenzo assured him. "If there's anything at all, it'll be out here."

"All right," the guard said, pulling open the gate. "I'll be inside if you need me."

"Thanks," Fierenzo said. "By the way, anything unusual happen Wednesday night besides the broken lock?"

The guard shrugged. "I wasn't on duty then, but the night man didn't say anything the next morning. I can get you his name if you want."

"Not just yet, thanks," Fierenzo said. "I'll let you know if I need him."

"Okay," the other said. "Lock up when you're done, please." Turning, he lumbered up the steps, and he and the woman went back inside.

Fierenzo spent the first minute in a low crouch, examining the area around the lock. The lad with the sledge hammer, he decided, had been remarkably accurate. There was a fresh-looking indentation where the previous lock might have been shoved into the metal behind it, but aside from that there didn't seem to be any damage to the gate itself. Straightening up, he went inside, his eyes fixed on the sloping pavement beneath his feet, and walked back to the stone steps.

Nothing.

He walked the route again, eyes tracking slowly back and forth, covering every inch of the ground.

But if there had ever been anything there, the morning's drizzle had apparently obliterated it. He finished back at the gate, then retraced his path one more time down to the bottom of the slope and the black metal fire escape zigzagging its way upward.

He stopped beneath it, shading his eyes against the mist still drifting out of the sky and trying to recall everything the Whittiers had said. They had been accosted on Broadway by a short, wide man with a hacking cough who had stuck a .45 Colt in their faces. He'd brought them here, shown them a girl named Melantha, and told them to take care of her. He'd then handed Whittier the gun and staggered away toward the rear of the alley, disappearing the moment Whittier's back was turned.