All the Rage

Where the hell had the Coast Guard been Friday night when he was being bombed?

Milos relaxed. He'd thought about this all day and had come to the conclusion that he had little to fear from the so-called East Hampton Environmental Protection Committee tonight. This was a gathering of their peers. As much as they might hate him and his presence here in the center of what they considered their private preserve, they would not risk an assault on members of their own precious social circle. They'd know that if—more likely when—their identities were revealed, they would become instant outcasts, shunned by their own kind.

For tonight at least, his house was safe. But who knew after that?

That was why it was essential that he track down these bastards—especially the one who had called him on Friday night Milos would deal personally with him.

He led Slobojan back into the living room where he had the 1947 Petrus breathing in a crystal decanter, the empty bottle beside it. As Slobojan bent to read the label, Milos turned the bottle.

"First you will try. And after you tell me what you think of it, I will show you the label."

"A blind taste test, ay?" Slobojan said. His smile looked uncertain. "OK. I guess I'm game."

Milos half-filled one of the decanter's matching crystal glasses and handed it to Slobojan. He watched closely as the director went through all the swirling and sniffing rituals, and wondered how he'd react when he finally tasted it. Here was a man who supposedly knew wine but had no idea if he was tasting something from France, California, or one of the dozen or so wineries right here on Long Island.

At last he took a sip. He made strange sucking noises, then swallowed. Justin Karl Slobojan closed his eyes as a look of beatific ecstasy suffused his features.

"Oh, dear God," he murmured. He opened his eyes and fixed Milos with a grateful stare. "I thought you were going to tell me you'd bought one of these so-called vineyards out here and this was your first bottling." He held up the glass and examined the ruby liquid. "But this is definitely French. An absolutely magnificent Bordeaux. I'm not good enough to identify the chateau, but I can tell you this is just about the best wine I've ever tasted."

Milos was delighted. He still didn't understand how people actually enjoyed drinking this acrid stuff, but at least he hadn't bought bad wine. He turned the bottle to show Slobojan the label.

The director's eyes lighted. "Petrus! I should have known. That's the—" His eyes fairly bulged as he noticed the date. "Nineteen-forty-seven! I was only two years old when this was grape juice!"

Milos handed the decanter to Slobojan. "Here. With my compliments."

"Oh, no. I can't. That must be worth thousands!"

Milos shrugged dismissively. "If one wants the best, one must be prepared to pay what is necessary." He thrust the decanter into Slobojan's hands. "Please. I insist."

"Then you must share it with me!"

Milos felt his cheeks pucker at the thought. "I have many more bottles. This one is for you. Share it with others here you know will appreciate it."

And will talk about it later, he silently added.

"Thank you," Slobojan said. "This is extraordinarily generous of you."

"It is nothing," Milos said as the director hurried away with his liquid treasure.

Yes, Milos thought, giddy with delight as he wandered back outside. The evening was progressing perfectly. This would indeed be a party to remember.

As he stood on the central deck he noticed an attractive young blonde and recognized her as Kirin Adams, the actress who had just co-starred in Brad Pitt's latest movie. She was standing alone near the end of the far deck, watching the ocean. Cino was not in sight at the moment, so Milos started toward her. He was almost to her side when he again heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter.

He stopped. Coast Guard again or…

He looked out to sea but saw nothing. Then he realized the sound was coming from behind him. He turned and there it was, materializing out of the darkness on the far side of the house. He stood frozen as it glided over the roof like some giant black dragonfly.

Oh, no! They wouldn't dare!

One by one and then in groups, his guests stopped their eating, drinking, and talking to turn and stare at the approaching craft, to point at the strange-looking pod dangling from its undercarriage.

"No!" Milos screamed as the helicopter swooped a hundred feet overhead. He saw a door in the front section of the pod drop open, watched black liquid gush forth…

"Nooooooooo!"

He and his guests watched in mesmerized silence as the huge droplets fell in slow motion, dispersing in the air, their momentum carrying them forward. But when they landed, it was in accelerated time.

The black deluge struck, splattering the grounds and everyone gathered there. Women screamed in disgust and dismay; men shouted and cried out in anger. Milos himself took a faceful. Gasping, sputtering, he wiped his eyes and cleared his nose.

The smell: engine oil. Bad enough, but not clean engine oil, this was thick, black, filthy stuff. And it was everywhere. The entire yard was coated with it; even the pool showed dark splotches floating on the surface.

And then the sound of the copter was no longer fading but growing louder again. Milos looked up and saw that it had circled around and was coming in for a second pass. To his right he noticed a couple of his men drawing their weapons.

"Shoot it!" he screamed. "Shoot it down!"

But then pandemonium took charge. The sight of guns and the fear of another oily drenching sent the guests into wild panicked flight in all directions. But the oil had rendered the wood of the decks treacherous: all about him people were slipping, falling, or being knocked down. Even his own men were losing their footing.

It looked like a replay of Friday night—tables upended, food and glassware flying, people diving, rolling, floundering and gasping after being knocked into the pool. Except this time Milos was not watching from the safety of the house; he was down in the heart of a chaos of splashing oil, flying food, smashing glass, and beautiful people in flight. And worse—he was utterly powerless to stop it.

As the rear door of the helicopter's dangling pod dropped open above him, Milos spun and looked around for shelter. He noticed the blond actress crouching under a patio table. Good idea. He ducked and crowded in beside her.

"Get out of here!" she cried, pushing at him. "Get your own table!"

"This is my table!" Milos roared. "They're all my tables!"

Venting only a fraction of the fury boiling within him, he grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved, sending her rolling away. She ended up sprawled on her back on the decking.

She bared her teeth and screamed. "You bas—" she began, but then she stopped and her eyes widened.

Milos was just turning his head to see what had caught her attention when the tabletop came crashing down on his head and back, flattening him to the deck.

Through his pain-blurred vision he saw a whale of a man in an oil-soaked tuxedo groan and roll off the tabletop onto the slippery deck. And through the roaring in his ears he heard the actress's derisive laughter.

He lay prone, unable to move. It wasn't the table pinning him to the deck; humiliation and the feeling of utter impotence weighed him down. Instead of a scream of rage, the sound that rose in his throat was more like a sob.

7

Sal was grinning like an idiot as he stumbled away from the beach. Hard to believe, but tonight topped Friday night. And seeing Dragovic cowering under that table like an old lady, then getting flattened—Madrone! That alone was worth the price of admission. That walking piece of shit must be ready to die of embarrassment.

But that was nothing compared to how he was gonna feel when the local stations got hold of this videotape. Dragovic's Greatest Hits!

Had to hand it to Jack. Soon as he seen those barrels of old crankcase oil he knew exactly what he wanted to do, especially since Sal had a huge supply of the crud. Had to drain the crankcase of every heap that came into the yard and then pay some disposal outfit to cart it off. This was a much better way to get rid of it.

As for the hoity-toities at the party—served 'em right. The jerks deserved everything they got. More. Should've got busted bones and heads instead of walking away with nothing worse than messed-up clothes and a bunch of bruises and scratches.

Sal glanced back at where the lights from Dragovic's place filtered over the dune.

Hey, assholes, still think it's cool hanging with a murderer?

And you, Dragovic, Sal thought, patting the video-cam. I got you right here, you murderin' sonovabitch. Everyone's gonna see what a pussy you are. You're gonna wish you was dead.

And yet… somehow it still wasn't enough.

8

The call came an hour later. Milos had cleaned up by then and was seated in the basement security area, waiting for it. So was Mihailo, manning his tracking computer.

"Mr. Dragovic?" said the too-cultured voice on the other end. "East Hampton Environmental Protection Committee here. My, my, I must say you do know how to show people a good time."

Milos had expected taunts and was prepared for them. He also had a plan of how to deal with these people.

"You surprised me," Milos said, his voice even. "I didn't think you would attack your own kind."

"My own kind? Ha! You are trying to insult me, aren't you, Mr. Dragovic. Those parvenus are closer to your kind than mine."

What is a "parvenu"? Milos wondered.

"A parvenu, by the way," the voice said, "is a Johnny-come-lately, with lots of cash, few social skills, and no breeding. But they are several cuts above you, Mr. Dragovic. And tonight they learned an important lesson: when one clusters around a cesspool, one risks getting splashed with slime."

Milos bit back a stream of profanity and launched into baiting his plan.

"You will not drive me out," he said. "I am looking for you. I will dedicate myself to turning over every rock on Long Island in search of you. And when you are found, do not think you will be handed over to police. No, you will be brought to me, and then we will see who is parvenu. Until then I will hold as many parties as I please, whenever it pleases me."

The caller laughed. "Excellent! I'm so glad to hear you say that. This has been too much fun to end after a mere pair of encounters. When's the next parvenu barbecue, as it were?"

"Tomorrow night," Milos said through his teeth.

"Excellent!" A pause, then, "You wouldn't be thinking of calling in the authorities on this, would you, Dra-govic?"

"No! I am authority here!"

"Good. Because this is between you and us. And are we not men?"

What was this fool talking about?

"I do not know about you, but I am man, and I will have parties, many parties. Tomorrow night, and the next night, and the next night, and every night after until Labor Day. Do your damnedest!"

Milos slammed down the receiver and glanced at Mihailo on the far side of the room.

"He's calling from another pay phone," Mihailo said with a shrug. "Some place in Roslyn Heights."

"Where is that?"

"Almost back to Queens. I'll bet he pulled off the LIE and called from a gas station."

Milos hadn't in his most violent fantasies expected to be able to trap the man so quickly, but still he was disappointed.

"Very well," he told his men. "You all know what to do during the next twenty-four hours."

"What about us, Mr. Dragovic?"

Ivo had spoken. Milos turned and saw him and Vuk standing side by side. He was disappointed in these two. Both had been reliable men until now. But over the last two days their cars had been disabled twice—while they were sitting in them. They'd tried to cover up the second occurrence but he'd found out.

Two accidents in two days. Too much coincidence. Trouble was, the Sutton Square house appeared to be empty.

"You two will stay. I don't want you wasting your time—and another one of my cars." This drew laughs from the other men. Ivo and Vuk nodded and smiled uneasily. "We have too much to do here. The ones we are after will be coming to us tomorrow night. And I want us well prepared."

Milos rubbed his hands together. He had a hot reception planned for the East Hampton Environmental Protection Committee.

9

After finishing his call to Dragovic—which had gone just as he'd hoped—Jack left the gas station and headed up the highway to Monroe.

Parvenu… Abe had given him the word. A beauty.

In Monroe Jack parked at the edge of the marsh on a rutted road that ended a few hundred yards farther out at a tiny shack sitting alone near the Long Island Sound. He wondered who lived there.

A mist had formed, hugging the ground. The shack looked ominous and lonely floating in the fog out there with its single lighted window. Reminded Jack of an old gothic paperback cover.

Jack stuck his head out the window. Only a sliver of moon above, but plenty of stars. Enough light to get him where he wanted to go without a flashlight. He could make out the grassy area the Oddity Emporium used for parking. Only one or two cars there. As he watched, their headlights came alive and moved off in the direction of town.

Business was slow, it seemed. Good. The show would be early bedding down.

After the lights went out and things had been quiet for a while, Jack slipped out of the car and took a two-gallon can from the trunk. Gasoline sloshed within as he strode across the uneven ground toward the hulking silhouette of the main show tent. The performers' and hands' trailers stood off to the north side by a big 18-wheel truck.

No security in sight. Jack slipped under the canvas sidewall and listened. Quiet. A couple of incandescent bulbs had been left on, one hanging from the ceiling every thirty feet or so. Keeping to the shadows along the side, Jack made his way behind the booths toward Scar-lip's cage.

His plan was simple: flood the floor of the rakosh's cage and douse the thing itself with the gas, then strike a match. Normally the idea of immolating a living creature would sicken him, but this was a rakosh. If a bullet in the brain would have done the trick, he'd have come fully loaded. But the only sure way to off a rakosh was fire… the cleansing flame.

