Prologue from Red Ant's Head

Philadelphia

She always picked churches. I didn't know whether it gave Carla a kick to meet her lover--or the guy she thought was going to be her lover--under the eye of God, or whether she felt safer near a church. Maybe she planned to run inside and take sanctuary if her husband turned up unexpectedly.

I wished she wouldn't pick Catholic churches, though. I could hear a whooshing noise as I walked down the street toward St. Mary Magdalen.

"Very funny, Cee-cee," I muttered. She'd picked it on purpose, I knew she had.

It might have been the wind blowing dried maple leaves down the gutters, but I knew better. It was Sister George Mary, with her long black skirts swishing up and down the aisles of the sixth grade at St. Ignatius, grim voice assuring her captive audience that God Sees Everything, and He Isn't Very Pleased with most of it. I was pretty sure that included assignations in the back seat of a Jaguar with someone else's wife.

"It's not what you think," I assured Sister George, balling up my hands inside my pockets, amid the rubble of change and frayed Kleenex. "The last thing I want to do is sleep with her." Seduce her, yes; sleep with her, no.

Sister George wasn't big on situational ethics. On the other hand, she thought you could define just about anything, especially sin.

Seduce (si doos', -dyoos'), v.t., -duced, -duc.ing. 1. To lead astray, as from duty, rectitude, or the like; corrupt. 2. to persuade or induce to have sexual intercourse. 3. to lead or draw away, as from principles, faith, or allegiance. 4. to win over; attract; entice. [< L seduce(re) (to) lead aside = se -SE- + ducere to lead; r. ME seduise <MF <L, as above] -se.duc'er, n. -se.duc'i.ble, se.duce'a.ble, adj. -se.duc'ing.ly, adv. -se.duc'ive, adj. -Syn. 1. beguile, inveigle, lure.

If I had to pick, I'd take number 4. It sounded a little less sleazy. But then, 1 and 3 might be OK, too, depending. I mean, I was certainly trying to lead Carla away from her marriage, but I didn't think either rectitude or principle applied. Duty? Well, my duty was to the story I was after. Carla's? That was her business.

As for number 2...OK, Sister George, I won't say the idea lacks appeal. On the other hand, the last thing I needed was a messy re-entanglement with the about-to-be-ex-wife of a guy with Marco Cipriani's connections.

Sister George Mary wasn't famous for her sense of humor, but I could have sworn I heard her laugh. I glanced upward, startled. A bunch of black birds sitting on a TV antenna, ruffling their feathers and cackling in the wind. Crows.

Allegiance? Yeah, I guessed wedding vows counted as allegiance. Even if you were married to somebody like Marco Cipriani. My allegiance was to something else, though. And my duty was to beguile, inveigle, or lure Carla Cipriani into giving me what I needed. I'd been doing OK so far, getting information without sullying my virtue too much--or hers--but it had been a near thing, the last few times. I was afraid it was going to be a lot nearer this time.

She had what I wanted, she'd said so. Cee-cee never lied; she'd gone to St. Ignatius, too. That is, she never lied to me, not since the sixth grade. I don't know what she'd been telling Marco for the last few months.

She'd been nervous on the phone last night, but not terrified like she'd been the first time she called. This time, it was more like a high, like somebody sitting at the top of the biggest roller-coaster drop in the world. You know, scared to death, but looking forward to the thrill. So was I. Only trouble was that we weren't headed for the same ride, and I didn't know how to break that to her without breaking her heart.

I wasn't walking fast, but my heart was pounding like I'd run the mile in 4:10. My ears and the end of my nose were cold, but the palms of my hands were sweaty, jammed in my pockets. I felt the plane ticket, folded up to fit into the pocket of my leather jacket. One ticket. One-way.

I stood on the corner, looking both ways. Looked behind for good measure. Would I know danger if I saw it?

I didn't see anything that looked like it. The usual narrow Philly street with cracked sidewalks and shabby townhouses. Yard-trash and plastic tricycles starting to poke through the yellowing azaleas by the stoops, and kids. Lots of kids, loose on the street between school and supper, looking for friends, looking for fun, looking for trouble.

A few women, the few who didn't work, were sitting on the stoops, smoke from their cigarettes rising hot and spicy on the air, over the fall smells of damp garbage and dead leaves. The cars jammed into the curb were all empty; their blank windshields stared back at me. Plenty of eyes in that neighborhood, but none were watching me.

I turned the corner into [ ]. It was just past five, but already nearly dark. The office-workers were still stuck in traffic on the Schuylkill. Those on the street were intent on getting home; none of the drivers who passed me spared a glance. I was white, but this was a mixed neighborhood; I didn't stand out. I was just a guy from the hood, jeans and beat-up leather jacket, probably worked in a warehouse somewhere, maybe heading home now, maybe stopping off at one of the bars on [ ].

