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  Farnham got the coffee and brought it into Room Three, a plain white cubicle furnished with a scarred table, four chairs, and a water cooler in the corner. He put the coffee in front of her.

  'Here, love,' he said, 'this'll do you good. I've got some sugar if — '

  'I can't drink it,' she said. 'I couldn't — ' And then she clutched the porcelain cup, someone's long-forgotten souvenir of Blackpool, in her hands as if for warmth. Her hands were shaking quite badly, and Farnham wanted to tell her to put it down before she slopped the coffee and scalded herself.

  'I couldn't,' she said again. Then she drank, still holding the cup two-handed, the way a child will hold his cup of broth. And when she looked at them, it was a child's look — simple, exhausted, appealing . . . and at bay, somehow. It was as if whatever had happened had somehow shocked her young; as if some invisible hand had swooped down from the sky and slapped the last twenty years out of her, leaving a child in grownup American clothes in this small white interrogation room in Crouch End.

  'Lonnie,' she said. 'The monsters,' she said. 'Will you help me? Will you please help me?

  Maybe he isn't dead. Maybe —

  'I'm an American citizen.!' she cried suddenly, and then, as if she had said something deeply shameful, she began to sob.

  Vetter patted her shoulder. 'There, love. I think we can help find your Lonnie. Your husband, is he?''

  Still sobbing, she nodded. 'Danny and Norma are back at the hotel . . . with the sitter . . . they'll be sleeping . . . expecting him to kiss them when we come in . . . '

  'Now if you could just relax and tell us what happened — '

  'And where it happened,' Farnham added. Vetter looked up at him swiftly, frowning.

  'But that's just it!' she cried. 'I don't know where it happened! I'm not even sure what happened, except that it was h-huh-horrible.'

  Vetter had taken out his notebook. 'What's your name, love?''

  'Doris Freeman. My husband is Leonard Freeman. We're staying at the Hotel Inter-Continental. We're American citizens.' This time the statement of nationality actually seemed to steady her a little. She sipped her coffee and put the mug down. Farnham saw that the palms of her hands were quite red. You'll feel that later, dearie, he thought.

  Vetter was drudging it all down in his notebook. Now he looked momentarily at PC Farnham, just an unobtrusive flick of the eyes.

  'Are you on holiday?' he asked.

  'Yes . . . two weeks here and one in Spain. We were supposed to have a week in Barcelona . . .

  but this isn't helping find Lonnie! Why are you asking me these stupid questions?'

  'Just trying to get the background, Mrs. Freeman,' Farnham said. Without really thinking about it, both of them had adopted low, soothing voices. 'Now you go ahead and tell us what happened.

  Tell it in your own words.'

  'Why is it so hard to get a taxi in London?' she asked abruptly.

  Farnham hardly knew what to say, but Vetter responded as if the question were utterly germane to the discussion.

  'Hard to say. Tourists, partly. Why? Did you have trouble getting someone who'd take you out here to Crouch End?'

  'Yes,' she said. 'We left the hotel at three and came down to Hatchard's Bookshop. Is that Haymarket?'

  'Near to,' Vetter agreed. 'Lovely big bookshop, love, isn't it?'

  'We had no trouble getting a cab from the Inter-Continental . . . they were lined up outside.

  But when we came out of Hatchard's, there was nothing. Finally, when one did stop, the driver just laughed and shook his head when Lonnie said we wanted to go to Crouch End.'

  'Aye, they can be right barstards about the suburbs, beggin your pardon, love,' Farnham said.

  'He even refused a pound tip,' Doris Freeman said, and a very American perplexity had crept into her tone. 'We waited for almost half an hour before we got a driver who said he'd take us. It was five-thirty by then, maybe quarter of six. And that was when Lonnie discovered he'd lost the address . . . '

  She clutched the mug again.

  'Who were you going to see?' Vetter asked.

  'A colleague of my husband's. A lawyer named John Squales. My husband hadn't met him, but their two firms were — ' She gestured vaguely.

  'Affiliated?'