Jack knew from experience that once a rakosh started to burn, it was quickly consumed. As soon as he was sure the flames were doing their thing, he'd run for the trailers shouting "Fire!" at the top of his lungs, then dash for his car.

He just hoped the performers and roustabouts would arrive with their extinguishers in time to keep the whole tent from going up.

He didn't like this, didn't like endangering the tent or anybody nearby, but it was the only scheme he could come up with on such short notice. He would protect Vicky at any cost, and this was the only sure way Jack knew.

He approached the "Sharkman" area warily from the blind end, then made a wide circle around to the front. Scar-lip was stretched out on the floor of the cage, sleeping, its right arm dangling through the bars. It opened its eyes as he neared. Their yellow was even duller than this afternoon. Its talons extended only partway as it made a halfhearted, almost perfunctory swipe in Jack's direction. Then it closed its eyes and let the arm dangle again. It didn't seem to have strength or the heart for anything more.

Jack stopped and stared at the creature. And he knew.

It's dying.

He stood there a long time and watched Scar-lip doze in its cage. Was it sick or was something else ailing it? Some animals couldn't live outside a pack. Jack had destroyed this thing's nest and all its brothers and sisters along with it. Was this last rakosh dying of loneliness, or had it simply reached the end of its days? What was the life span of a rakosh, anyway?

Jack shifted the gas can in his hands and wondered if he was needed here. He'd torch a vital, aggressive, healthy rakosh without a qualm, because he knew if positions were reversed it would tear off his head in a second. But there didn't seem to be any question that Scar-lip would be history before long. So why endanger the carny folk with a fire?

On the other hand… what if Scar-lip recovered and got free? It was a possibility. And he'd never forgive himself if it came after Vicky again. Jack had damn near died saving Vicky the last time—and he'd been lucky at that. Could he count on that kind of luck again?

Uh-uh. Never count on luck.

He began unscrewing the cap of the gasoline can but stopped when he heard voices… coming this way down the midway. He ducked for the shadows.

"I tell you, Hank," said a voice that sounded familiar, "you should've seen the big wimp this afternoon. Something got it riled. It had the crowd six deep around its cage while it was up."

Jack recognized the baldheaded ticket seller who'd prodded him back behind the rope this afternoon. The other man with him was taller, younger, but just as beefy, with a full head of sandy hair. He carried a bottle of what looked like cheap wine while the bald one carried a six-foot iron bar, sharpened at one end. Neither of them was walking too steadily.

"Maybe we taught it a good lesson last night, huh, Bondy?" said the one called Hank.

"Just lesson number one," Bondy said. "The first of many. Yessir, the first of many."

They stopped before the cage. Bondy took a swig from the bottle and handed it back to Hank.

"Look at it," Bondy said. "The big blue wimp. Thinks it can just sit around all day and sleep all night. No way, babe! Y'gotta earn your keep, wimp!" He took the sharp end of the iron bar and jabbed it at the rakosh. "Earn it!"

The point pierced Scar-lip's shoulder. The creature moaned like a cow with laryngitis and rolled away. The bald guy kept jabbing at it, stabbing its back again and again, making it moan while Hank stood by, grinning.

Jack turned and crept off through the shadows. The two carnies had found the only other thing that could harm a rakosh—iron. Fire and iron—they were impervious to everything else. Maybe that was another explanation for Scar-lip's poor health—caged with iron bars.

As Jack moved away, he heard Hank's voice rise over the tortured cries of the dying rakosh.

"When's it gonna be my turn, Bondy? Huh? When's my turn?"

The hoarse moans followed Jack out into the night. He stowed the can back in the trunk and got as far as opening the car door. And then he stopped.

"Shit!" he said and pounded the roof of the car. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

He slammed the door closed and trotted back to the freak show tent, repeating the word all the way.

No stealth this time. He strode directly to the section he'd just left, pulled up the sidewall, and charged inside. Bondy still had the iron pike—or maybe he had it back again. Jack stepped up beside him just as he was preparing for another jab at the trapped, huddled creature. He snatched the pike from his grasp.

"That's enough, asshole."

Bondy looked at him wide-eyed, his forehead wrinkling up to where his hairline should have been. Probably no one had talked to him that way in a long, long time.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Nobody you want to know right now. Maybe you should call it a night."

Bondy took a swing at Jack's face. He telegraphed it by baring his teeth. Jack raised the rod between his face and the fist. Bondy screamed as his knuckles smashed against the iron, then did a knock-kneed walk in a circle with the hand jammed between his thighs, groaning in pain.

Suddenly a pair of arms wrapped around Jack's torso, trapping him in a fleshy vise.

"I got him, Bondy!" Hank's voice shouted from behind Jack's left ear. "I got him!"

Twenty feet away, Bondy stopped his dance, looked up, and grinned. As he charged, Jack rammed his head backward, smashing the back of his skull into Hank's nose. Abruptly he was free. He still held the iron bar, so he angled the blunt end toward the charging Bondy and drove it hard into his solar plexus. The air whooshed out of him and he dropped to his knees with a groan, his face gray-green. Even his scalp looked sick.

Jack glanced up and saw Scar-lip crouched at the front of the cage, gripping the bars, its yellow gaze flicking between him and the groaning Bondy but lingering on Jack, as if trying to comprehend what he was doing, and why. Tiny rivulets of dark blood trailed down its skin.

Jack whirled the pike 180 degrees and pressed the point against Bondy's chest.

"What kind of noise am I going to hear when I poke you with this end?"

Behind him Hank's voice, very nasal now, started shouting.

"Hey, Rube! Hey, Rube!"

As Jack was trying to figure out just what that meant, he gave the kneeling Bondy a poke with the pointed end—not enough to break the skin but enough to scare him. He howled and fell back on the sawdust, screaming.

"Don't! Don't!"

Meanwhile, Hank had kept up his "Hey, Rube!" shouts. As Jack turned to shut him up, he found out what it meant.

The tent was filling with carny folk. Lots of them, all running his way. In seconds he was surrounded. The workers he could handle, but the others, the performers, gathered in a crowd like this, in the murky light, in various states of dress, were unsettling. The Snake Man, the Alligator Boy, the Bird Man, the green Man from Mars, and others were all still in costume—at least Jack hoped they were costumes—and none of them looked too friendly.

Hank was holding his bloody nose, wagging his finger at Jack. "Now you're gonna get it! Now you're gonna get it!"

Bondy seemed to have a sudden infusion of courage. He hauled himself to his feet and started toward Jack with a raised fist.

"You goddamn son of a—"

Jack rapped the iron bar across the side of his bald head, staggering him. With an angry murmur, the circle of carny folk abruptly tightened.

Jack whirled, spinning the pike around him. "Right," he said. "Who's next?"

He hoped it was a convincing show. He didn't know what else to do. He'd taken some training in the martial use of the bamboo pole and nunchuks and the like; he wasn't Bruce Lee with them, but he could do some damage with this pike. Trouble was, he had little room to maneuver and less every second: the circle was tightening, slowly closing in on him like a noose.

Jack searched for a weak spot, a point to break through and make a run for it. As a last resort, he always had the .45-caliber Semmerling strapped to his ankle.

Then a deep voice rose above the angry noise of the crowd.

"Here, here! What's this? What's going on?"

The carny folk quieted, but not before Jack heard a few voices whisper "the boss" and "Oz." They parted to make way for a tall man, six-three at least, lank dark hair, sallow-complexioned, his pear-shaped body swathed in a huge silk robe embroidered with Oriental designs. Although he looked doughy about the middle, the large hands that protruded from his sleeves were thin and bony at the wrist.

The boss—Jack assumed he was the Ozymandias Prather who ran the show—stopped at the inner edge of the circle and took in the scene. His expression was oddly slack but his eyes were bright, dark, cold, more alive than the rest of him. Those eyes finally settled on Jack.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"Protecting your property," Jack said, gambling.

"Oh, really?" The smile was sour. "How magnanimous of you." Abruptly his expression darkened. "Answer the question! I can call the police or we can deal with this in our own way."

"Fine," Jack said. He upped his ante by throwing the pike at the boss's feet. "Maybe I had it wrong. Maybe you pay baldy here to poke holes in your attractions."

The big man froze for an instant, then slowly wheeled toward the ticket seller who was rubbing the welt on the side of his head.

"Hey, boss—" Bondy began, but the tall man silenced him with a flick of his hand.

The boss looked down at the pike where sawdust clung to the dark fluid coating its point, then up at the crouching rakosh with its dozens of oozing wounds. Color darkened his cheeks as his head rotated back toward Bondy.

"You harmed this creature, Mr. Bond?"

The boss's eyes and tone were so full of menace that Jack couldn't blame the bald man for quailing.

"We was only trying to get it to put on more of a show for the customers."

Jack glanced around and noticed that Hank had faded away. He saw the performers inching toward the rakosh cage, making sympathetic sounds as they took in its condition. When they turned back, their cold stares were focused on Bondy instead of Jack.

"You hurt him," said the green man.

"He is our brother," the Snake Man said in a soft sibilant voice, "and you hurt him many times."

Brother? Jack wondered. What are they talking about? What's going on here?

The boss continued to pin Bondy with his glare. "And you feel you can get more out of the creature by mistreating it?"

"We thought—"

"I know what you thought, Mr. Bond. And many of us know too well how the Sharkman felt. We've all known mistreatment during the course of our lives, and we don't look kindly upon it. You will retire to your quarters immediately and wait for me there."

"Fuck that!" Bondy said. "And fuck you, Oz! I'm blowin' the show! Ain't goin' nowhere but outta here!"

The boss gestured to the Alligator Boy and the Bird Man. "Escort Mr. Bond to my trailer. See that he waits outside until I get there."

Bondy tried to duck through the crowd, but the green man blocked his way until the other two grabbed his arms. He struggled but was no match for them.

"You can't do this, Oz!" he shouted, fear wild in his eyes as he was none too gently dragged away. "You can't keep me here if I wanna go!"

Oz ignored him and turned his attention to Jack. "And that leaves us with you, Mr…?"

"Jack."

"Jack what?"

"Just Jack."

"Very well, Mr. Jack. What is your interest in this matter?"

"I don't like bullies," Jack said.

It wasn't an answer, but it would have to do. Wasn't about to tell the boss he'd come to French-fry his Sharkman.

"No one does. But why should you be interested in this particular creature? Why should you be here at all?"

"Not too often you get to see a real live rakosh."

When he saw the boss blink and snap his head toward the cage, Jack had a sudden uneasy feeling that he'd made a mistake. How big a mistake he wasn't quite sure.

"What did you say?" The glittering eyes fixed on him again. "What did you call it?"

"Nothing," Jack said.

"No, I heard you. You called it a rakosh." Oz stepped over to the cage and stared into Scar-lip's yellow eyes. "Is that what you are, my friend… a rakosh? How fascinating!" He turned to the rest of his employees. "It's all right. You can all go back to bed. Everything is under control. I wish to speak to this gentleman in private before he goes."

"You didn't know what it was?" Jack said as the crowd dispersed.

Oz continued to stare at the rakosh. "Not until this moment. I thought they were a myth."

"How did you find it?" Jack said. The answer was important—until this afternoon he'd been sure he'd killed Scar-lip.

"The result of a telephone call. Someone phoned me last summer—woke me in the middle of the night—and told me that if I searched the waters off Governors Island I might find 'a fascinating new attraction.'"

Last summer… the last time he'd seen Scar-lip and the rest of his species. "Who called you? Was it a woman?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering."

Besides Gia, Vicky, Abe, and himself, the only other living person who knew about the rakoshi had been Kolabati.

"He referred to himself as Professor Roma. I'd never heard of him and haven't heard from him since. I searched for him afterwards, to see if he could tell me what he knew about the creature, but never found him."

Jack swallowed. Roma… figures.

"Something in the caller's voice, his utter conviction, compelled me to do as he said. Came the dawn I was on the water with some of my people. We found ourselves vying with groups of souvenir hunters looking for wreckage from a ship that had exploded and burned the night before. We discovered our friend here floating in a clump of debris. I assumed the creature was dead, but when I found it was alive, I had it brought ashore. It looked rather vicious so I put it into an old tiger cage."

