He washed his metal cup in the narrow stream that flowed beneath the footbridge. Then he carefully wrapped everything in a sturdy plastic garbage bag, which he placed in a hole he had dug with his knife. He covered the hole with a mat of brush, peered through his brush screen to make sure nobody was about to observe him, then climbed up out of the ravine. Then he started walking south, toward the exit at that end of the park.
(ii)
Later, he would take a bus to visit his sister across the river, in Rockland County, where he would stay for a week. But for now
Zulu was at his usual post in front of St. Thomas Church, preparing his mind, meditating, searching for the stories he would tell the crowds he expected to see on the streets this morning of what promised to be a fine, sunny Sunday.
The church service inside St. Thomas would be over in a few minutes, and then the worshippers would stream out and join the other people strolling up and down Fifth Avenue. Not a few would stop to listen to him.
His stories on this day, he thought, would be devoted to the pleasures of spring and summer in New York City—concerts and Shakespeare and opera in Central Park, strolling along the boardwalk at the South Street Seaport, warmth, street festivals, a time when even the homeless could be relatively comfortable. His stories this day would be about happiness and satisfaction; cruelty and misery in the city were things he could talk about any day, and usually did.
Suddenly, the seven-foot street performer had the distinct sensation that he was being watched. Unwilling to come out of his trance just as a new story was forming, he tried to ignore the sensation, which was growing increasingly stronger. After all, he thought, he was being watched all the time; a seven-foot-tall black man dressed in flowing ceremonial robes and carrying a seven-foot staff made for a rather imposing sight, even in New York City. Indeed, he depended on his presence to initially gather audiences which he would then captivate with the sound of his voice and the content of his stories. So it was only normal that people should be staring at him, and he hoped they could continue to stare until he was ready to rap his staff on the sidewalk and begin . . .
But this was somehow different; someone was staring at him, a single pair of eyes, from a distance . . .
And then the story that had been forming in his mind was lost in confusion and distraction.
Still without moving his body, Zulu slowly let his eyes come back into focus. Already, a crowd—including many "regulars" who knew that his Sunday morning stories were often his best—was gathering around him, staring up at him with anticipation.
But these were not the eyes he had felt.
Without moving his head, Zulu looked to his left and his right. As expected, people crossing the street, moving up and down the block from both directions, usually fixed their gaze on him while they were still a distance away.
But these were not the eyes he had felt.
Then Zulu looked across the street, and was mildly startled to see a slender but solidly built man about six feet tall standing at the very edge of the sidewalk, staring intently at him. A moving wall of pedestrians flowed behind the man, often jostling him, but the man remained still, staring . . .
These were the eyes.
The man wore dark glasses and a floppy-brimmed hat that was probably one or two sizes too large for him and which covered his forehead, making it impossible to make out his features. Zulu did not immediately recognize the man, and yet he had the strong feeling that there was something definitely familiar . . .
And then the man, still keeping his gaze locked with Zulu's, slowly took his hands out of his pockets and folded them across his chest—and in that moment Zulu saw the twisted, gnarled fingers.
It was the bone-man.
Zulu frowned. He had not seen the bone-man in more than two weeks, and then it had only been a fleeting glimpse of the bone-man's bewildered face looking out the window of one of the blue vans operated by Project Helping Hand. After that had come the newspaper stories, with the police claiming that they had captured the killer responsible for beheading homeless men and women—a murderer who carried a human bone. Zulu had had his doubts, but had assumed that the police had strong evidence against the strange man. He had also assumed that the bone-man was locked away in jail, or in a mental hospital. Obviously, Zulu thought, he had been wrong; the police had been wrong. The clothes of this man staring at him were decidedly unfamiliar, and his long hair had been cut, or was folded up under his hat—but the man standing on the edge of the sidewalk across the street was definitely the bone-man. Nobody else had hands like that.
Zulu could not understand why the bone-man did not come across the street. The bone-man had spent many hours sitting on the steps of St. Thomas, in all kinds of weather, listening to his stories. The bone-man had never spoken, but Zulu had always had the sense that the bone-man was listening intently, absorbing everything. And, of course, considering the other way in which their lives had intersected, Zulu found it decidedly odd that the bone-man did not seem to even want to acknowledge his existence, much less come over to sit and listen again. More strange behavior from a very strange man who was unbelievably lucky just to be alive.
Unless something else had happened that he didn't know about, Zulu thought. Unless something else had changed in the bone-man, and the bone-man might once again need his help.
Zulu was about to raise his staff in greeting, to beckon the bone-man across the street, when the figure in the dark glasses and floppy hat abruptly turned and said something to a man who had stopped at the intersection to wait for the light to change. The man glanced at his watch, said something to the bone-man, who then quickly turned away from the curb and walked away.
Zulu, thoroughly puzzled, gazed after the bone-man until he disappeared in the crowd. Something had, indeed, changed in the bone-man, Zulu thought; for one thing, he now spoke. But Zulu could make no sense of the bone-man's new pattern of behavior, and he found that it troubled him. Suddenly, Zulu felt concerned and anxious, for reasons that he did not fully understand.
