The Lovers

“Go on, look at each other,” said Epstein. “It will be the last time you ever meet.”

And as Semjaza realized what was about to happen, she began to scream the word “No!” over and over, until Epstein forced a gag into her mouth as she was laid on a stretcher and secured. A blanket was placed over her, and she was carried from the house into a waiting ambulance that sped away without sirens or lights. I looked at Maser, and I saw desolation in his eyes. His lips moved, and I heard him whispering something repeatedly. I couldn’t catch what he was saying, but I was sure that they were the same words spoken by his lover.

Dominus meus bonus et benignitas est.

Then one of Epstein’s men appeared and jammed a hypodermic needle into Maser’s neck, and within seconds his chin slumped to his chest, and his eyes closed.

“It’s done,” said Epstein.

“Done,” I said, and at last I let them lay me down, and the light faded from my eyes.

Three days later, I met Epstein once again in the little diner. The deaf mute woman served us the same meal as before, then disappeared into the rear of the place and left us alone. Only then did we talk in earnest. We spoke of the events of that night, and of all that had transpired in the days preceding it, including my conversation with Eddie Grace.

“There is nothing that can be done about him,” said Epstein. “Even if it could be proved that he had been involved, he would die before they could even get him out of the house.”

A cover story had been invented for the events at Hobart Street. Hansen was a hero. While shadowing me as part of an ongoing investigation, he had encountered an armed man who had attacked him with a blade. Although seriously injured, Hansen managed to fatally wound in turn his as-yet-unidentified assailant, who died on the way to the hospital. The blade was the same one that had been used to kill Mickey Wallace and Jimmy Gallagher. Blood traces on the hilt matched theirs. A photograph of the man in question had appeared in the newspapers as part of the police investigation. It bore no resemblance to Gary Maser. It bore no resemblance to any person, living or dead.

No mention was made of the woman. I didn’t ask what had become of her, or her lover. I didn’t want to know, but I could guess. They had been hidden away somewhere deep and dark, far from each other, and there they would rot.

“Hansen was one of us,” said Epstein. “He’d been keeping tabs on you ever since you left Maine. He shouldn’t have entered the house. I don’t know why he did. Perhaps he saw Maser and decided to try to intercept him before he got to you. He’s being kept in a medically induced coma for now. It’s unlikely that he’ll ever be able to return to his duties.”

“My secret friends,” I said, remembering the words that the Collector had spoken to me. “I never figured Hansen for one of them. I must be lonelier than I thought.”

Epstein sipped his water. “He was, perhaps, overzealous in ensuring that your activities were restricted. The decision to rescind your licenses was not his, but he was willing to enforce a Z Qto enforcny decisions that were made. It was felt that you were drawing too much attention, and that you needed to be protected from yourself.”

“It helped that he didn’t like me anyway.”

Epstein shrugged. “He believed in the law. That was why we chose him.”

“And there are others?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Not enough.”

“And now?”

“We wait. You’ll get your investigator’s license back, and your firearms permit will be restored to you. If we can’t protect you from yourself, then I suppose that we have to give you the ability simply to protect yourself. There may be a price, though.”

“There always is.”

“An occasional favor, nothing more. You’re good at what you do. The way will be smoothed with state police, local law enforcement, in the event that your involvement might prove useful. Consider yourself an adviser, an occasional consultant on certain matters.”

“And who is going to smooth the way? You, or another of my ‘friends’?”

I heard the door open behind me. I turned. SAC Ross entered, but he did not remove his coat or join us at the table. Instead, he simply leaned against the counter of the deli, his hands entwined before him, and looked at me like a social worker forced to engage with a repeat offender of whom he is starting to despair.

“You’ve got to be kidding. Ross and I had history. Him?”

“Him,” said Epstein.

“Unit Five.”

“Unit Five.”

“With friends like that…”

“…one needs enemies to match,” finished Epstein.

Ross nodded. “This doesn’t mean that I’m your go-to guy every time you mislay your keys,” he said. “You need to keep your distance.”

“That won’t be hard.”

Epstein raised a placatory hand. “Gentlemen, please.”

“I have another question,” I said.

“Absolutely,” said Epstein. “Go ahead.”

“That woman was whispering something as she was carried away. Before I went out cold, I thought I saw Maser saying the same thing. It sounded like Latin.”

“Dominus meus bonus et benignitas est,” said Epstein. “My master is good and kind.”

“Eddie Grace used almost those same words,” I said, “except he said them in English. What does it mean? Some kind of prayer?”

“That, and perhaps more,” said Epstein. “It’s a play on words. A name has recurred over the course of many years. I Z Qany yearst’s appeared in documents, records. At first we thought it was a coincidence, or a code of some kind, but now we believe that it’s something else.”

“Like what?”

“We think that it’s the name of the Entity, the controlling force,” said Epstein. “‘My master is good and kind.’ ‘Good’ and ‘kind.’ That’s what they call the one whom they serve. They call him ‘Goodkind.’

“Mister Goodkind.”

It would be a long time before I learned of what passed between Ross and Epstein once I was gone, and only the silent woman kept them company in the dim light of the diner.

“Are you sure it’s wise to let him roam?” asked Ross as Epstein struggled to find the sleeve of his coat.

“We are not letting him roam,” replied Epstein. “He’s a tethered goat, even if he doesn’t realize it. We simply have to wait, and see what comes to feed.”

“Goodkind?” asked Ross.

“Eventually, perhaps, if he truly exists,” said Epstein, finding at last his sleeve. “Or if our friend lives long enough…”

I left New York that evening after performing one more service for the dead, this one long delayed. Beneath a simple marker in the corner of Bayside Cemetery, I laid flowers on the grave of a young woman and an unknown child, the final resting place of Caroline Carr.

My mother.

EPILOGUE

My heart asks for peace-

Day after day flies by, and every hour takes away

A little piece of life; but you and I, we two,

We contemplate living… -ALEKSANDR PUSHKIN (1799-1837),

“IT’S TIME, MY FRIEND, IT’S TIME”

I SPENT THE REST of the week alone. I saw no one. I spoke to no one. I lived with my thoughts, and in the silence I tried to come to terms with all that I had learned.

On Friday night, I went to the Bear. Dave Evans was working the bar. I had already told him by phone that I was done with the job, and he had taken it well. I guess he knew that it would only be a matter of time. I had already received unofficial confirmation that my PI’s license would be restored to me within days, just as Epstein had told me, and all objections to my license to carry had been withdrawn.

But that night, it was clear that Dave was swamped. The main bar area was jammed, so it was standing room only. I stepped aside to let Sarah pass by with a tray of beer orders in one hand, a stack of food orders in the other. She looked frazzled, which was unusual, but then I noticed that everybody else who was working d Z Pȇid too.