"Lucky for you."

The boss smiled, showing yellow teeth. "I should say so. It almost tore the cage apart. But since then its health has followed a steady downhill course. We've fed it fish, fowl, beef, horse meat, even vegetables—although one look at those teeth and there's no question that it's a carnivore—but no matter what we've tried, its health continues to fail."

Jack now had an idea why Scar-lip was dying. Rakoshi required a very specific species of flesh to thrive. And this one wasn't getting it.

"I brought in a veterinary expert," Oz went on, "one I have learned to rely on for his discretion, but he could not help. I even had a research scientist test the creature's blood. He found some fascinating things there, but he could not alter the creature's downhill course."

Jack suddenly realized that the research scientist was Dr. Monnet Had to be. And he'd found something "fascinating" in Scar-lip's blood.

Did Berzerk come from Scar-lip?

A drug that magnifies violent tendencies distilled from the most violent and vicious creature on earth…

A perfect fit.

"You're sure it's a rakosh?" Oz said, interrupting Jack's racing thought train.

"Well…" Jack said, trying to sound tentative. "I saw a picture of one in a book once. I… I think it looked like this. But I'm not sure. I could be wrong."

"But you're not wrong," the boss said, turning and staring into his eyes. He lowered his gaze to Jack's chest, fixing on the area where the rakosh had scarred him. "And I believe you have far more intimate knowledge of this creature than you are willing to admit."

Jack shrugged, uncomfortable with the scrutiny, especially since it wasn't the first time someone had stared at his chest this way.

"But it doesn't matter!" Oz laughed and spread his arms. "A rakosh! How wonderful! And it's all mine!"

Jack glanced at Scar-lip's slouched, wasted form. Yeah, but not for long.

He heard a noise like a growl and turned. The sight of one of the burly types from Monnet's warehouse standing in the exit flap startled him. He looked like he was waving good-bye to his boss. Jack turned away, hoping he wouldn't recognize him.

"Excuse me," Oz said and hurried toward the exit, his silk robe fluttering around him.

Jack turned to find Scar-lip staring at him with its cold yellow eyes. Still want to finish me off, don't you. It's mutual, pal. But it looks like I'm going to outlast you by a few years. A few decades.

The longer he remained with the wasted creature, the more convinced he was that Scar-lip was on its last legs. He didn't have to light it up. The creature was a goner.

Jack kept tabs on Oz out of the corner of his eye. After half a minute of hushed, one-sided conversation—all the employee did was nod every so often—the boss man returned.

"Sorry. I had to revise instructions on an important errand. But I do want to thank you. You have provided a bright moment in a very disappointing stop." His gaze drifted. "Usually we do extremely well in Monroe, but this trip… it seems a house disappeared last month—vanished, foundation and all, amid strange flashing lights one night. The locals are still spooked."

"How about that," Jack said, turning away. "I think I'll be going."

"But you must allow me to reward you for succoring the poor creature, and for identifying it. Free passes, perhaps."

"Not necessary," Jack said and headed for the exit.

"By the way," Oz said. "How can I get in touch with you if I wish?"

"You can't," Jack called back over his shoulder.

A final glance at Scar-lip showed the rakosh still staring at him; then he parted the canvas flaps and emerged into the fresh air again.

A strange mix of emotions swirled around Jack as he returned to the car. Glad to know Scar-lip would be taking a dirt nap soon, but the very fact that it still lived, even if it was too weak to be a threat to Vicky, bothered him. He'd prefer it dead. He vowed to keep a close watch on this show, check back every night or two until he knew without a doubt that Scar-lip had breathed its last.

Something else bothered him. Couldn't put his finger on it, but he had this vaguely uncomfortable feeling that he never should have come back here.

Flashes on the western horizon from the thunderstorm brewing over the city only accentuated his unease.

10

Still busy! Nadia wanted to hurl the phone out her bedroom window and let it crash four stories below on Thirty-fifth Street. Lightning flashed faintly through that window, but she heard no thunder.

Figuring a good night's sleep might help, she'd turned in early, hoping to wake up in the morning with a whole new perspective. But sleep wouldn't come, so she'd tried Doug's line again.

"He can't still be working," she muttered.

But she knew he very well could be. Sometimes he'd code all night.

Either that or he'd conked out and left the phone off the hook.

"I'm going over there," she said.

She threw on some clothes and headed down the hall.

"You are going out?" her mother called from her bedroom where she was watching TV. "At this hour?"

"Over to Doug's, Mom. I need to talk to him."

"It can't wait until tomorrow?"

No. It couldn't. She needed Doug now.

"You think this is wise?" Mom went on. "Outside bad storm is coming."

"I'll be OK." Nadia pulled an umbrella from the closet by the door, then slipped back to her mother's room. "I shouldn't be too long."

She pecked her on the cheek and hurried down to the street. Thunder rumbled as she hit the sidewalk but the pavement was still dry. Across the street lay St. Vartan's Park, the tiny patch of green where she used to play when she was a child.

She walked down to First Avenue and caught a cab.

This actually might work out better than if Doug had come over for dinner, she thought after giving the driver Doug's address in DUMBO.

She wouldn't have been able to discuss Dr. Monnet's involvement with Berzerk in front of Mom. This way they'd have a chance to talk in private.

She smiled as another thought sent a warm tingle through her. And privacy meant they'd be able to engage in another form of communication…

11

"Aw, no!" Doug said as his monitor went dead along with everything else electric in his apartment. Luckily he'd just finished a save or he'd have lost all the new code he'd just written for his tracking software. Still, he'd probably lost a whole screen's worth. Times like this he wished he'd invested in a BUPS unit.

He blinked in the sudden darkness; then a lightning flash strobed through the room, followed by a rumble of thunder. He'd been so wrapped up in his programming—he entered something like a Zen state when he worked like this—that he'd lost all track of time and surroundings.

"Damn," he muttered. "A storm."

He pushed away and went to the window. A cool breeze laden with the promise of rain washed over him. Another brighter flash of lightning with a louder thunderclap close on its tail. This was shaping up to be a biggie. Then he noticed that windows across the street were still lit up. How come they had power and he didn't? As a matter of fact, he couldn't remember the last time a storm had knocked out his power.

He picked up the phone to call Nadj but it was dead. Power and phone? How the hell had that happened? He wondered if Nadj had been calling him. Well, he always had the cell phone…

Doug straightened as he heard the fire escape rattle. The wind picking up? Shouldn't be anybody out there. He went to the bedroom to see.

The window was wide open, just as he'd left it, the curtains billowing in the breeze. He stuck his head outside and checked upward—his apartment was on the top floor, so only the short length of 'scape to the roof lay above him. No one visible up there. And no one down. Probably the wind; a good gust would rattle the railings every so often. Far to his right, across the river, a brightly speckled sliver of Lower Manhattan was visible between two buildings.

The first drops of rain splattered him then so he backed inside and closed the window, then hurried to close the others.

Between the intermittent flashes and rumbles, the apartment was dark and eerily silent. Doug went to the kitchen for some candles. Once he had some light he'd hunt up his cell phone and give Nadj a call. He felt bad about neglecting her today.

He was searching through the miscellaneous drawer when he sensed—or thought he sensed—movement in the hallway. He stopped and squinted into the darkness. A lightning flash revealed nothing. He stepped down the hall and checked the apartment door—dead-bolted as always.

He decided the power failure plus the storm were giving him the creeps.

He went back to searching the drawer and finally found two half-consumed red candles, left over from the Christmastime dinner he and Nadj had shared last year. Now to find a match. One of the downsides to quitting smoking was that he never carried matches anymore.

But then he heard another sound above his rattling within the drawer… like a thump… from his bedroom.

Apprehension rippling across his back, Doug pulled a carving knife from the utensil drawer and stepped toward the bedroom.

"Somebody there?" he called, immediately thinking, What a stupid thing to say.

No reply—not that he'd expected one, and he'd have been shocked witless if anyone had answered. He assumed—prayed—that this was all nothing. It had better be. Because the knife was just for show. He wouldn't know what to do with it if he needed it. He didn't know a thing about fighting, wasn't sure he knew how to throw a punch, let alone stab someone.

He stepped into the bedroom.

"Hello?"

The shadows were deep here. And he noticed a faint musty odor that hadn't been present before. But it seemed empty…

Then lightning flashed, illuminating two hulking forms pressed against the wall.

With a cry, Doug spun and ran for the front door. A blast of thunder engulfed his cries.

"Help! Hel—!"

He plowed head-on into a third hulk in the hallway and bounced back—like running into a lightly padded concrete wall. Doug almost fell but managed to keep his balance. He turned but lightning silhouetted the two figures approaching from the bedroom.

"I've got a knife!" Doug cried, holding it up.

Something slapped hard against his hand and the knife went flying. He opened his mouth to cry for help but thick fingers clapped over his lips, sealing them. Two more hands grabbed his ankles and lifted him off the floor. Despite his struggles, he was completely helpless as they carried him toward the bedroom like a thrashing, unruly child.

Why? his panicked mind screamed as his bladder threatened to empty. Who are they? What are they? And why do they want me? I've never hurt anyone. Why should anyone—?

The hack! They couldn't be from GEM, could they?

They carried him into the bedroom but then stopped—froze was more like it. They pinned him to the floor and held him there. They seemed to be listening. For what?

And then Doug heard a tapping. It took him a moment to realize it was coming from down the hall. Someone was tapping on his door.

His blood congealed into icy lumps as he heard a familiar voice call his name.

"Doug? Doug, are you in there?"

Nadia! Oh, sweet Jesus, it was Nadia. And she had a key. If he didn't answer she was certain to use it.

Got to warn her!

Hoping to catch his captors off guard, Doug suddenly began kicking and twisting, furiously tunneling all his strength into wrenching his face free of the hand sealing his mouth. Had to warn her away, to run, call 911…

Whoever was holding his feet lost his grip on Doug's right ankle. Doug lashed out with his free foot but connected with his floor lamp instead. His foot was recaptured as the lamp hit the floor with a crash.

Triumph turned to horror as Doug realized the noise would bring Nadia in sooner. He screamed against the muffling fingers, but only a whimper escaped. And then he felt a pair of fingers squeeze his nose and seal his nostrils.

As Doug fought for air and struggled to hold onto consciousness, he heard Nadia calling from the far side of the door.

"Doug? Was that you?"

Too quickly her voice faded with his strength and awareness, and all became nothing…

12

"Doug, are you in there? Are you OK?"

Nadia had arrived at his door ready to give him a piece of her mind for staying incommunicado all day, but her pique was gone now.

Something's wrong, she thought as she clawed through her shoulder bag for her key ring.

She found it, fumbled Doug's key into the lock, and burst in.

But she stopped after one step. The place was completely dark.

"Doug?"

She found the light switch and flipped it but nothing happened. Leaving the door open so she'd have some light, Nadia walked down the short hallway to the front room. She found another wall switch and flipped that. Again, nothing.

Strange. The power was on in the hallway but seemed to be off in Doug's apartment.

She sniffed. What was that musty odor… like wet fur?

Nadia jumped as a flash of lightning lit the room and thunder rattled the windows. Creepy in here. She stepped back toward the hallway and used the light there to help her find her little penlight flash. She pressed the clip and frowned at the weak glow from the bulb. The batteries were just about dead, but they'd have to do.

She turned back toward the darkened apartment and hesitated. The smart thing would be to leave. If Doug was here, he would have answered.

But then, why wasn't he here? It was almost midnight.

She told herself he probably went out for a nightcap when his power failed, but she wouldn't feel right until she'd checked the apartment. And besides, she'd heard that sound, like something or someone falling. What if he'd tripped in the dark and hurt himself?

"If you're all right, Doug…" she muttered as she moved down the hall. "If you're perfectly fine and out enjoying yourself while I'm a worried wreck here searching your pitch-black apartment, I'm going to kill you."

She flashed the penlight's dim beam around the front room and found nothing out of place. Same with the second bedroom he used as an office. Odd to see his computer dark and dead. He hardly ever turned it off.

