The thumping had a rhythm to it, so it wasn't hard to track, the sound taking us to a room around the corner from the aisle going to the tunnel. Stage junk was piled inside it like the other rooms, only this one was bigger. A drinking bar with a thick layer of dust on it ran along one wall. A long grimy mirror behind it and shelves for bottles told me we were in the old speakeasy.

The SWATs took up positions behind storage boxes and pieces of scenery, and aimed their SIG rifles at a curtained alcove where the thumping seemed to be coming from.

Sergeant Gibb went over and moved aside some boxes piled in front of the alcove and flung aside the dusty curtain.

The thumping stopped.

At first it looked like it was just a blank wall that the curtain had covered.

Then the thumping started again.

Gibb motioned a pair of SWATs to come over and stand on either side of the alcove. Then he called, "Whoever's in there come out, hands on your head."

Silence.

Then more thumping, louder.

Gibb stepped forward and gave the wall a closer look. He felt around the edges, it clear now that the wall was some kind of door. But he couldn't find any handle or switch to open it.

He pounded on the door. "Open up," he yelled, adding a couple curses.

The thumping stopped - and then got louder still, faster. Someone was definitely signaling for help. Or maybe it was a sucker signal. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who remembered that Sickblade had Dempsey's gun.

Chances were pretty certain that Gaga was in there. And Sickblade with her, the man maybe suicidal now and wanting to go down in a blast of glory.

Decision time.

Gibb called another SWAT over and gave him orders I could only hear part of. But enough to know that what the guy took out of his knapsack was a good-size hunk of plastic explosive. He stretched it out, the stuff like putty, and started packing it around the rim of the door. My guess was that Gibb wanted to make a no-bullshit impact to knock whoever was in there off-balance, me hoping they weren't going to blow up Gaga. The SWAT stuck a fuse in the mushy explosive, set the primer going, stepped back and turned away. The rest of us covered our ears and ducked.

BAM!

Before I even got my head up, the explosives guy and two other SWATs had wrenched the door the rest of the way open and pushed through.

No gunfire, so I ran over and looked to where they went.

Which wasn't far.

They were bending over Gaga, who was lying on the floor of what I could see now was an elevator. Her hands were cuffed behind her, bare feet propped against the wall she'd been kicking. The cuffs and the dark had kept her from finding the switch to open the elevator door.

No sign of Sickblade.

I pushed my way inside the tight space and kneeled next to her, pulled away the scarf that was tied around her mouth. She blew out her breath and said a raspy thank-you.

"You OK?" I asked, feeling stupid soon as I said it.

She nodded she was, but that blast must have had her ears ringing, never mind scaring the shit out of her.

Sergeant Gibb was right in her face. "Where's Sickblade?"

"He left," Gaga said. "The tunnel."

Gibb cursed again, pissed that the team assigned to guard it had left it vacant. But everyone had been watching for Sickblade to try to get into the building, not out. And, of course, there'd been that "officer-down" situation with Dempsey. Gibb yelled for the team to get their asses back to the tunnel and find Sickblade, everyone, including probably Gibb himself, knowing that wasn't likely to happen.

One of the SWATs who'd come down with us earlier was uncuffing Gaga with his master key.

"He hurt you?" I said, watching her rub her wrists.

She shook her head. "We just talked."

Gibb cut in. "Talked about what?"

"About me not wanting him to kill me," she spat out.

She was wound-up and who could blame her, her eyes glaring at Gibb in the dimness. She pointed to her shoes that were on the floor and I slid them over. While she slipped them on I looked around the cramped elevator, wondering how the hell she did it, talked her way out of getting knifed by the guy obsessed with doing it. And then I remembered - the guy didn't have his knife. He'd left it in Dempsey.

But there had to be more.

Gaga was trying to get up.

"Take it easy," I said.

"I've got to get myself ready."

"For what?"

"Tonight. I've got all those people coming."

"You can't be serious." Me and Gibb and the others staring at her.

"Of course I am. Give me a hand."

She held her arm out and I helped her to her feet. "There's time to call it off," I said. "Postpone it a couple days."

"No way," she said. "Let's go upstairs." 

She made her way out through the mangled door and I walked with her down the hall to the stairwell.

Upstairs, we got her settled into a different dressing room, the other one crawling with crime scene people who Gibb now went to update. He'd wanted to call in a doctor for Gaga, but she'd waved him off.

She sat down at her dressing table and our eyes met in the mirror.

"You're really going through with this?" I said.

"It's a done deal, so drop it. There's too many people coming to cancel."

