In his own pocket, Gurney’s right forefinger slipped over the trigger of the Beretta.

In the concourse behind him, at a distance he estimated at no more than a hundred yards, there was another explosion—followed by shouts, screams, curses, the sharp clamor of several fire alarms going off at once, more screams, someone wailing the name “Joseph,” the sound of many running feet.

Black Hoodie stood perfectly still.

Gurney felt a rising anger as he imagined the scene behind him, the scene that was provoking those cries of pain and terror. He let that anger drive his next words. “You’re a dead man, Panikos.”

“You talking to me?” The tone of the question was conspicuous for its lack of concern. The accent was vaguely urban, with a scruffy attitude. The voice was ageless—childlike in an odd way—its gender no more certain than that of the body it came from.

Gurney studied what little he could see of the yellow painted face in the black cowl. The garish carnival ride lights, the cries of dismay and confusion welling up from the explosion sites, and the acrid odor of smoke blowing in the wind were transforming the creature before him into something unearthly. A miniature image of the Grim Reaper. A child actor playing the role of a demon.

Gurney replied evenly. “I’m talking to perfect Peter Pan, who shot the wrong man.”

The face in the cowl turned slowly toward him. Then the body began to follow.

“Stop where you are,” said Gurney. “Don’t move.”

“Gotta move, man.” A whiny distress had entered Black Hoodie’s voice. “How can I not move?”

“Stop now!”

The movement stopped. The unblinking eyes in the yellow face were focused now on the pocket where Gurney held the Beretta, ready to fire. “What are you gonna do, man?”

Gurney said nothing.

“You gonna shoot me?” The style of his speech, its cadence, its accent, all sounded about right for a tough street kid.

But, somehow, thought Gurney, not quite right enough. For a moment he couldn’t identify the problem. Then he realized what it was. It sounded to him like the intonation of some sort of generic street kid, not specific to any particular part of any particular city. It was like the deficiency in the speech of British actors playing New Yorkers. Their accents wandered from borough to borough. Ultimately, they were from nowhere.

“Am I going to shoot you?” Gurney frowned thoughtfully. “I’m going to shoot you if you don’t do exactly as I say.”

“Like what, man?” As he spoke, he began turning again as if to face Gurney head-on.

“Stop!” Gurney thrust the Beretta forward in his sweatshirt pocket, making its presence more obvious.

“I don’t know who you are, man, but you are fucking nuts.” He turned another few degrees.

“One more inch, Panikos, and I pull the trigger.”