Nadia felt some of her prior annoyance creeping back as the penlight beam came to rest on Doug's phone. The least he could have done was check his voice mail before he went out. She idly lifted the receiver and put it to her ear.

Dead. That was odd.

Last stop was Doug's bedroom. The bed was unmade, but that was the rule rather than the exception, and everything looked pretty much the same as ever. Then what had made that noise? And why this deep cold apprehension gnawing through her? Why this vague feeling that she wasn't alone here?

Nadia moved toward the closet in his bedroom and had her hand on the doorknob when her penlight died. That does it, she thought with a sudden stab of plain old fear as another flash of lightning blazed through the bedroom window, casting weird shadows into the corners. I'm outta here.

But first… she moved back to the blessed light of the hallway and scribbled on the pad of sticky notes she kept in her bag: v

Doug—

I was here. Where was you?

Call me as soon as you get in.

Love.

N.

Nadia hurried to Doug's office, stuck the note to his monitor screen, then dashed back to the hall. As she closed the door and locked the bolt, she was plagued by the strange sensation that she'd missed something in there, something important.

MEMORIAL DAY

1

Nadia snatched up the phone on the first ring. "Doug?"

A heartbeat or two of silence on the other end. A throat cleared and then a familiar voice came over the wire, but not Doug's.

"This is Dr. Monnet."

"Oh. Dr. Monnet… good morning."

Nadia leaned back on her mother's old sofa, straining to hide the crushing disappointment. She'd been trying Doug's number for hours—before she'd left for the clinic, and while she'd been at the clinic—but yesterday's busy signals had been replaced by a robotic voice telling her that the line was out of service.

"Good morning," he said. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all. I just got back from the clinic."

I just wish you were someone else.

"Such devotion."

"Well, as we both know, diabetes doesn't recognize national holidays."

"How true." He cleared his throat. "I was wondering if you were going to be in the lab today."

"I hadn't planned on it."

Actually she had, but only to remove the Berzerk from the imager's sample chamber. After that she might never go back, at least not until she had a good explanation as to why the inert form of a street drug matched the inert form of a molecule she'd been assigned to stabilize.

And then an alarming thought struck her. "Are you there now?"

"Yes. I stopped by. I thought if you were here we might discuss your progress."

Her heart fluttered in panic. She'd never dreamed Dr. Moanet would be there on Memorial Day. Should she run over? No. She couldn't go. Not until she contacted Doug and was sure he was all right.

"I… I have other plans."

"Oh. I see. Excuse me but did you…?" His voice seemed to falter. "Did you say, 'Doug,' when you picked up?"

Yes… Doug. A pang of longing seized her. Where are you?

And now, after giving Dr. Monnet a lengthy cock-and-bull story Saturday about how they were just acquaintances, how was she going to explain this?

"Yes. He, um, asked me out to dinner last night and never showed up. And now his phone is out of service. I'm worried."

"Because he's an old friend."

Nadia wasn't sure if that was a statement or a question. Either way, Dr. Monnet's voice was rich with concern.

"Yes," she said. "I'm going over there to check on him personally."

"Do you really think that's wise?"

An odd question. "What do you mean?"

"I'll meet you there."

"No. That's not at all necessary. Besides, he's all the way over in DUMBO."

"DUMBO?"

"Yes. It's in Brooklyn—Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass."

"That doesn't matter. Douglas Gleason is a valued employee. I insist. Give me his address."

Nadia didn't know what else to do. She gave him the address and he said he would meet her there.

This strange turn baffled Nadia, but at least Dr. Monnet would be leaving the lab. He hadn't mentioned the Berzerk in the imager, which meant he hadn't looked. Sometime today she had to get back there and clean up.

But Doug came first…Her worry for him blotted out all other concerns.

2

Luc stood outside the brick-faced apartment building on Water Street, one of many along the block. He looked up at the blue underbelly of the Manhattan Bridge; he could hear the traffic rumbling across. An odd place to hve, but he supposed one had to live somewhere. Perhaps the view of the city at night made it worthwhile.

He'd already been up to Gleason's apartment. He'd knocked and tried the door, but it was locked. Too bad. He was hardly eager to see Gleason's corpse, but if he'd been able to get in, he at least could have found the body himself, sparing Nadia the trauma.

Luc had told Prather he wanted Gleason handled differently this time. Macintosh had simply disappeared—bought a round-trip ticket to Chicago and never came back. He'd had no close friends, and when his family came looking, no one had any useful information, least of all his puzzled and concerned employers.

Gleason, on the other hand, was anything but a loner. And having a second GEM employee simply vanish—especially one with friends on the sales force, connections to dozens of doctors and their staffs, and a longtime relationship with Nadia—would make too many waves. It might even raise an official eyebrow, prompting an investigation into the whereabouts of both men. The last thing Luc wanted.

So Prather had been instructed to make Gleason's death look like a botched robbery. Very tragic and very final. And to cover all bases, Luc had requested a little vandalism as well—specifically, the theft of Gleason's company laptop and the destruction of his home computer if he had one.

That was why he'd insisted on meeting Nadia here—to help minimize the trauma of her finding an old friend dead. Even so, she wasn't going to be much use as a researcher for the next few days.

And every single day counted, damn it!

Luc paced the sidewalk. He wanted to see Nadia face-to-face. He'd experienced a moment of panic this morning when he'd checked the office and learned that she hadn't signed in. Was it because of the holiday or fatigue, or something else? He needed to look into her eyes. He'd know in an instant if she suspected him of being connected to Berzerk.

A cab pulled into the curb and Nadia alighted. Her face was drawn, pale. She looked worried.

"Good morning," Luc said.

She nodded. "I hope it is," she said. "You really didn't have to—"

"Let's not discuss that anymore," he told her. "I am here. What floor is Douglas on?"

"Top floor—the tenth."

At that moment she looked squarely at him and he saw no sign of fear or distrust, only concern—not for or about him but for her missing friend.

Deep concern. Warning prickles raced along his scalp and gathered at the back of his neck. Too deep perhaps for someone she'd described as "just a friend of the family"?

"How will we get into his apartment?"

"I have a key," she said, moving ahead of him.

As Luc followed her to the elevator, a lump in his gut told him that there had to be more to this relationship than Nadia had let on.

At Gleason's door he hid his unease and waited as Nadia knocked and called. Finally, when she inserted her key in the lock, he acted.

"Allow me," he said, gripping the doorknob as the bolt snapped back. "Just in case."

"In case of what?" she said, blanching.

"Something may not be right here."

He pushed the door open and went in first, Nadia right behind him. A few steps took him down the short entry hall until he could see the overturned furniture in the living room. He turned quickly and gripped her upper arms to keep her from coming any farther.

"Wait. Don't go in there. Something's happened."

"What?" Her eyes went wide and wild as she tore loose and fought past him. "What do you mean?"

Luc followed and almost plowed into her as she skidded to a stop on the living room threshold. The couch lay tipped over onto its back, a coffee table was flush against the opposite wall, and a floor lamp lay on the floor.

"Ohmigod!" she cried, hands to her mouth. "Ohmigod!"

Her shoulder bag tumbled to the floor as she darted off in another direction, moving deeper into the apartment, Luc at her heels. No stopping her. As she turned left into what looked like a bedroom, Luc wheeled right and found a room that looked like an office. As he heard doors slamming in the other room and then in the hallway, he noted briefly with satisfaction that the desktop computer's mini tower had been ripped apart, its contents strewn about the room. The hard drive lay bent and cracked open, damaged beyond repair.

As he turned to go, Nadia appeared and they almost collided. She must have found Gleason because she looked as if she were about to faint. He gripped her arm to support her.

"He's not here!" she gasped, panting as if she'd run a marathon. "I checked his bedroom and the kitchen and the bathroom and the closets but he's not here!"

Not here? He had to be here!

"Ohmigod!" she cried, lurching past Luc. "Look what they did to his computer! It wasn't like this last night! Jesus God, where is he? What happened here?"

That was what Luc wanted to know. Gleason was supposed to die here, not somewhere else. Or—his heart seized for an instant as a thought struck with the weight of a sledge—had Prather's men missed him?

Luc guided Nadia to a chair and helped her as she sagged into it. "It looks like just a robbery and maybe some vandalism."

"I don't see his laptop," she said, looking around. "And his living room rug is gone. Does that make any sense?"

It did if Prather's men needed a way to remove Gleason's body. But they were not supposed to remove it.

"No, it doesn't," he told her. "But you didn't see any blood, did you?"

He wanted her to say, Yes, oceans of it, but she shook her head.

He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "There. He's probably away for the weekend with—"

"He's not!" she said. Tears were sliding down her cheeks. "He would have told me!"

"Come now," Luc said. "Surely he has other friends. He probably—"

"We're engaged, damn it!"

Luc felt his knees go soft. Now he too needed to sit. "Engaged? But… but I thought…"

"Doug wanted to keep it secret. He had some idea that management might not approve of a close relationship between a sales rep and a researcher."

Gleason had been right, of course. Luc tried to frame a reply, but the only words that formed in his reeling brain were, What have we done? What have we done ... ?

With her fiance missing she'll be utterly useless in the lab—and not just for a couple of days.

That's it, then, he thought. Over. Done. Fin.

"I've got to call the police!"

Before Luc could stop her, she had the phone receiver to her ear—but only for an instant. She pulled it away and looked at it. "That's right. I forgot. Out of service."

She slammed it down and hurried from the room. Luc struggled to think of some way to stop her, some words that would convince her to hold off calling the police, but his mind was a blank. What could he say? Gleason was missing and his apartment showed unmistakable signs of foul play.

Nadia and the police… a potentially lethal combination. To determine who had broken in, she would have to ask why ... and why they had stolen one computer and smashed another. Luc had to assume that Gleason had told her about his invasion of the GEM computer system. Would she make a connection? Nadia was too bright not to. And she would tell the police. And if she had any suspicions that Loki was a street drug, Luc sensed she would bring up those as well. And then the New York City Police and the DEA and the FBI would be dissecting GEM, and issuing warrants, and ending life as he knew it.

When Nadia returned seconds later, pulling a cell phone from her bag, he was tempted to snatch it away—but then what? Strangle her? He thought of putting his hands around her throat and squeezing… watching her face mottle into blue.

No, he couldn't. And besides, a third missing GEM employee would guarantee an investigation. Nadia was as much a danger to him alive as dead.

His gut crawled as he watched her punch in 9-1-1. She paced back and forth as she waited for an answer, then wandered out of the room as she began talking to the operator or dispatcher or whoever handled those calls.

This tore it then. It was all over. He'd have to leave the country immediately. But what about his wine? He needed another two days to pack up the rest and ship it out—just one day if he worked all night…

But what was the use? In France he could hide from Dragovic but not from the U.S. and French governments. He would be found, extradited, and Dragovic's contacts in prison would see to it that he never reached a courtroom.

There had to be a way to stop her. But how?

His nervous, restless, roving gaze came to rest on Nadia's shoulder bag and a plan crystallized. It was beautiful, perfect.

Quickly Luc reached into the bag and rummaged around. He felt a sweat break at the thought of Nadia wandering back and finding him up to his elbows in her personal belongings. He heard a jangle, reached for it, came up with her key ring, and shoved it into his jacket pocket a second before Nadia stepped back into the room.

"They're sending someone over."

She dropped the phone into her bag and stood there. For a moment she seemed lost; then her features twisted. She covered her face with her hands and began to sob.

"Where is he? Something's happened to him. I just know something terrible's happened!"

Moved by her anguish, Luc rose and put an arm around her shoulders. For a moment he regretted everything, then reminded himself that if Gleason had minded his own damn business, if he'd just kept his nose out of places it did not belong, Luc wouldn't be comforting this young woman while he planned her ruin.

"It'll be all right, Nadia. I know it will be all right."

And he meant that. Every word of it.

But for him, not her.

3

"This is too much!" Sal was saying. "Just too freakin' much!"

Jack had to smile as he watched the destruction of last night's party play out on the thirteen-inch screen. It was too much.