There would be no more stories today, Zulu thought, for the story that now held the most interest for him was unresolved, with large sections unknown to him. He would go to his sister's home early. Offering a smile and half nod as a kind of apology to the expectant crowd gathered around him, Zulu picked up his empty wooden bowl and quickly walked away.
(iii)
"Just before I came here, I saw something that gave me a strong impression that I'd been there before; and one of the maps Anne gave me confirmed that I had been spotted there—a number of times. It was a church on Fifth Avenue, at the corner of Fifty-third Street. I was walking down Fifth, I looked across the street . . . and I just felt this strong sense of association. There was a man standing in front of the church—a very tall black man wearing brightly colored robes and holding a long pole, or staff. A lot of people were gathered around, staring at him, but he just stood there, without moving. When he looked at me, I had a very strong feeling that I'd met the man before, that I knew him."
Ali Hakim looked up from the yellow legal pad on which he had been making notes. Warm sunlight streamed in through a large window directly behind his desk, filling the spacious chrome, glass and oak-lined office with a golden glow. The slight Pakistani psychiatrist with the lilting voice was dressed in jeans and sneakers, with a brown corduroy jacket worn over a maroon polo shirt. As usual, his features were impassive, his large, black eyes revealing nothing.
"Did you speak to this man?"
Bone shook his head. "I was going to; but I'd committed to coming here to see you. I didn't want to break my word, and I didn't want to be late. I'll go back there after I finish here."
"Oh? How do you know he'll be there?"
"I think he spends a lot of time there; I spotted him there before, from the window of the van when Barry, Anne and you were taking me to Bellevue."
Ali made a note. "Obviously, you like to be punctual for appointments. And you have a sense of hon
or; it's important to you that you keep your word."
"It seems so. I hadn't thought about it that way; I just experienced it."
Ali made a very slight clucking sound with his tongue. "Then you are not concentrating hard enough; experience things, yes, but then ponder the experience. These are the kinds of things you must attend to. Little things. I believe it's more likely that an accumulation of little impressions and reactions will help you, rather than any sudden, dramatic breakthrough. When you fail to observe, or dismiss, such important character traits as punctuality and honor, I suggest that you are off the track. The big 'event' you are waiting for may never happen. Stop waiting for a mountain to appear to you; you must build it yourself."
"I understand."
Ali put down his pen, then folded his hands and rested them on top of his thick glass desktop, which was bare except for the yellow pad on which he had been writing. "The black man in the robes calls himself Zulu," the psychiatrist said easily. "And you're right; he will most likely be there, at least during the day, if and when you wish to speak with him. Of course, I can't guarantee that he'll wish to speak with you; if he doesn't, you'll be met with nothing but silence. Zulu is a most interesting fellow."
"Homeless?"
"He's classified as such by the city agencies that try to keep track of such things, but he really doesn't fit into any neat category. You'll find a small percentage of otherwise rational people living on the streets who are there precisely because they want to be, people who have made a conscious, balanced decision to live outside the parameters of what we call civilized society, and who are reasonably—sometimes extremely—self-sufficient. Zulu is such a person. You, albeit under radically different circumstances, were another. Zulu was approached a few times by Project Helping Hand personnel, and he was highly offended. He's what you might call a street performer, and he's been virtually a landmark on that corner for the past five or six years."
"What does he do?"
"He tells stories about the city. But 'tells' isn't quite the word. He performs them, almost like an opera singer. He's really quite good. I've stopped to listen on occasion, and have always been very impressed. Judging from the amounts of money I've seen in his bowl, I'd say that he does quite well at his chosen profession."
Bone frowned, remembering the black man and the strange sense of familiarity—almost kinship—he had felt. Now he was sorry he had not taken the time to cross the street and try to talk to the man. But, as Ali Hakim had pointed out, the stranger was both honorable and punctual. And he had said that he would be here.
"Where does this Zulu live?"
Ali shrugged his frail shoulders. "Perhaps in a split-level in Queens. I don't know, and I doubt that any city worker knows—just as we don't know his real name. The two of you seem to have—or had—those things in common. However, if I were to take a guess, I would say that the man's background includes some classical acting training; his voice and mannerisms are those of a well-trained performer."
Bone said nothing. Now he wanted to get out of the psychiatrist's office as quickly as possible so that he could go back to the church on Fifth Avenue and talk to the robed black man.
"I'm very happy to see you, Bone," Ali continued after a pause.
"You sound as if you weren't sure I'd show up."
"The abruptness and manner in which you disappeared from the shelter took us all a bit by surprise. Then, when you didn't get in touch . . ." The psychiatrist finished the sentence with a shrug. "We've all been very concerned about you."
"I wasn't aware that I had to check in with anyone," Bone said evenly.
"You don't. But may I ask why you left the shelter?"
Bone matter-of-factly related the events that had occurred during his first night at the Men's Shelter. Ali listened with growing concern on his face.
