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"Good God," Lark whispered.

The man's voice was so level, so cold.

"Can you come downtown to my office?" Ryan Mayfair asked. "And ask Lightner to come with you?"

"Absolutely. We'll be there in--"

"Ten minutes," Lightner said. He was already on his feet. He took the phone from Lark.

"Ryan," he said. "Get the word out to the women of the family. You don't want to alarm anyone, but none of the women should be alone just now. If something does happen, there should be someone there to call for medical help. Obviously neither Edith nor Gifford was able to do this. I know what I'm asking...Yes. Yes. All of them. Everyone. That's exactly the way to go. Yes, we'll see you in ten minutes."

The two men left the suite, choosing the short flight of stairs to the street over the elegant little elevator.

"What the hell do you think is going on?" Lark asked. "I mean what does this mean, another death exactly like that of Gifford Mayfair?"

Lightner didn't respond. He looked grim and impatient.

"And by the way, do you have super-hearing? How did you know what he'd told me on the phone?"

"Super-hearing," murmured Lightner vaguely.

They slipped out the front door and right into a waiting cab. The air still had its coolness, but there was a bit of balmy warmth mixed up in it. Everywhere Lark looked he saw greenery, and some random, shabby bit of charm--an old-fashioned lamppost perhaps, or a bit of iron balcony on the upper facade of a house behind its stucco storefront.

"I think the question is," Lightner said, once again talking to himself as much as to Lark, "what are we going to tell them. You know perfectly well what's happening. You know this has nothing to do with genetic illness, except in the broadest interpretation of those words."

The cab driver made a U-turn and tore down the Avenue, bouncing them uncomfortably together on the leather seat of the cab.

"I don't follow you," said Larkin. "I don't know what's going on. This is some kind of syndrome, like toxic shock."

"Oh, come on, man," said Lightner. "We both know. He's trying to mate with them. You told me yourself, did you not? Rowan said she wanted to know if the creature could mate with humans or with her. She wanted an entire genetic examination of all material."

Lark was stunned. He had not in all seriousness thought of this, and he realized once more that he had not been sure really that he believed in this new species of being, this male creature who had been born to Rowan Mayfair. He was still assuming in the back of his mind that all this would have some "natural" explanation.

"It's natural," said Lightner. "Natural is a deceptive word. I wonder if I shall ever before my time is up lay eyes on him. I wonder if he really can reason, if he possesses human self-control, if there is any moral framework to his mind, assuming it is a mind as we know mind..."

"But are you seriously suggesting that he is preying upon these women?"

"Of course I am," said Lightner. "It's obvious. Why do you think the Talamasca took Gifford's bloodstained clothes? He impregnated her and she lost the child. Look, Dr. Larkin, you'd better come clean on all this. I understand your scholarly interest and your loyalty to Rowan. But we may have no further contact with Rowan."

"God."

"The point is you'd better come clean about what you know. We have to tell this family that this creature is on the prowl. We don't have time for vague talk of genetic illness, and genetic testing. We don't have time to go about gathering data. The family is too vulnerable. You realize that woman died today? She died while the family was burying Gifford!"

"Did you know her?"

"No. But I know she was thirty-five, a recluse by nature, and something of a family nut, as they call them, of which there are a great many. Her grandmother Lauren Mayfair didn't approve of her very much. In fact, I'm fairly certain she went to see her this afternoon to condemn her roundly for not attending her cousin's funeral."

"Well, she sure had a good excuse, didn't she?" said Lark He was instantly sorry. "God, if I had a single clue as to where Rowan was."

"What an optimist you are," said Lightner bitterly. "We have a lot of clues, don't we, but they do not suggest that you or I will ever see or speak to Rowan Mayfair again."

Eleven

THE NOTE WAS waiting for him when he picked up his ticket for New Orleans. Call London at once.

"Yuri, Anton wants to talk to you." It was not a voice he knew. "He wants you to stay in New York until Erich Stolov gets there. Erich can meet you in New York tomorrow afternoon."

"Why is that, do you think?" asked Yuri. Who was this person? He had never heard this voice before, and yet this person spoke as if she knew him.

"He thinks you'll feel better if you talk to Stolov."

"Better? Better than what?"

As far as he was concerned, there was nothing he would say to Stolov that he had not said to Anton Marcus. He could not understand this decision at all.

"We've arranged a room for you, Yuri," said the woman. "We have you booked at the St. Regis. Erich will call you tomorrow afternoon. Shall we send a car for you? Or will you take a cab?"

Yuri thought about it. In less than twenty minutes the airline would call his plane. He looked at the ticket. He did not know what he was thinking or feeling. His eyes roved the long concourse, the motley drift of passersby. Luggage, children, round-shouldered staff in uniform. Newspapers in a darkened plastic box. Airports of the world. He could not have told from this place whether he was in Washington, D.C., or Rome. No sparrows. That meant it couldn't be Cairo. But it could have been Frankfurt or L.A.

Hindus, Arabs, Japanese passed him. And the countless unclassifiable individuals who might have been Canadian, American, British, Australian, German, French, how could one know?

"Are you there, Yuri? Please so to the St. Regis. Erich wants to talk to you, wants to bring you up to date on the investigation himself. Anton is very concerned."

Ah, that is what it was--the conciliatory tone, the pretense that he had not disobeyed an order, not walked out of the house. The strange intimacy and politeness of one he did not even know.

"Anton himself is very anxious to speak to you," she said. "He will be distressed when he discovers you called while he was out. Let me tell him you are going to the St. Regis. We can arrange a car. It's no trouble."

As if he, Yuri, did not know? As if he had not taken a thousand planes and a thousand cars and stayed in a thousand hotel rooms booked by the Order? As if he were not a defector?

No, this was all wrong. They were never rude, never, but they did not speak this way to Yuri, who knew their ways perfectly. Was it the tone for lunatics who had left the Motherhouse without permission, people who had simply walked out after years of obedience and commitment, and support?

His eyes settled on one figure--that of a woman, standing against the far wall. Sneakers, jeans, a wool jacket. Nondescript, except for her short dark hair. Swept back, rather pretty. Small eyes. She smoked a cigarette, and she kept her hands in her pockets, so that the cigarette hung on her lip. She was looking at him.

Right at him. And he understood. It was only a partial understanding but it was plenty. He dropped his eyes, he murmured something about he would think about it, yes, he would probably go to the St. Regis, he would call again from there.

"Oh, I'm so relieved to hear it," came that warm ingratiating voice. "Anton will be so pleased."

"I'll bet." He hung up, picked up his bag and walked down the concourse. He did not notice the numbers of the various gates, the names of the snack stands, the bookshops, the gift stores. He walked and he walked. At some point he turned to the left. And then on he went to a great gate that ended this arm of the terminal and then he pivoted and walked very fast back the way he'd come.

He almost ran into her, she was that close on him. He came face-to-face with her, and she--startled--stepped to the side. She almost tripped. Her face colored. She glanced back at him, and then she took off down a little c

orridor, disappeared through a service door, and was seen no more. He waited. She did not come back. She did not want him to see her again or be close to her. He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his head.