Holiday quiet outside the office. Except for the guard dogs padding around behind the fences, he and Sal had the junkyard to themselves.

"Now here comes the best part," Sal said, pointing at the screen. "I musta watched this a hundred times."

Jack watched Dragovic shove a pretty young woman out from under a table, then watched that table collapse under the impact of a tottering overweight party guest. Jack laughed. Beautiful.

Sal was almost falling out of his seat. "Can you imagine when that hits the airwaves? "This guy ain't gonna be able to show his face in Burger King, let alone Studio 54!"

Jack started to tell him that Studio 54 was passe now but let it go. He knew what Sal meant, and he was right on the money.

"A fate worse than death," Jack said.

Sal hit the stop button and turned to Jack. "I don't know about a fate worse than death. Not that all this ain't good an' all, but good as it is—"

"Yeah, I know… Somehow it's not enough."

Sal smiled. "Yeah. Am I a broken record or what. But it's just… not. If you know what I'm sayin'."

"I do. But this has only been phase one. These first two hits are what you might call 'baking the cake.' In phase two we ice it."

"And when's phase two?"

"Tonight. This whole gig ends at tonight's party."

Jack was glad of that. After tonight, no more hard guys hanging around outside Gia's. He hoped.

"Tonight? Ain't no party tonight—least not according to my contact."

"Yeah, there is. Got it straight from Dragovic. Special party tonight, but your caterer friend won't be hired for this one."

"Well, we did tires and crankcase gunk," Sal said. "What next?"

"Something very special. You just make sure you and your camera are on that dune tonight. Be ready to shoot as soon as it's good and dark. This one will be the best yet."

"Yeah?" Sal wiggled his eyebrows. "Whatcha plannin'?"

"I'm planning to make a phone call."

"That's it? A call? To who?"

Jack wagged his finger at Sal. "If you knew that, you wouldn't need to pay me, would you. Just make sure you don't miss this party. And have the rest of my money ready. After tonight I don't think you'll be saying, 'it ain't enough.'"

4

"I thought we were going to see a parade," Vicky said.

"I did too, Vicks."

Jack stood on the curb between Gia and Vicky and gazed up and down Fifth Avenue. Saks and Gucci and Bergdorf Goodman lined the sidewalks but no marchers. Blue skies and mild weather, a perfect day for a parade. So where was everybody? Not even a single one of those pale blue wooden horses the police use to block streets to hint that a parade was expected or had already been by.

Jack did a full three-sixty scan, his eye out for more than marching bands. He'd done a careful reconnoiter of Gia's neighborhood before heading out to Sal's this morning, and then again a little while ago, and neither time had he found any signs of surveillance. Pretty much what he'd expected, but it didn't take him off alert. Jack had always found it more comforting to know where the bad guys were than where they weren't.

Since no one was watching them, and since he couldn't get hold of Nadia, he'd decided to take Vicky to a Memorial Day parade. But so far, no luck.

"God, it's good to be out," Gia said. "How much longer are we going to be under house arrest?"

To make the house look empty, Jack had advised Gia to stay inside and out of sight for the long weekend.

"We should be able to loosen up tomorrow."

She looked at him. "That means things come to a head tonight, I take it?"

"If all goes according to plan."

"Hey, look!" Vicky said, pointing. "More sailors."

Sure enough, a trio of young men of various shades—they looked like teenagers, and maybe they were—dressed in bell-bottomed whites and Dixie cup caps strolled their way from the direction of St. Pat's. As usual, the fleet was in for Memorial Day Weekend and white uniforms abounded.

"They're cute," Gia said. "But how do they get their whites so white?"

"Why don't you ask them?" Jack said.

Vicky put a hand on her out-thrust hip as they passed and said, "Hi-ya, sailor!"

The guys all but fell off the curb laughing, and Jack bit the insides of both cheeks to keep from doing the same. Gia turned scarlet and found something interesting atop the Saks building.

"What?" Vicky said, looking at her mother as the still-chortling sailors moved on.

"Where on earth did you hear that?"

"I saw it on MTV."

"There you go," Jack said, finally trusting himself to speak. "The root of the decline of Western civilization, such as it is."

"Well, young lady," Gia said, taking her by the hand and leading her across the street, "I think we're going to monitor your TV habits a little more closely from now on." She glanced back at Jack. "By the way, where are we going?"

"Let's try Broadway. Maybe they've got a parade there."

"You know," Gia said, taking his arm as they walked along, "I love the city on holiday weekends."

"You mean half-empty?"

She nodded. "It's like we've got the place almost to ourselves." She stretched out her arms and did a quick turn. "Look at that. I didn't hit anybody." She took his arm again. "I feel sorry for all these sailors. Of all times to get a leave in New York—one of the two big weekends a year when almost all the girls have left town for the beaches."

"I saw them checking you out pretty well as they passed."

"Don't be silly. I could be their mother."

"They weren't just looking—ogling is more like it. And I can't say as I blame them, what with those long stems sticking so far out of those shorts."

"Oh, pshaw."

"Pshaw? Did you actually say, 'Pshaw'?"

"Pshaw, and piffle," Gia said.

But Jack could see she was pleased she'd been ogled, and even more pleased that he'd noticed. But then he was always on watch around the two women in his life.

They came to Broadway. The deco front of the Brill Building gleamed in the sun across the street from them, but no parade flowed between.

Sharing a couple of oversize pretzels from a pushcart, the three of them wandered farther west. Jack slowed as they passed a defunct dance club in the midst of renovation. A sign on the double-doored entry proclaimed it THE FUTURE HOME OF NEW YORK CITY'S MOST EXCLUSIVE NIGHTCLUB—BELGRAVY.

Dragovic's place. Jack understood that Dragovic had begun running his operation from a back office here—when he wasn't in the Hamptons.

One more move against Dragovic tonight and that chapter would be closed—he hoped. And as long as he'd be out on Long Island, he'd look in on the rakosh, just to make sure it was still fading away.

Jack was about to turn everyone around and head back when he saw an older man in a khaki Eisenhower jacket, blue twill pants, and a defiantly angled overseas cap limping toward them. Jack gave him a friendly wave as he came abreast.

"Hi. Isn't there supposed to be a Memorial Day parade?"

The man frowned. "There damn sure should have been. I hear there's a little one on Upper Broadway somewhere. Probably nobody watching it, though. We just had a ceremony on the Intrepid with hardly anybody there."

Jack took in all the medals on the right breast of the old soldier's bulging waist-length jacket. He saw a star that looked bronze and recognized a Purple Heart.

"You were in the Big One?"

"Yeah." He looked at Jack. "How about you?"

Jack had to smile. "Me? In the army? No. Not my thing."

"Wasn't my thing either," the guy said, his voice rising. "None of us wanted to be there. I hated every minute. But there was a job to be done and we did it. And we died doing it. My whole platoon, every one of my buddies, was wiped out at Anzio—everyone but me, and I just barely made it. But I did get back, and as long as I'm alive, I'll show up to remember those guys. Someone should, don't you think? But nobody gives a damn."

"I do," Jack said softly, surrendering to an impulse from out of the blue. He thrust out his hand. "Thank you."

The man blinked, then took Jack's hand and squeezed. His eyes puddled up and his lower jaw trembled as he tried to speak. Finally he managed a weak, "You're welcome." Then he limped away.

Jack turned to find Gia staring at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Jack, that was…"

He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable.

"No, really," she said. "Don't shrug it off. That was nice. Sweet, even. Especially since I know how you feel about armies and governments."

"He isn't a government or an army. He's a guy. No matter what you think of any particular war, you've got to feel something for some poor guy ripped out of his life and handed a gun and sent somewhere to kill other guys who've been ripped out of their lives and sent to do the same thing, and while they're both shivering in their foxholes, scared they're not going to see another sunrise, all the fat cats, all the generals and politicos and priests and mullahs and tribal elders who started the whole damn thing, sit way to the rear, moving their chess pieces around." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder as he took a breath. "He got handed the dirty end of a dirty stick but he handled it. You've got to respect that."

"So it's another guy thing, huh?" Gia said, punching him lightly on the shoulder, guy style.

He glanced at her and saw the rueful twist of her smile. "To da moon, Alice!"

She laughed and turned to watch the receding Eisenhower jacket. She sighed. "Old soldiers…"

But Jack was back to looking out for some young soldiers, Serb vets. He knew that if and when they met again, they wouldn't fade away, and there sure as hell would be no handshakes.

5

The third key Luc tried worked. He opened the door, stepped inside, and quickly closed it behind him. The shades were down but enough sunlight filtered through to illuminate the waiting area of the diabetes clinic.

Now he could relax—a little. No one would be in for the rest of the day, especially Nadia, who was still with the police, giving statements and filling out forms. Luc had given a brief statement, then begged off, claiming a prior engagement. His involvement had been peripheral, after all.

At least to all appearances. But his brain burned with the need to silence Nadia and to learn why Prather had deviated from his instructions regarding Gleason.

Prather, however, had been infuriatingly vague when Luc finally had reached him by phone.

"Some unforeseen circumstances came up," was all he'd say.

When Luc had inquired—discreetly, of course—about "the remains," Prather had laughed and said, "Don't give that a second thought, Doctor! I've found an absolutely foolproof means of disposal!"

He'd sounded oddly excited.

The brief exchange had left Luc feeling frustrated and helpless. Taking a deep breath, he thrust Prather from his thoughts and looked around the front area of the clinic. He'd been here once during Nadia's brief recruitment phase, stopping by more out of nostalgia than the need to see her in action. He'd worked a clinic like this down in the Village during his residency. Lord, how long ago was that? Seemed like another epoch.

Maybe he could go back to something like this in France. Put some of his training to use again with people instead of molecules.

He shook off the distracting trains of thought. He was getting ahead of himself, and off track. If he didn't take care of Nadia, he could forget planning anything in France.

As he pulled on a pair of latex examination gloves, Luc noticed that his palms were sweaty. Tension coiled at the back of his neck. He kept imagining someone coming in and catching him here.

Let's get this over with, he thought as he moved toward the rear of the clinic.

No windows in the rear office, so he had to fumble for a light switch. As the overhead fluorescents flickered to life, he immediately spotted what he was looking for. Next to the empty Mr. Coffee sat a big black mug with NADJ printed in thick white block capitals across the front. He'd remembered it from his brief visit. He'd even remarked laughingly that no one could ever say they'd used her cup by mistake.

And there will be no mistake today, he thought grimly as he pulled a vial from his pocket.

He held it up to the light: Loki in its liquid form was odorless and tasteless, with only a hint of blue. He un-stoppered the vial and poured about a tablespoon's worth into Nadia's mug. He rolled the thick liquid around, coating the inner surface halfway up the sides.

The concentrate was drying already. In minutes it would be unnoticeable.

He'd estimated Nadia's weight at about one-twenty or so. A tablespoon of the concentrate was a hefty dose, and the effect would last a good four to six hours. He added a few extra drops for good measure.

He watched the sequence play out before his mind's eye…

Nadia had few aggressive or violent tendencies, but within half an hour or so of finishing her coffee, whatever ones she possessed would be magnified ten-, twen-tyfold, turning her into a raging wild woman. She'd become uncontrollable, a jungle cat, raging about, smashing things, perhaps trying to smash people as well. Inevitably she'd be arrested for disorderly conduct and suspicion of drag use, but only suspicion, because the police labs had yet to figure out how to test for Loki.

But suspicion wouldn't be enough.

He stoppered the vial, returned it to his pocket, and came up with a small glassine envelope. He then stepped to Nadia's desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and stuffed the envelope in a rear corner.

In act two, a police search turns up the envelope and the four Berzerk tablets within. Suspicion then becomes fact: Nadia is tagged with a record of drag abuse. Her credibility is destroyed and whatever suspicions she might raise about Gleason's disappearance or about GEM's connection to street drags will be tainted… the ramblings of a brain-fried druggie.

The strength began to seep from Luc's legs and he dropped into Nadia's chair.

How can I do this to her?