  'Yes, I suppose. When Mr. Squales found out we were going to be in London on vacation, he invited us to his home for dinner. Lonnie had always written him at his office, of course, but he had Mr. Squales's home address on a slip of paper. After we got in the cab, he discovered he'd lost it. And all he could remember was that it was in Crouch End.'

  She looked at them solemnly.

  'Crouch End — I think that's an ugly name.'

  Vetter said, 'So what did you do then?'

  She began to talk. By the time she'd finished, her first cup of coffee and most of another were gone, and PC Vetter had filled up several pages of his notebook with his blocky, sprawling script.

  Lonnie Freeman was a big man, and hunched forward in the roomy back seat of the black cab so he could talk to the driver, he looked to her amazingly as he had when she'd first seen him at a college basketball game in their senior year — sitting on the bench, his knees somewhere up around his ears, his hands on their big wrists dangling between his legs. Only then he had been wearing basketball shorts and a towel slung around his neck, and now he was in a suit and tie. He had never gotten in many games, she remembered fondly, because he just wasn't that good. And he lost addresses.

  The cabby listened indulgently to the tale of the lost address. He was an elderly man impeccably turned out in a gray summer-weight suit, the antithesis of the slouching New York cabdriver. Only the checked wool cap on the driver's head clashed, but it was an agreeable clash; it lent him a touch of rakish charm. Outside, the traffic flowed endlessly past on Haymarket; the theater nearby announced that The Phantom of the Opera was continuing its apparently endless run.

  'Well, I tell you what, guv,' the cabby said. 'I'll take yer there to Crouch End, and we'll stop at a call box, and you check your governor's address, and off we go, right to the door.'

  'That's wonderful,' Doris said, really meaning it. They had been in London six days now, and she could not recall ever having been in a place where the people were kinder or more civilized.

  'Thanks,' Lonnie said, and sat back. He put his arm around Doris and smiled. 'See? No problem.'

  'No thanks to you,' she mock-growled, and threw a light punch at his midsection.

  'Right,' the cabby said. 'Heigh-ho for Crouch End.'

  It was late August, and a steady hot wind rattled the trash across the roads and whipped at the jackets and skirts of the men and women going home from work. The sun was settling, but when it shone between the buildings, Doris saw that it was beginning to take on the reddish cast of evening. The cabby hummed. She relaxed with Lonnie's arm around her — she had seen more of him in the last six days than she had all year, it seemed, and she was very pleased to discover that she liked it. She had never been out of America before, either, and she had to keep reminding herself that she was in England, she was going to Barcelona, thousands should be so lucky.

  Then the sun disappeared behind a wall of buildings, and she lost her sense of direction almost immediately. Cab rides in London did that to you, she had discovered. The city was a great sprawling warren of Roads and Mews and Hills and Closes (even Inns), and she couldn't understand how anyone could get around. When she had mentioned it to Lonnie the day before, he had replied that they got around very carefully . . . hadn't she noticed that all the cabbies kept the London Streetfinder tucked cozily away beneath the dash?

  This was the longest cab ride they had taken. The fashionable section of town dropped behind them (in spite of that perverse going-around-in-circles feeling). They passed through an area of monolithic housing developments that could have been utterly deserted for all the signs of life they showed (no, she corrected herself to Vetter and Farnham in the small white room; she had seen one sma
ll boy sitting on the curb, striking matches), then an area of small, rather tattylooking shops and fruit stalls, and then — no wonder driving in London was so disorienting to out-of-towners — they seemed to have driven smack into the fashionable section again.

  'There was even a McDonald's,' she told Vetter and Farnham in a tone of voice usually reserved for references to the Sphinx and the Hanging Gardens.

  'Was there?' Vetter replied, properly amazed and respectful — she had achieved a kind of total recall, and he wanted nothing to break the mood, at least until she had told them everything she could.

  The fashionable section with the McDonald's as its centerpiece dropped away. They came briefly into the clear and now the sun was a solid orange ball sitting above the horizon, washing the streets with a strange light that made all the pedestrians look as if they were about to burst into flame. 'It was then that things began to change,' she said. Her voice had dropped a little. Her hands

  were trembling again.