"You must be very careful," Ali said when Bone had finished. "The gray-jacketed boy you mentioned is a member of a particularly vicious youth gang which calls itself the Wolfpack. Their leader is a psychotic young man who calls himself Lobo, but whose real name is Rafael Billingsley. Lobo might be described as the ultimate neo-conservative, or Social Darwinist; I'm told he actually views himself as a reformer culling out the weak from the herd, as it were. He's spent most of his life bouncing in and out of foster homes and mental institutions. The Wolfpack has made a specialty of preying on the homeless, and each member must be considered very dangerous. There are a lot of them out there. You must be especially careful to avoid Lobo; he's apparently made a blood oath to kill you, and he won't be thinking about much else until he does."
"Lobo knows something about the stranger—me. It seems I had a serious run-in with him while I was living on the streets."
Ali shook his head. "Pursue your other means of investigation. I repeat: the Wolfpack is extremely dangerous. They usually pick only on those who can't fight back, and who won't report the attacks to the police. But if this Lobo has a personal grudge against you, every member of the Wolfpack will be on the lookout for you. And Lobo will kill you; make no mistake about that. He's a very disturbed young man who never should have been set free in the first place."
"I'll be careful."
The psychiatrist again shook his head, sighed. "You say you've been living in Central Park for the past week, under a bridge?"
Bone nodded.
"Why, Bone?"
"I've been following my instincts. It's what you told me to do."
"Yes," Ali replied evenly. "That's true."
Now Bone related the incident that had occurred in the underpass near Grand Central Terminal—his panic, his initial sense of balance and its loss, his instinct to try to dig his fingers into the smooth stone. Ali listened intently, occasionally making notes and nodding, but did not interrupt.
When Bone had finished, Ali leaned back in his leather swivel chair and studied him, his features impassive but his large eyes displaying heightened curiosity. It occurred to Bone that there was something on the other man's mind, something the psychiatrist was holding back. He considered asking Ali if that was true, decided not to. If Ali Hakim was hiding something from him, Bone thought, it would not be revealed to him until he had at least discovered its bare outlines for himself; it was how the other man worked.
"How is Anne?"
"Anne is fine."
"Barry?"
"Also fine, as far as I know. They're not working together any longer, and Barry has been assigned to another project working in the Bronx. I don't see him anymore."
"Please tell Anne I said hello—and Barry, if you do see him."
"Why don't you tell Anne yourself? I know that she'd like to hear from you; she's been very worried. Also, by this time your emergency grant should have been approved; she may have some money for you. However, I guess you know that you'll have to have some permanent address before you can get further financial aid. Perhaps it's time for you to check into a residence. Anne can help you with that, too—as you know."
"I'll give it some thought. Thank you, Doctor."
"You're afraid, aren't you?" Ali said softly.
"Of a residence?"
"Of Anne."
Bone said nothing. After a few moments, Ali opened a drawer, took out a set of cards and what appeared to be two or three questionnaires.
"I'd like to run some tests on you, Bone—Rorschach blots and two personality profiles. It will take about two hours."
"If you think it will help, sure," Bone replied, hoping his disappointment did not show on his face or in his voice.
"Frankly, Bone, it will probably help me more in my research protocol than it will in your search. You seem to be doing just fine on your own. However, the personality profiles may give us some indication of preferences and aversions you're not aware of."
"Will it wait, Doctor? I'm kind of anxious to get back to the church and try to talk to this man you call Zulu."
Ali again leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs. "Of course it will wait," he sa
id, his tone flat.
"But you don't think it should."
"You will find Zulu at St. Thomas Church later in the day—or any day. But, if you'll take these tests now, I may have any information they can give me for you next week when you come in. The tests might be useful, or they might not—but you will lose that week if you don't take them now. This is the only time I have available to administer them."
"All right," Bone said. "Let's do it, Doctor."
"Are you aware that there was another killing two nights ago?" Ali asked in a casual tone as he began laying the questionnaires out on the desk in front of him.
Suddenly Bone felt stunned and short of breath, as if someone had punched him in the stomach—and the easy manner in which the psychiatrist had asked the question only added to the impact. He wondered why the other man hadn't raised the issue as soon as he'd come in, then realized that throughout what had seemed to him an almost casual conversation the psychiatrist had been studying him, gauging his words, demeanor and reactions. Bone felt a surge of resentment and anger, and he remained silent as the other man continued to rearrange the papers on the desk.
Finally Ali looked up, raised his eyebrows slightly. "You weren't aware of it, were you?"
"No," Bone replied curtly.
"Yes. I can see that."
"Was it a . . . decapitation?"
"Yes. It was in all the newspapers, on radio and television."
"I haven't been reading the newspapers, listening to the radio or watching television, Dr. Hakim. All the time I've been sitting here and talking, you knew there'd been a killing and you didn't tell me; you've been sitting there watching me and wondering if you were talking to a murderer."
"Isn't that what we've both been wondering since we met, Bone?" Ali asked in a mild tone.
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