Calm settles on Nicholas’ like a blanket and terror melts away. Outside, thunder cracks the sky open, spilling rain on New York all night. The water drips sickly down the window, casting eerie shadows that dance across the small one room apartment.
With the sick feeling of a dream unremembered, Nicholas realizes the phone is ringing. ‘Outside, two minutes.’ The voice cracks thick with Saxon speckled english. On the street, the haggard FBI agent meets the voice in his crumpled suit in a bad part of town. The man is wearing a tweed jacket, stetson hat and a white mask; black rimed eyes breath hollow and a cigarette juts from a slit where the mouth would be. Smoke, inky in the wet night, tries vainly to lift upwards.