"Fine," I said, holding up my hands in surrender. I watched her check her face in the mirror, touching what looked like a scrape. "You want to tell me what really happened in that elevator with him?"

"I'm here in one piece, that's enough," she said.

"The cops are going to have questions."

"Good."

I watched her some more and then said, "Look, I'm grateful he spared your life, believe me. How you got him to do it is between you and him. But I still have a score to settle. I mean, even if he didn't do Tanya, Szu died an awful death."

"You ever consider that in his mind he might have been trying to make up for some of that by putting the knife in Dempsey?"

"Oh, right, try telling that to the cops. You sound like you're defending him."

"And there's the other side."

"What's that?"

"That Dempsey took the knife for me. He probably saved my life."

I hadn't quite seen it that way but couldn't argue.

"What if I told you he's bowing out," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Sickblade - retiring."

"Bullshit. Guys like him never stop. He's addicted."

She turned around on her stool to face me. "His cover is blown. Too many people know what he looks like now. And the cops are going to be on him heavier than ever, him knifing one of their own. He's outta here. But he wants credit."

"Don't worry, he's got it."

"He thinks when they find all his kills, he'll be up there with the bigtime."

"Bigtime what?"

"Bundy, Zodiac, Jack the Ripper..."

"Jesus Christ, you know what you sound like? You must have had some session."

"You don't know the half," her saying it bitter.

"Look, I'm sorry, I just..."

She was right, I didn't know. I couldn't think what else to say. We stared at each other, both waiting for the other one to speak - and then she reached into her jeans and pulled out a folded piece of paper. I could see it was dirty, had been carried around for a long time. She started tapping it against her leg, like she was thinking what to with it - and then she held it out to me.

"What's this?" I took it and it practically fell apart in my hand, the creases so worn.

"It's where they are."

"Where what are?"

"His legacy. He kept this with him so they'd find it if he was killed."

It took me a second to understand she was talking about Sickblade's kills.

His hellhole.

Exactly.

# # #

Gaga's service for Simone was an hour late getting started, circumstances being what they were. But delays happen all the time in the concert biz, so everyone was cool.

The crowd filled the theater, like we expected, but there wasn't the usual pre-concert buzz, this being a service for a woman who'd been murdered in a terrible way. Most of the people didn't know Simone, but it didn't matter, they were doing it for Gaga.

Curly Sasso arrived with Ms. McG from the house, me glad to see she'd accepted, her red hair and his three-hundred pounds catching a few glances. Before I showed them to their seats, me and Curly had a transaction to conduct, us stepping over to a place that was away from the other people arriving.

"You got it?" I asked.

"Only because if I didn't, I know you'd get it someplace else."

We turned our backs to the crowd and Curly passed me a paper bag from Junior's Cheesecake, the bag heavier than your normal slice.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he said.

I didn't look in the bag, looked around instead. "Where's Doc?"

"He'll be here. But he said he'll probably skip the reception."

Me having no conception of what Doc skipping that event would have me doing in a couple hours.

I walked Curly and Ms. McG to the aisle seats I'd saved them, Curly taking the outside one and wishing me good luck. I didn't take a seat myself, instead went and stood in the back of the house and waited for the ceremony to begin. Enough people had seen me walk up the aisle that my presence had been established.

A few minutes later the house lights went down and Gaga came out on stage, holding her hands up in a way that said she didn't want any applause. She gave a short welcoming speech, thanking everyone for coming, and then introduced Bishop Rafferty who would give the blessing.

When everyone bowed their heads, I opened the Junior's bag Curly had given me and took out the automatic pistol I'd asked him to bring when I'd called him back after our pinging conversation. I could feel by its weight it was loaded, knew the serial number had been deleted, Curly having no interest in comebacks.

I stuck the gun in my waistband and made my exit.

# # #

That folded piece of paper Gaga had given me was a map to Sickblade's hellhole. He'd given it to her when they were hiding in the elevator, telling her he was getting out of town for a new life (which I was sure would be a continuation of the old one). But, like she told me, he wanted recognition for what he'd done here. She was to give the map to the cops after she'd been found where he'd left her. And just to make sure they got to her, he was going to drop them a note to let them know where she was.

But the cell phone pinging had found her first. Maybe quicker than Sickblade expected.

And why had she given the map to me? My guess was to keep herself out of the media shitstorm when those kills were found.

But I was supposed to give the map to the cops. She didn't know I was making my way now through a dark abandoned tunnel up near the Harlem River that the smudged and torn map had led me to.

Me here in Sickblade territory while she was holding a service for one his victims.

(To be continued...)