Stiles’s mouth moved but he didn’t answer. He didn’t even try. Instead he looked past Wilkerson’s shoulder and past the men to a figure standing away from the others, back in the shadows behind a shell-pocked tree. “Tell them,” Alex said. “When you get back, call home. Tell them where I am.”

“Where are you?” he asked. The men exchanged puzzled glances and looked to see who he meant.

“The park,” said his brother, his voice cracking. “Central Park. Tell them to come and find me. Don’t leave me there.”

There was a sudden flash of lightning in the storm beyond, and a stencil of it reached the floor of the rain forest. For a brief instant it chased away the cloak of shadows and gave Chris the first glimpse he’d had of his brother in years. Alex wasn’t the same. Parts of him were missing. But it wasn’t that, nor the gleam of his bare cheekbone or the jutting ribs or the blood that matted his hair and clothes that made Chris’s guts twist the most. It was the cause of his condition. Something had been at his brother. The teeth marks were evident even from a distance.

“Tell them where I am, Hoss,” he repeated as he started to fade.

“But where? Where in Central Park?”

For the first time some spark of emotion came from the phantom. A sob racked his mangled frame. “The whole park,” he cried. “I’m all over it!” Then he faded, and the jungle was silent again.

Stiles didn’t so much wake up, since he had not been sleeping, as suddenly come alert. His eyes were still glued to the roadway but they had failed to notice the subtle lightening of the eastern sky. As the realization sank in he rubbed his tired eyes and checked his watch: 5:30 a.m. Christ, have I missed anything?

He got out of the van, one hand hiding the Uzi beneath his overcoat, and ran through the trees to the culvert. The scene was undisturbed; the hand was still visible, still frozen in place. Disgusted, he bent the rigored limb back out of sight, though not so far that he couldn’t pull it forth again. He’d need his marker again tonight.

Five-thirty, he thought, stretching his cricked spine. That ought to give him enough time to shower and sleep and then think of what to tell Billie before his vigil started again. Grumbling, he greeted the sun as both friend and enemy and walked tiredly back to the van.

On the way back to town, he thought about stopping for cigarettes but he fought the urge until it faded.

9

Chapter Nine

“Billie?”