I wished suddenly that that's where I was going. I didn't drink much, but right then, I'd have given anything for a frozen shot of Wiborowa. The urge was sudden enough to jar me; why was I thinking about vodka? I never drank Wiborowa except at Polish weddings--and funerals.

My fingers twiddled through the pocket-litter, restless. There it was--again. A square foil packet, hiding among the coins and paperclips. I'd touched it a dozen times, and a shock each time, like somebody else had slipped it in my pocket when I wasn't looking.

Right, and if the last thing I wanted to do was sleep with Carla, what was that doing there?

Yeah, well, there's a difference between wanting to and intending to. It wasn't Sister George I was arguing with now, but it was an argument I'd had with myself a few dozen times in the last two months, and both of us were sick of it. Yeah, and if you're not intending to, either, what's that thing in your pocket for?

"Window dressing," I muttered, out loud. "Insurance. How the hell should I know?"

I turned the last corner, and a blast of cold wind hit me in the face.

"I've got it," she'd said on the phone. "It. Really." She giggled through her nose, cute, like a little duck that's cracked itself up. She sounded just like she had in the sixth grade, but then she quit laughing, and the grown-up lady came back into her voice.

"OK," she'd said, and I could hear the quiver. "Tonight. Yes, it has to be tonight, I can't stand it a minute longer, Tom, I really can't. I have to see you, oh, God, I want to--just a minute." Silence, and the crackle of an open line, then her voice was back, lower. "No, it's OK. Mary Magdalene's, in King of Prussia. I can't wait--darling." And the line went dead.

It was that "darling" that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I'd told her I had a place where she'd be safe, if she wanted to leave after taking the stuff, and she'd made it plain she did. I swear, though, I never once said I was going there with her--not once.

On the other hand, I knew damn well that people hear what they want to. And Cee-cee Syzmanski Cipriani hadn't ever been the kind of girl to go it alone.

St. Mary Magdalen had a big rose window. It looked out over the parking lot like a dead eye. With no light inside the church and dusk falling outside, the window was black and glassy-blind, the more all-knowing for being sightless.

Her car was there; she was never late. A dark-green Jaguar XK, with its vanity plates.

I paused and took one last look around, casual, like I might be waiting for a friend. I wiped my hand on the side of my pants. How the hell was I going to get the papers, without taking Carla, too?

There were no other cars in the lot, and a big hedge hid the lot from the street. I couldn't see her in the car. She smoked; maybe she was having a quick one behind the hedge, so as not to smell up the leather upholstery. Marco didn't like it if she stank up the car.

I had my hand on the door-handle before I realized anything was wrong. Reflex swung the door wide open, reflex slammed it shut. Not fast enough.

Honey-blond hair spilled over the leather seat, and wide blue eyes stared up at me in the split second of light before I slammed the door. Blue eyes blank as the big rose window.

I swallowed hard, and swallowed again, tasting the smell in the back of my throat. Blood doesn't smell like anything else. He'd cut her throat, and there was a lot of it.

"You bastard," I whispered, and closed my eyes. "Oh, goddamn you, goddamn you, you bastard." I didn't know if I meant Marco or me, and right then it didn't matter.

When I opened my eyes, I was standing in light. The lights inside the church had come on, and the rose window was glowing. Mass started at 5:30; people would be coming, any minute. I wanted to throw up, but there wasn't time.

My hands were so cold I couldn't feel them. I got a crumpled tissue out of my pocket and rubbed the door handle, hard, tasting bile. Would my prints be inside, from last time? Somewhere in the distance, I heard a siren, and a little sprout of panic popped up in my mind. Setup.

St. Mary Magdalene's stood on the corner of two busy streets; the lot was screened, but if I left, I'd be visible under the street lights. I choked down the urge to run, and turned instead toward the church. Sanctuary. A few early worshippers were going up the steps; nobody was looking in my direction. The siren was coming closer; I could hear another one in the other direction.

I fumbled in my pocket; my hands were shaking. The last thing I wanted to do was touch the car, but I got out a wadded Kleenex, scrubbed it over and under the shiny silver door-handle. Were my prints inside? It didn't matter; even if I could bring myself to open the door again, there wasn't time.

At the last minute, I noticed the foil-wrapped packet on the ground, where it had fallen between my feet when I jerked the tissue out. I scooped it up, and walked across the parking lot, forcing my knees to work, forcing my feet to go slow. Just another guy from the neighborhood, coming out of the shadows, cutting across the lot, stopping to hear Mass on his way home.

The first pair of headlights swung into the lot behind me, just as I walked through the open door. The air was pulsing with red and blue lights, and the sound of sirens mingled with the clang of the church-bell overhead.

Marcus had found out.