Malach's right hand was there, pinioning Chas at the right wrist.

"Eia," said Malach.

Chas struggled, his face congested and bewildered.

Malach had stopped smiling. He straightened his back and looked into the eyes of Chas. Then he pulled smartly down on the lost boxer's crossed arms. There was a dull gristly creak. Chas howled. His eyes skidded up.

Malach let go the two wrists. The arms of Chas now hung down limp and too long, the arms of an ape. They had been pulled from their sockets.

"No axe, no gun," said Malach. He pushed at Chas and Chas fell over on his back under the table. His arms were useless, he could not get up.

Malach went to the crate of lemonade, and taking a bottle he shook it up, glancing around again as he did so at the elements of the cubby. Then he unscrewed the cap of the bottle, and poured the bubbling liquid over Chas's face, into his nostrils.

The lift reached the lobby and the great slow doors opened.

Ruth, the priestess of cats, came out. Her black hair rayed over the cape of skins. Her white face, with its rose mouth and black-shadowed eyes, showed nothing.

Frankie was behind her. "But I can drive you wherever you want. There's no strings. He gave me strict orders."

"I don't want to go in your car," said Ruth. "I told you."

"He'll create a scene."

Ruth said nothing.

Frankie called across the lobby. "Chas? The doll's just going through. No problem." Frankie stepped back in the lift. " 'S all yours."

He pushed at the button panel and the doors began to close again. They shut together like chunks of old armor and the lift slid up into the warehouse, back to the white carpet and the Bugattis.

After the lift was gone, Ruth did not move.

She stood in the foyer, seemingly waiting. She knew, had been lessoned in, the silent noise of death. Frankie, who should have known it too, had missed it.

Then Adamus came out of the wall.

He had changed, as the dead do.

"Daddy," said Ruth, clearly. And then, correcting herself, "Adam."

He was there, in the midst of the massive gray and rusty lobby, sidelit by the glare from the cubbyhole. He stayed immobile as an iron statue.

Ruth moved. She walked to him over the lobby floor, the leopardskin trailing, looking up at his face.

When she was a yard away, she halted.

"Not Daddy," he said. "Not Adam. My name is Malach. Say it."

"Malach," said Ruth.

He slapped her across the face.

It was a light, stinging blow, not wounding or violent, but sharp as a drawn sword.

She rocked, he caught her shoulder. As she regained her equilibrium, he let her go.

He said, "What floor?"

"Three."

The internal phone rang in the cubby.

Malach went without hesitation back into the room and lifted the receiver. Lorlo Mulley's voice was extruded, breathless.