Not only will her credibility go down the tubes, but her medical career as well. She might be able to retain her medical license after going through rehab, but her reputation as a reliable physician will be ruined.

Have I really sunk so low?

Luc gathered his strength and rose. He returned to the Mr. Coffee and picked up Nadia's mug. There was a sink in the washroom. He'd rinse it out, remove the pills from her drawer, and leave everything just as he'd found it. And then he'd look for another way to deal with this.

He started toward the door, then stopped.

What other way?

How else to keep her from accusing GEM other than placing another call to Prather? That would be what Kent and Brad would want. As Kent had said, once you've ordered one death, ordering a second is easier. Ordering a third—Nadia's—would be a Cakewalk for those two. But he had enough blood on his hands.

He stared into Nadia's mug. The concentrate was almost completely dry now. In a way, the Loki was by far the lesser evil. It might damage her future, but at least she'd be alive. And she'd have at least some sort of career.

In a way, he was saving Nadia's life.

Clutching that thought like a drowning man, Luc replaced the mug on the coffee shelf, turned out the light, and hurried for the door.

He had packing to do.

6

Milos strolled around the pool, acting like a host, but listening… straining his ears for the rhythmic pulse of a helicopter approaching through the night sky.

"Smile," he said to a trio of dapper Hispanics in bright-colored guayaberas. He'd brought them in from one of his Harlem brothels. "Look like you're having a good time. Make believe it's Friday night, before anything happened."

They smiled and nodded and dutifully lifted their glasses of ginger ale to him in salute. There would be plenty of time for the real thing after this was finished.

Everyone from Friday night's fiasco was here. Milos had invited them all back and promised them a chance to get even with the shit who had dropped garbage on them. To a man they had accepted—enthusiastically.

Milos noted with approval the bulges under their shirts. He patted their shoulders and moved on.

Milos's men had spent the bulk of the day doing what they could to clean up the grounds. The air still reeked of oil. He raged inwardly at how the filthy stuff had stained the decking and walkways. The entire area would have to be power-washed. But repairs would come later. He did not need the place to look perfect for what he had planned tonight.

In addition to Friday's guests he had brought in extra men and had them stationed in the oversize shrubbery with shotguns and rifles, all ready and eager for payback.

He rubbed his hands anxiously, wondering what those crazies would try to throw at him tonight. No matter. He was ready for them—ready to strike first and stop them dead in their tracks.

To that end, Milos had the lights low and the music off so he could hear the helicopter as early as possible. His instructions were simple: do not fire until you see the helicopter, but when you do, let loose with everything you have.

The voice on the phone had asked him if he'd been thinking of "calling in the authorities." Me, Milos Dragovic, call in police like some ordinary citizen who cannot handle his own problems? Never. No. You attack Dragovic, Dragovic attacks back, but ten times worse.

Of course, after tonight the authorities would be very much involved—no avoiding that after a barrage of gunfire and a downed helicopter—but he had top lawyers. A citizen was allowed to use deadly force in defense of his life, and that was what he'd be doing tonight: standing on his own property defending himself.

"I hear something!" one of the men on the beach shouted.

Everyone stopped talking at once. Silence abrupt and complete, like a power failure in a sound system. Only the sound of the surf… and then something else. No mistaking the thrum of helicopter blades beating the night air.

"All right!" Milos shouted. "It's coming! Get ready!"

All around him semiautomatic pistols and fully automatic assault weapons were slipping from holsters and pockets and held under jackets or behind backs as safeties were clicked off, rounds were chambered, and bolts were ratcheted back. He saw rifles and shotgun barrels rising into view among the bushes.

The choppy rhythm grew louder, clearer.

"Easy," Milos said, pulling his own .357 Magnum from its shoulder holster. "Easy…"

And then, just as it became visible, something strange happened. A bright beam of white light lanced downward from the copter. As it began to play back and forth across the sand, Milos was struck with a terrifying sense that things were about to go horribly wrong.

His shout of "No!" was lost in the deafening fusillade that erupted around him.

Milos saw the sparks of the bullets striking the helicopter's fuselage, watched it lurch, veer to the left and drop, then regain altitude and wobble away, trailing black smoke as it fled.

The guns had ceased fire almost as quickly as they had begun. No triumphant cheers rose from the stunned men.

They all could read English.

And then he heard the wail of sirens—many of them. He turned and saw chaotic red flashes lighting the night from the direction of the front gate.

Cops. Sounded like an army of them.

But how? How could they be here so soon? And in such numbers?

Milos Dragovic stood numb and frozen by his pool and asked himself over and over, Who is doing this to me?

TUESDAY

1

When Jack checked his voice mail in the morning he found three messages from Sal Vituolo, the gist of which could be summed up as, "Hey, Jack, call me. I gotta talk to ya, just gotta talk to ya."

So Jack called him from a pay phone.

"Jack! How'd you do it, man?" Jack couldn't see Sal but he sounded like he was dancing. "How'd you freakin' do it?"

"I gather it went off well?"

Jack had heard a few sketchy details on one of the all-news stations last night before turning in.

"Are you kiddin' me? He absolutely screwed himself, shootin' at a Coast Guard copter like that. But how'd you get it there?"

"Like I told you," Jack said. "I made a call."

"Yeah, but what'd you say?"

Jack had told the Coast Guard that a big shipment of this new drug that was making people go crazy was coming ashore at Dragovic's place in the Hamptons. He told them that was why Dragovic bought the place—so he could smuggle stuff ashore. The shipment was due shortly after dark—like between nine-thirty and ten.

But Jack didn't feel like going into all of that with Sal.

"I've got connections."

"You must, baby. I can't believe the heat that came down on that place."

According to reports on the news, state and Suffolk County heat had been duking it out with the feds over who had jurisdiction. Since they couldn't decide in time, they'd all shown up.

"I woulda got more tape but a lot of his muscle was haulin' ass outta there and some of them was comin' my way. So I did a little ass haulin' myself."

"But you got enough?"

"I got plenty. I hear the pilots are OK, but Dragovic's in deep shit for shootin' up their copter. Accordin' to the news they didn't find no heavy drugs in his place. Too bad, but at least some of his guys got tagged for possession. And of course he's up on all sortsa state, county, and federal weapons charges and even"—Sal snickered here—"disorderly conduct from the town of East Hampton!" His tone sobered. "But I bet the fucker's out on bail already."

"You can count on it. That's where the tapes come in. Did you send them off?"

"Made a shitload of copies last night, then went to the messenger service first thing this morning—did the locals, all the networks, CNN, Fox, even public access. If they got an antenna or a satellite, they got a tape."

"And you paid cash, right?"

"Course. Ay, I don't wanna be connected to this. No way."

"Good. Now just keep your eyes on the TV this morning."

"You kiddin'? I got the remote glued to my freakin' hand. I—wait a sec. Here's something! A special report. Turn on channel four, quick!"

I'm not exactly near a TV," Jack said.

"This is it! They're showing it! Yes! Yyy-essss!" Jack was sure now that Sal was indeed dancing around. It was a sight he preferred to imagine rather than witness. "He's fucked! He is so fucked! He may be out on bail but he won't be able to show his puss in this town—hell, in the whole freakin' world again without somebody laughin' at him!"

"Now do you believe in a fate worse than death?"

"Yes!" Sal shouted. "Oh, yes!"

"And is it enough?"

"Yeah, Jack." Sal's voice softened as it dropped about a hundred decibels. "I think it is. And I think it's gonna be easier for me with my sister now."

"Jeez, don't tell her anything," Jack said quickly.

"Ay, I ain't stupid. I know how stuff gets around and I don't wanna wake up dead some morning. But at least I think I can finally look Roseanne in the eye now and not feel like a useless wuss. She won't know, but I'll know, and that's what counts, if you know what I'm sayin'."

"Yeah, Sal, I do."

2

"Who?" Milos screamed.

He stood in the center of his office in the rear of the unfinished Belgravy and stared at the remnants of a thirty-two-inch Sony TV before him. A brass table lamp jutted from the smoking hole of what had once been its Trinitron screen.

"Who?"

Who had done this to him? Who hated him so to publicly humiliate him this way? He couldn't believe that this East Hampton Environmental Protection Committee had done it. Truth was, he couldn't bear the thought of having been hooked, netted, and filleted for all the world to see by some raised-pinkie, tea-sipping, silver-spoon-sucking pussy from old-money Long Island.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and fought to focus his rage-scattered thoughts. He could feel his heart hammering inside his chest. He felt as if he were floating in space.

Think! Who!

The Russians… it had to be the Brighton Beach Russians. They'd been allies of his early on but lately they'd become jealous of his success. Only they would have the nerve to do this to him.

But this wasn't their MO. They preferred more direct methods—a bullet or two in the face was their style. No, this had to be someone with more control and calculation, someone who knew his weak points and was not afraid to ram a blade into one and twist.

Who, damn it!

And why? Milos wanted to know that as badly as who. If he knew why, he could figure who, and then he'd know what… what in particular he had done to make some sick govno set out to ruin him.

And that was what he was: ruined, pure and simple. Who would deal with him again? Who would take him seriously? After that tape, how could anyone fear him?

A ragged scream ripped from his throat and echoed off his office walls.

The only solution was retribution. He had to find whoever it was and destroy them. He had to send a message to the world that no one fucked with Milos Dragovic and lived.

Even that would not restore his respect, but it would be a start.

But where to start? The only lead was a public phone in the East Eighties and a man on a videotape, a man in a car owned by a woman who lived on Sutton Place.

This man could be the key. He might not be the mastermind, and most likely was not, but he could be the helicopter pilot. He could have been scouting the house in the day to plan the best place to drop his garbage at night. Or involved in some other way. If he could speak to the man, Milos could make him tell.

Could be the man had no connection at all. If so, too bad. For him.

Milos was through with caution. Something had to be done, and now. The Sutton Square house had been empty all weekend but the holiday was over. Time to move. He stalked to his office door and kicked it open.

"Ivo! Vuk! In here! Now!"

Milos watched the two men jump up and leave their paper coffee cups on the cocktail table where they'd been sitting. They hurried toward him across the dance floor—or what was supposed to have been a dance floor. He couldn't imagine opening Belgravy after what he'd just seen. None of the people, the beautiful people he'd planned it for, would show their faces. The place would wind up filled with smirking hoi polloi hoping to catch a glimpse of the buffoon they'd seen on TV.

I'd sooner torch the place, he thought.

"Yessir!" Vuk and Ivo said, almost in unison, and Milos swore Ivo had started to salute.

They looked nervous, and well they should. They had avoided arrest by tossing their guns and extra clips into the pool at the first sign of the police. And they weren't the only ones. The illuminated bottom of the oil-stained pool had looked like an underwater armory.

And since it was his pool, Milos had been charged with possession of all those unregistered weapons.

But his lawyers could get him out of that.

The problem was who and what and why.

"This man you have been looking for over on Sutton Square. Bring him to me."

"Yessir!"

"And if he gives you trouble, shoot him. Do not kill him. Shoot him in the knees, then bring him to me. I wish to talk to him. He knows something and he will tell me."

"Yessir!"

As they turned to go, Milos added: "Do not return without him. And if something happens to your car this time, the only way I want to see you two come back is in a hearse."

They swallowed and nodded, then hurried for the street.

3

Jack had known something was way wrong the instant he stepped into Nadia's office at the clinic. She'd looked like she'd been on a two-week bender, and now, after listening to her story, he could see why. She'd broken down three times during the telling.

"So the last time you saw him was when?"

"Dinner on Saturday. Sushi… at the Kuroikaze Kafe." She sobbed. "Doug loved the spider roll there."

"Hey, Doc, you're using the past tense," Jack said. "Shouldn't do that."

She blew her nose and nodded. "You're right. I just…" She seemed to ran out of words.

"Let's move to Sunday. You didn't see or talk to him all day—"

"I tried but his phone was busy."

"But you were there Sunday night and saw no signs of a struggle."

"No. At least I don't think so. It was dark, you know, with the power out and all. No, wait. I saw the computer and it was fine."

'That means the break-in took place after you left."

And what does that tell me? Jack wondered.

