Rhyme was looking at Bell's face, the dark, cryptic frown in the otherwise comfortingly lackadaisical visage. Once again, as had happened so often on this case, Rhyme had a sense that events that seemed unforeseeable but had in fact been planned a long time ago were beginning to unfold.

Bell turned to Sellitto. "Luis said you called and had the baby-sitting team stand down."

"Called who?"

"Called Grady's house. You told Luis to send everybody but him home."

"Why would I do that?" Sellitto asked. "Fuck, he did it again. Just like sending the guards at the circus home."

Bell said to the team, "It gets worse—Grady's on his way downtown by himself to meet with Constable about some plea-bargain deal." Into the phone he said, "Keep the family together, Luis. And call the others on the team. Get 'em back right now. Don't let anybody into the apartment less you know 'em. I'll try and find Charles." He hung up and dialed another number. He listened into the receiver for a long moment. "No answer." He left a message: "Charles, this is Roland. Weir's escaped and we don't know where he'd be or what he's getting up to. As soon as you hear this, get next to an armed officer you know personally and then call me."

He gave his number and then made another call, to Bo Haumann, head of Emergency Services. He alerted him that Grady was on his way to the detention center, unprotected.

The man with two guns hung up and shook his head. "Missed this one by a mile." He stared at the evidence charts. "So, what is this boy up to?"

"One thing I know," Rhyme said. "He's not leaving town. He's enjoying this."

———«»———«»———«»———

The only thing in my life, the only thing that's ever meant anything to me is performing. Illusion, magic. . . .

"Thank you, sir. Thank you."

The guard hesitated slightly at these gentle words as he ushered the man who'd spoken them—Andrew Constable—into the interview room atop the Tombs in lower Manhattan.

The prisoner smiled like a preacher thanking his parishioners for tithes.

The guard uncuffed Constable's hands from behind his back and then recuffed them in front.

"Is Mr. Roth here yet, sir?"

"Siddown, shutup."

"Sure thing." Constable sat.

"Shutup."

Did that too.

The guard left and, alone in the room, the prisoner gazed out the greasy window at the city. He was a country boy through and through but he still appreciated New York. He'd felt stunned and angry beyond words at September 11. If he and the Patriot Assembly had had their way, the incident never would have happened because the people who wished to do harm to the American way of life would have been rooted out and exposed. Hard questions . . .

A moment later the heavy metal door opened and the guard let Joseph Roth into the room.

"Hi, Joe. Grady's agreed to negotiate?"