  Vetter leaned forward, intent. 'Change? How? How did things change, Mrs. Freeman?'

  They had passed a newsagent's window, she said, and the signboard outside had read SIXTY

  LOST IN UNDERGROUND HORROR.

  'Lonnie, look at that!'

  'What?' He craned around, but the newsagent's was already behind them.

  'It said, "Sixty Lost in Underground Horror." Isn't that what they call the subway? The Underground?'

  'Yes — that or the tube. Was it a crash?'

  'I don't know.' She leaned forward. 'Driver, do you know what that was about? Was there a subway crash?'

  'A collision, madam? Not that I know of.'

  'Do you have a radio?'

  'Not in the cab, madam.'

  'Lonnie?'

  'Hmmm?'

  But she could see that Lonnie had lost interest. He was going through his pockets again (and because he was wearing his three-piece suit, there were a lot of them to go through), having another hunt for the scrap of paper with John Squales's address written on it.

  The message chalked on the board played over and over in her mind, SIXTY KILLED IN TUBE

  CRASH, it should have read. But . . . SIXTY LOST IN UNDERGROUND HORROR. It made her uneasy. It

  didn't say 'killed,' it said 'lost,' the way news reports in the old days had always referred to sailors who had been drowned at sea.

  UNDERGROUND HORROR.

  She didn't like it. It made her think of graveyards, sewers, and flabby-pale, noisome things swarming suddenly out of the tubes themselves, wrapping their arms (tentacles, maybe) around the hapless commuters on the platforms, dragging them away to darkness . . .

  They turned right. Standing on the corner beside their parked motorcycles were three boys in leathers. They looked up at the cab and for a moment — the setting sun was almost full in her face from this angle — it seemed that the bikers did not have human heads at all. For that one moment she was nastily sure that the sleek heads of rats sat atop those black leather jackets, rats with black eyes staring at the cab. Then the light shifted just a tiny bit and she saw of course she had been mistaken; there were only three young men smoking cigarettes in front of the British version of the American candy store.

  'Here we go,' Lonnie said, giving up the search and pointing out the window. They were passing a sign, which read 'Crouch Hill Road.' Elderly brick houses like sleepy dowagers had closed in, seeming to look down at the cab from their blank windows. A few kids passed back and forth, riding bikes or trikes. Two others were trying to ride a skateboard with no notable success. Fathers home from work sat together, smoking and talking and watching the children. It all looked reassuringly normal.

  The cab drew up in front of a dismal-looking restaurant with a small spotted sign in the window reading FULLY LICENSED and a much larger one in the center, which informed that within one, could purchase curries to take away. On the inner ledge there slept a gigantic gray cat. Beside the restaurant was a call box. 'Here you are, guv,' the cabdriver said. 'You find your friend's address and I'll track him down.'

  'Fair enough,' Lonnie said, and got out.

  Doris sat in the cab for a moment and then also emerged, deciding she felt like stretching her legs. The hot wind was still blowing. It whipped her skirt around her knees and then plastered an old ice-cream wrapper to her shin. She removed it with a grimace of disgust. When she looked up, she was staring directly through the plate-glass window at the big gray torn. It stared back at her, one-eyed and inscrutable. Half of its face had been all but clawed away in some long-ago battle. What remained was a twisted pinkish mass of scar tissue, one milky cataract, and a few tufts of fur.

  It miaowed at her silently through the glass.

  Feeling a surge of disgust, she went to the call box and peered in through one of the dirty panes. Lonnie made a circle at her with his thumb and forefinger and winked. Then he pushed ten-pence into the slot and talked with someone. He laughed — soundlessly through the glass.

  Like the cat. She looked over for it, but now the window was empty. In the dimness beyond she could see chairs up on tables and an old man pushing a broom. When she looked back, she saw that Lonnie was jotting something down. He put his pen away, held the paper in his hand — she could see an address was jotted on it — said one or two other things, then hung up and came out.

  He waggled the address at her in triumph. 'Okay, that's th — ' His eyes went past her shoulder and he frowned. 'Where's the stupid cab gone?'