Absolutely nothing.

He could see a second-story man getting caught in the act during a break-in and losing it and killing the owner. It happened. But he'd never heard of anyone taking the body with him. A corpse wasn't exactly something you could slip into your pocket and stroll away with.

"Do you think it could be"—the word seemed to stick in her throat—"GEM?"

The question jolted him. "A big corporation? Taking someone out? Come on, Doc. They use lawyers for hit men. And why should they want to?"

"Well, I told you about Doug hacking their computer—"

"Yeah, but could they know about that? And even if they had caught on, how would they know what he'd found, if anything? I mean, it's not as if he was blackmailing them…" Jack caught and held her gaze. "Was he?"

She gave her head a vehement shake. "Never. Not Doug. He was thinking of picking up some GEM stock on the chance that what he'd learned meant it was going up, but I know blackmail would never ever cross his mind."

"You're sure?"

"Without a doubt."

Nadia could have been kidding herself, like the mother of the school's biggest pothead saying, Not my kid. But Jack didn't think so.

"So I doubt it's GEM."

"Don't be so sure," Nadia said. "Milos Dragovic is somehow connected to GEM, and GEM is connected with"—she took a deep breath—"Berzerk."

"Damn!" Jack said, slapping the table. "I knew it! That sample I gave you matched up, I take it."

She nodded reluctantly. "It's my project at GEM, the very molecule I'm supposed to be stabilizing. It's called 'Loki' there."

"Loki… makes you loco. And stabilizing it makes sense. The guy who sold it to me told me about how it all changes to something useless after a certain time."

Nadia rose from her seat and wandered out from behind the deck, rubbing her hands in a washing motion. She looked agitated, too agitated to sit.

"Every twenty-nine days, twelve hours, forty-four minutes, and two-point-eight seconds."

Jack blinked. "How—?"

She seemed to be on automatic pilot as she moved to the coffee setup and grabbed the mug with nadj across its front.

"And it's not just the molecule itself that changes. Every representation of the structure of the active molecule, whether it's a drawing, a model, a computer file, even human memory of it, changes along with it."

She stopped pouring her coffee and turned to stare at him, pot in hand, as if waiting.

"Go on," he said.

"Aren't you listening?"

"To every word."

"Then why aren't you telling me I'm crazy?"

"Because I believe you."

"How can you believe me? What I'm telling you is impossible—or should be."

"Yeah. And the same could be said for the beastie your buddy Monnet gets his Loki from."

"'Beastie?' You mean it comes from an animal?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of what?" Nadia was saying, and sounding a little annoyed as she went back to pouring her coffee. Good. Better than crying. "It 'sort of comes from an animal, or it comes from a 'sort-of animal?"

"A sort-of animal that doesn't follow any of the rules, just like this Loki stuff."

Things were beginning to make sense now… sort of. Jack told her how he'd followed Monnet out to the freak show, and what the boss there had later said about a research scientist who'd found some "fascinating things" in the dying rakosh's blood.

"Doc, I'm willing to bet that one of those 'fascinating things' turned out to be Loki or Berzerk or whatever it's called."

She turned, holding her mug with both hands. "But what kind of animal—?"

"I wouldn't call it an animal—animal might make you think of a rabbit or a deer. I'd call it a creature or a thing. The only one of its kind left. And it's not like anything else that's ever walked this earth." He could have added that he had it on good authority that a rakosh wasn't completely of this earth, but he didn't want to get into that here. "Let's just say anything is possible where this thing is concerned."

"Even altering memories?"

Jack shrugged. "Nothing connected with that creature would surprise me."

Nadia looked at Jack, then at her mug. "Why did I pour this? I was too jumpy for coffee before and I'm way too wound up now." She half turned toward the door, then rotated back. "Do you want it?"

He'd already had a couple of cups, but it was always a shame to waste good coffee.

"How'd you make it?"

"Just black."

"Add a couple of sugars and I'll take it off your hands."

Nadia emptied two packets into the mug, then handed it to him. He noticed her hand was trembling. Looked like the last thing she needed now was caffeine.

"The good news is it's dying," he said.

"Dying?" Her hands flew to her face. "Oh, God! That's why he wants me to stabilize the molecule! He's going to lose his source!"

"And soon, I think."

"Dragovic's behind it all. He's forcing Dr. Monnet to do this. I know it, I know it, I know it."

"I don't," Jack said. He sipped his coffee: good and strong, the way he liked it. "And besides, Mr. Dragovic has other matters to occupy his mind at the moment."

Nadia brightened. "Yes! I heard about that." She narrowed her eyes as she looked at Jack. "You wouldn't happen to have anything to do with his troubles, would you?"

"His troubles are with the law and his image," Jack said and drank some more coffee.

"Anyway," Nadia said. "We've got to stop him, stop the drug."

"What do you mean 'we'?"

"All right, you. I wouldn't know—" She stopped as Jack began shaking his head. "What's wrong?"

"I don't do drugs… other than caffeine"—he hefted the NADJ mug—"and ethanol, that is."

"Well, good… great…"

"But what I mean is I don't sell them and I don't stop other people from selling them."

"But Dragovic's forcing—"

"You don't know if Dragovic's forcing anything, Doc."

"All right then, forget force. The thing is, Dragovic has somehow involved himself in GEM and GEM is somehow behind this Berzerk poison."

"Which people are buying and ingesting of their own free will."

Nadia turned and stared at Jack, disbelief scrawled across her face. "Don't tell me you approve."

"I think drugs are stupid as all hell, and I think people who drug themselves up are dumb asses, but people have a right to control their own bloodstreams. If they want to pollute them, that's their business. I'm not a public nanny."

"You mean if you saw someone selling Berzerk to a twelve-year-old, you wouldn't do anything?"

"Never been there, but I might break his arms."

Jack thought of Vicky. And maybe his legs. And his face.

Nadia smiled. "So you would make it your business."

"We were talking adults before. Now we're talking kids. I'm not into crusades, but certain things I will not abide in my sight."

She cocked her head and stared at him. "Abide… that's a strange word from you."

"How so?"

"It's something I'd expect to hear from a southerner, and you're very much a northeasterner."

Good ear, Jack thought. "A man who taught me some things used to use that word."

She looked as if she wanted to pursue that but changed her mind. Good.

"But back to Dragovic. His customers are committing crimes because of what he's selling them."

"And going to jail for them." Jack finished his coffee and stood. "As for me, I believe I've seen enough of Dr. Monnet and Mr. Dragovic for a long time."

"But it's not finished."

Jack sighed. "Yeah, it is. You wanted to know the connection between Dragovic and Monnet. It's this drug. You wanted to know what Dragovic has over Monnet: nothing. They're in this together, as in partners."

"I can't believe that."

"Monnet's the guy who discovered the stuff, he's the guy who's testing the stuff, and if you take a trip out the GEM plant in Brooklyn I bet you find he's manufacturing the stuff. Be objective for just two seconds, Doc, and there's no other conclusion."

Nadia half sat, half leaned on the desk and stared at the floor, saying nothing. Jack didn't like the job of telling her that her hero had clay tootsies, especially with her fiance missing…

"Tell you what, though," he said. "I'll ask around, see who's been boosting in the DUMBO area, and find out if anybody knows anything about Sunday night."

She looked up and smiled for the first time since he'd arrived. "Will you? I'd really appreciate it."

Jack left her with at least a little hope. He emerged onto Seventeenth Street with the morning sun warming the air and the traffic back full force after the holiday. Had the rest of the day pretty much to himself. So why not drop in on Gia? Vicky would be off to school by now. That meant they'd have the house to themselves.

Yeah.

Started walking east. Passing Stuyvesant Square he wondered if its heavy-duty spear-topped wrought-iron fence was meant to keep people out or in. Came to a cluster of medical buildings and wove through a throng of people in white coats with stethoscopes draped around their necks like feather boas. Why wear them out on the street?

Wassamatta? he thought. Afraid someone won't know you're a doctor? His irritation surprised him.

Hung a left onto First Avenue when he reached the faded brick slabs of Stuyvesant Village. Gia was about forty blocks uptown from here. A cab would be faster but he decided to walk it. Felt so full of energy—Nadia's coffee must have been superstrong—he'd be there in no time.

He was a good walker, had a stride that ate up distance. Strode up the east side of the avenue—one long strip mall—until he reached the Bellevue-NYU medical complex where every damn building seemed to be named after someone. That annoyed the hell out of him for some reason.

After he passed through the shadow of the brooding hulk of the Con Ed power plant, the street opened up into the UN Plaza with its big Secretariat building looking like something out of 2001, towering over the sway-backed block of the General Assembly.

Jack remembered posing as a tourist in there last summer while following one of the Indian diplomats all over town. What a load of bullshit he'd had to suffer through while waiting for Kusum to leave. Tempted to make a detour right now, stop in there this very minute and tell them how to get their act together. First thing he'd have them do was move the big tombstone of the Secretariat, maybe lay it on its side so it didn't block the morning sun when he was walking by, or at the very least cut a hole in its center to let some light through.

Later. Maybe he'd straighten them out this afternoon. Right now he felt too damn good to waste even a second of this beautiful morning on those jerks.

But the flags—all these goddamn flags really bothered him. Rows of flags, blocks of flags, flags everywhere, wasting enough fabric to clothe most of Bangladesh. Reached into his pocket and grabbed his knife. Had a big-time urge to run up to those poles and start cutting the ropes—free the flags!

But no… take too long. Especially with Gia home alone. She was waiting for him, he knew. Jack was sure she could feel his approach, his growing proximity.

Moved on, passing a statue of Saint George killing some stupid-looking dragon on the other side of the fence, and there in the bushes, was that an elephant, a brown elephant? And then it was all blending together and then reversing direction and he felt like he was coming apart, pieces of him floating away, sailing into the air and then curving and boomeranging back to reassemble and fuse into something new and wonderful, the new Jack, King of the City.

After all, wasn't it known as New Jack City?

Energy bloomed in him as he picked up his pace. No matter that it was uphill all the way, he was strong, stronger, strongest. Came to Fifty-fourth and cut east one more block to Sutton Place South where he had a beautiful view of the sparkling East River. God, he loved this city, his city. Hadn't been born here, but that was OK. Meant he wasn't here by some accident of nature but here by choice. He'd come here and made it his own, explored every nook and cranny, knew highborn and low and every sort between. Owned this city, man, and no one was going to tell him any different.

Gia knew that, and that was why she loved him. And he loved her because she knew that.

Wait…

Jack shook his head. Did that make sense?

Sure it did. Of course it did. Wouldn't have thought it if it didn't.

Breaking a light sweat, heavier in the small of his back where the Glock 19 rested in its nylon holster, and more around his ankle where he'd strapped the Semmerling, but he needed those guns, needed them because there were people in his city, not many but always a few, who might try to take the city away from him and make it their own, so he had to be vigilant, ever vigilant.

But not today, no worry about that today, because it was all his today and he felt great. Laughed aloud.

"Top o' da world, Ma!"

Guy coming the other way gave him a strange look but Jack glared at him, daring him to say something, anything, to say one single goddamn word. Guy looked away.

Smart. Nobody gives me looks in my city.

Felt a growing pressure in his groin as he turned into Sutton Square. Something flitted through his head, a thought about looking out for a car, a car with two men, but it was a slippery thought and avoided his grasp every time he reached for it.

Who cared about cars anyway. All he cared about now was getting to Gia. Gia-Gia-Gia. Oh, this was going to be good, so very-very good. Do it in the kitchen, do it in the living room, and maybe even in bed. Dodo-do. All day, and all afternoon until Vicky came home. Then he'd take them both out on the town, his town, and show them a great time, the best time of their lives, the kind of time only he could show them.

Knocked on the door. Couldn't wait to see the joy beaming from Gia's face when she pulled it open and saw him, joy that would quickly turn to lust. And then he heard a child's voice, Vicky's, shouting on the far side of the door…

"Mom! It's Jack! Jack's here!"

And suddenly a cloud moved over his sun and sucked all the heat from his body.

