That awful, horrible day.

“I’ll never forget,” I said. “I remember his first name was Teel—no, Tier. But we have no idea where to find him.”

“I do.”

“Of course you do,” I muttered.

She laughed. For the first time since Christmas week my Ellie laughed. And it sounded real and…and wonderful.

We returned to the Grand Street station and took the D train to Columbus Circle at the southwest corner of Central Park.

I gestured toward the park. “Aren’t you worried…?”

“No. The Sheep Meadow signal will sing its swan song tonight. I’m actually looking forward to it.” She pointed up Central Park West. “Come. He’s this way…in the Allard Building.”

“He lives in the Allard?” I said.

The Allard had the status of the San Remo or the Dakota. He hadn’t struck me as wealthy.

The walk turned out to be a short one. We stopped before the canopied entrance to an Art Deco apartment building. Its sixteen-story base narrowed to a graceful, streamlined ten-story tower, capped with a heavy-duty antenna from another age.

A liveried doorman with Simón on his nametag greeted us at the front door.

“We’re here to see Mister Hill,” Ellie said.

“Hardly anyone asks for him by that name.”

Curious, I said, “What name do they use?”

“‘Burbank.’ Is he expecting you?”

“No,” Ellie said, “but if you tell him the girl he saved from the Sheep Meadow is here, I’m sure he’ll see us.”

Giving Ellie a suitably puzzled look, Simón retreated to his kiosk and made a call. He returned a few moments later.

“He said to come right up. Take the center elevator and press P for the penthouse.”

The penthouse at the Allard…despite the horrors of the day I wanted to see it. The woodwork in the lobby was stunning—graceful arrays of multicolored inlays and laminates and burled wood veneers. The penthouse had to be even more impressive.

TOWER in Art Deco letters marked the middle of three elevators. Ellie pressed the P button and we whisked to the top where we were greeted by a tall and wiry man I recognized instantly: the same ruddy skin, high cheekbones, and sharp nose. Definitely a Native American. The only change was the fatigue in his eyes.

“Mister Hill,” I said extending my hand. “So good to see you again.” His clasp was brief but firm. “And this is Ellie. Remember her?”

“Of course,” he said in a deep voice, turning to her. “But do you remember me?”

“Yes and no,” Ellie said. “I was in pretty bad shape. Thanks for getting me away from the signal.”

He looked surprised. “So…you know it’s a signal?”

“Yes. I’ve learned a lot since then. And so have you. You put out a report on them, I believe.”

“I didn’t originate it. Burbank did. I merely took over for him after he passed. But now I’m shutting it down. All the signals have synchronized to the same frequency, so there’s nothing left to report.” He clapped his hands once. “Well, it was nice to see you, but I’m busy dismantling the electronics in the monitoring room, so—”