  She turned around. The taxi had vanished. Where it had stood there was only curbing and a few papers blowing lazily up the gutter. Across the street, two kids were clutching at each other and giggling. Doris noticed that one of them had a deformed hand — it looked more like a claw.

  She'd thought the National Health was supposed to take care of things like that. The children looked across the street, saw her observing them, and fell into each other's arms, giggling again.

  'I don't know,' Doris said. She felt disoriented and a little stupid. The heat, the constant wind that seemed to blow with no gusts or drops, the almost painted quality of the light . . .

  'What time was it then?' Farnham asked suddenly.

  'I don't know,' Doris Freeman said, startled out of her recital. 'Six, I suppose. Maybe twenty past.'

  'I see, go on,' Farnham said, knowing perfectly well that in August sunset would not have begun — even by the loosest standards — until well past seven.

  'Well, what did he do?' Lonnie asked, still looking around. It was almost as if he expected his irritation to cause the cab to pop back into view. 'Just pick up and leave?'

  'Maybe when you put your hand up,' Doris said, raising her own hand and making the thumband-forefinger circle Lonnie had made in the call box, 'maybe when you did that he thought you were waving him on.'

  'I'd have to wave a long time to send him on with two-fifty on the meter,' Lonnie grunted, and walked over to the curb. On the other side of Crouch Hill Road, the two small children were still giggling. 'Hey!' Lonnie called. 'You kids!'

  'You an American, sir?' the boy with the claw-hand called back.

  'Yes,' Lonnie said, smiling. 'Did you see the cab over here? Did you see where it went?''

  The two children seemed to consider the question. The boy's companion was a girl of about five with untidy brown braids sticking off in opposite directions. She stepped forward to the opposite curb, formed her hands into a megaphone, and still smiling — she screamed it through her megaphoned hands and her smile — she cried at them: 'Bugger off, Joe!'

  Lonnie's mouth dropped open.

  'Sir! Sir! Sir!' the boy screeched, saluting wildly with his deformed hand. Then the two of them took to their heels and fled around the corner and out of sight, leaving only their laughter to echo back.

  Lonnie looked at Doris, dumbstruck.

  'I guess some of the kids in Crouch End aren't too crazy about Americans,' he said lamely.

  She looked around nervously. The street now appeared de
serted.

  He slipped an arm around her. 'Well, honey, looks like we hike.'

  'I'm not sure I want to. Those two kids might've gone to get their big brothers.' She laughed to show it was a joke, but there was a shrill quality to the sound. The evening had taken on a surreal quality she didn't much like. She wished they had stayed at the hotel.

  'Not much else we can do,' he said. 'The street's not exactly overflowing with taxis, is it?'

  'Lonnie, why would the cabdriver leave us here like that? He seemed so nice.'

  'Don't have the slightest idea. But John gave me good directions. He lives in a street called Brass End, which is a very minor dead-end street, and he said it wasn't in the Streetfinder.' As he talked he was moving her away from the call box, from the restaurant that sold curries to take away, from the now-empty curb. They were walking up Crouch Hill Road again. 'We take a right onto Hillfield Avenue, left halfway down, then our first right . . . or was it left? Anyway, onto Petrie Street. Second left is Brass End.'

  'And you remember all that?'

  'I'm a star witness,' he said bravely, and she just had to laugh. Lonnie had a way of making things seem better.

  There was a map of the Crouch End area on the wall of the police station lobby, one considerably more detailed than the one in the London Streetfinder. Farnham approached it and studied it with his hands stuffed into his pockets. The station seemed very quiet now. Vetter was still outside — clearing some of the witchmoss from his brains, one hoped — and Raymond had long since finished with the woman who'd had her purse nicked.

  Farnham put his finger on the spot where the cabby had most likely let them off (if anything about the woman's story was to be believed, that was). The route to their friend's house looked pretty straightforward. Crouch Hill Road to Hillfield Avenue, and then a left onto Vickers Lane followed by a left onto Petrie Street. Brass End, which stuck off from Petrie Street like somebody's afterthought, was no more than six or eight houses long. About a mile, all told. Even Americans should have been able to walk that far without getting lost.