Vicky was home. Gia wouldn't… she'd never… not with Vicky around.

"Jack!" Gia said, her smile bright as she opened the door. "What a surprise!"

"Yeah," he said through his teeth. Tried to force a smile but couldn't, just couldn't. Could do just about anything in this city of his, but right now he couldn't smile. Stepped through the door. "Some surprise."

"Hi, Jack!" Vicky said, looking up at him with a big happy stupid grin.

Ignored her and turned to Gia. "What's she doing home?"

"She's got a sore throat and a cough." Gia's smile was gone and she was looking at him strangely.

"Doesn't look sick."

"Yeah, I got a bad cough," Vicky said. "Wanna hear it?" She started hacking.

Jack wanted to belt her—one backhand swipe to knock her into the next room. She was ruining everything. Maybe he ought to just grab Gia right here and do it in the foyer, right in front of Vicky. Be a good lesson for her.

"Is something wrong, Jack?" Gia said, concern growing in her eyes as she stared at him.

"Wrong?" he said, feeling fury building like a thunderhead in his skull. "Yeah, there's plenty wrong. First off, you coddle this kid too much—"

"Jack!"

"Don't interrupt me!" he said, his voice rising. "I hate to be interrupted."

"Jack, what on earth's wrong with you?"

There, she'd done it again. Interrupted him. She'd never learn, would she. Only one way to handle someone like that.

He balled a fist and raised his arm—

"Jack!"

The terror in Gia's eyes as she cringed away hit him like a kick in the gut, a bucket of ice water in the face…

What am I doing? What's happening to me? Jeez, I was just about to punch Gia. What—?

And then in a flash of clarity Jack knew, and the realization struck like a knife through his skull.

Somehow, someway, he'd been dosed with Berzerk. The when and the where didn't matter right now. First thing he had to do was get out of here. Couldn't be with anybody, especially not Gia and Vicky.

Get… out!

Fighting panic, he turned toward the door. Remembered his guns—had to dump them. Mix a 9mm and a .45 with a snootful of Berzerk and a lot of people could wind up dead. Reached under the back of his T-shirt and pulled the Glock from its SOB holster, then ripped the Semmerling, leather straps and all, from his ankle. Shoved them into Gia's hands, then added his knife… and his wallet.

Immediately something made him want to snatch them back, pushed him to reach for them. What—was he crazy, giving his money and beloved weapons to this woman?

Forced himself to step back, to grit out words, "Something's wrong. Take these. Gotta go. Explain later."

She stared at him wide-eyed with fright and confusion. "What—?"

Didn't dare risk another word, another second here. Hanging onto control by his fingertips, could feel it wriggling away from him. Could maintain this grip only so long before it slipped away again. Wanted—needed—to be as far as possible from here when it did. Turned and ran out the door.

4

"Let's go," Vuk said, reaching into his coat.

Ivo shook his head. He didn't want to do this. "Wait a bit. Maybe he'll come out."

They'd parked in a BMW 750iL up the gentle slope of Fifty-eighth Street from where they had a narrow-angle view of the door. A purely residential block. Not a single store and few pedestrians. They'd been here only a few minutes when they saw their man arrive on foot and enter the town house.

"And maybe he won't." Vuk took out his pistol, his tried-and-true 7.62mm M57 semiautomatic, and checked the action. "You heard what Dragovic said. If we see him, we take him and bring him in."

Ivo licked his dry lips. "The woman and child might be there."

"Hope so." He checked his bleached hair in the rear-view mirror. "She's a beauty."

Ivo's palms were slick against the steering wheel. He'd sworn that his days of killing noncombatants were over. Vuk didn't care. Ivo doubted Vuk had ever given a second thought to what he'd done in Kosovo. He had to find a way to delay this.

"We need silencers," he said, grasping at the first idea to dart through his head. "Even a single shot in a neighborhood like this will bring the police."

"We'll have to risk it." Vuk reached for the door. "If we move fast enough, it won't matter."

Ivo grabbed his arm. "Wait."

He was trying desperately to think of something to say when movement by the town house caught his eye. The man was out again, almost running from the door.

"There he is!" he said, hoping the gush of relief was not apparent in his voice. "Moving fast."

"Don't let him out of your sight."

Ivo started the car and reached for the shift, then stopped. "He's coming this way."

The man broke into a jog as he crossed Sutton Place and started up the sidewalk.

"Coming right to us," Vuk said with a grin. "Perfect."

Ivo left the car in park and studied the approaching man. This was the first time he'd had a chance to see him since their brief encounter on the beach last week, and he looked… different. His expression was strange, somewhere between panic and rage. But his eyes… they'd been so mild last week. Now they were wild.

"Ready," Vuk said. The man would pass on his side. "You move when I do."

Ivo checked the street. Light traffic, only one or two pedestrians and none close by. When the man came to within a car length of their vehicle, Vuk opened his door. Ivo jumped out on the street side, drawing his own weapon, a FEG FP9, holding it low as he came around the rear bumper. He didn't chamber a round until Vuk had his weapon pointed at the man's chest.

"Into the car!" Vuk said.

Ivo pulled open the rear door with his free hand as the man skidded to a halt.

"What?" the man said.

"You heard!" Vuk said, gesturing with his pistol.

"You're the jerks from the beach. What are you doing in my city?"

"In!" Vuk lowered his barrel and pointed it at the man's legs. "Inside or I shoot your knees and drag you in."

The man's wild eyes darted from Vuk's gun to the one in Ivo's hand, then back again. No fear there or in his expression, just a brief baring of the teeth, very much like a snarl as he moved toward the open door. Ivo glanced around as he stepped back to let him in. No one was paying them any attention. Yet.

"Stop right there," Vuk said. He did a quick pat-down and grinned at Ivo when he found the empty SOB holster. "I think we have our man." To the man: "Where is your gun?"

"Home."

"Good place for it." Vuk shoved the man into the seat on the passenger side. "Do not move a muscle."

Ivo covered him while Vuk ran around to the other side and got in. He sat in the rear, facing their captive, while Ivo returned to the driver seat. Safe behind the wheel again, he let loose a breath he'd been holding. No one had noticed them. The whole operation had taken perhaps thirty seconds.

"So," Vuk said as Ivo pulled from the parking space, "you are man who wrecked our cars, yes?"

"Your cars?" the man said. "If you bring a car into my city, it's my car."

"Who are you?"

"You know very well who I am. I am Moreau. Dr. Moreau. Dr. Jack Moreau. I created you."

Something wrong here, Ivo thought. The man on the beach didn't talk crazy like this.

He adjusted the rearview mirror. The brown eyes flashed toward him, strangely glittering eyes. The eyes of a madman. Fear began to nibble at Ivo's gut. He felt like someone who had set a possum trap and wound up with a bear.

What have we let into our car?

"So it was you," Vuk said.

The man was shaking his head. "The beast flesh… the stubborn beast flesh creeping back."

"Stop talking like fool. First you make fool of our boss, then you try to make fool of my friend Ivo and me too, yes?"

The traffic light on Sutton Place turned green as Ivo approached. He made a right and stopped at the red at Fifty-seventh.

"Ivo?" the man said to Vuk. "What kind of name is that? I didn't name him that when I created him from a dog. And you. I created you from a donkey, I think. An ass. But I did not give you that hair color. And why would I try to make a fool out of you when you do such a good job of it by trying to look like a carrot? Don't you own a mirror?"

Ivo could hear the strain in Vuk's voice. "I can shoot off your knees now, but that would mean I have to carry you inside to speak to our boss, and later I have to clean up the mess. But once we are inside, the boss will want you to speak, and I will be very happy to be one to make sure you tell everything he wish to know."

Ivo crossed Fifty-seventh, keeping as much of a watch in his rearview as he did through the windshield.

"You would do well not to anger me by breaking the Law," the man said. "You remember the Law, don't you? Are you not men? Has the stubborn beast flesh crept back so far that you've forgotten the law? Break the Law and it's off to the House of Pain with you. I told you: I am Moreau."

"You are no one," Vuk said. "You are nothing. But you somehow manage to find yourself a fine-looking woman. Do you know what will happen after our boss is through with you? Ivo and I are going to come back and pay little visit to your woman. We are going to fuck her."

What is Vuk doing? Ivo wondered, anxiety building like a pressure in his chest. Why is he taunting him? Doesn't he see the man's eyes? Can't he tell that he's completely insane?

And an insane man is capable of anything.

As Ivo turned onto Fifty-fifth he said, "I think that's enough for now."

"No, Ivo. Not nearly enough. I want him to know how we will take turns with his woman and how she will love it because she has never had real man before. And then perhaps we move on to little girl."

Ivo felt the air within the car thicken, become charged, as if lightning were readying a strike.

"Vuk, please!"

"Vuk?" The man laughed. "That's a name? Sounds like someone puking. But I guess it goes with the rest of you, donkey-man. Dumb name, dumb hair, dumb ass."

Ivo sensed sudden movement behind him and knew, just knew that Vuk was swinging his pistol at the man's face. And he saw the burst of triumph in the captive's eyes that said this was just what he had been waiting for.

"Vuk, no!"

Ivo yanked the wheel to the right and slammed on the brakes. As the car lurched to a halt he pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster. But it was too late.

He heard the man roar, "You turn upon your creator?" The shot from the rear seat sounded like a cannon as warm droplets sprayed the back of Ivo's neck. "You two are beyond salvage!"

Ivo had his pistol on the rise, about chest high, and was swinging his head around when the muzzle of Vuk's M57 appeared, an inch from his right eye. As he gazed down that narrow tunnel to eternity, a flash bloomed in his vision and all became bright white light, engulfing him, consuming him.

5

Half blind with rage, he jumps out and aims Carrot Top's pistol at the car. Occupants already dead, which is just what they should be for threatening to harm his women.

A vagrant thought intrudes: Wasn't I just thinking of harming them myself a few minutes ago? but he brushes it aside. Yeah but that was different. What I do is one thing. Doesn't mean anybody else can do the same.

Took a supreme effort of his magnificent will not to tear their heads off as soon as they'd accosted him. But he wanted to give them a chance to redeem themselves.

After all, he created them, and he is nothing if not a benign creator.

He is Moreau. Dr. Jack Moreau.

No fear is the key. A lesser being would have been afraid of the gun and the manlike thing holding it, but not him. He has no fear, and no fear means no hesitation, means no self-doubt, means simply doing what must be done, taking what you want when you want it with full knowledge that you can do it and that none of these lesser beings has the right or the means to stop you.

Oh, he was good in that car, so good, so fast, so much faster than the two creatures who dared to oppose him. But why should he be surprised? After all, hadn't he created them, transformed them from lower species? A shame to waste them, but they were reverting to their lower forms, the beast flesh had crept back so far that they forgot the Law, and forgetting the Law is punishable by death.

No, wait. Breaking the Law means a trip back to the House of Pain. Not death. He must have forgot. Oh, well.

So the manlike things he created are good and dead, but the Beamer must die too. Belongs to an enemy, someone who wants to take the city away from him. Can't send the car to the House of Pain, so he must execute it.

He pulls the trigger, shooting wildly, punching hole after hole in the fenders. Aware of screams, only a few, from up and down the street, and fleeing people dart through his peripheral vision, but he keeps yanking on the trigger.

Suddenly a wall of flame erupts from the rear of the car, knocking him off his feet and searing him with a blast of heat, peppering him with flying glass.

Half-dazed, he struggles to his knees, blinking, coughing, then to his feet. Notices that the dark hair on his arms is singed into tight, tiny pale curls and the skin is scorched and blackened. His shirt is torn and he's bleeding from a couple of spots on his already scarred chest. Shakes his head to clear the buzzing from his ears.

Across the street the Beamer is toast. Dead. Not merely dead, but clearly and sincerely dead, or however that goes. An evil devil witch car burning at the stake.

A weight in his hand. Carrot Top's gun—some sort of Tokarev clone. Barely remembers how he got it. Stares at the pistol. The slide is back, the empty chamber exposed. Spare clip's got to be in the car, which means this thing's no good to him anymore. Tosses it into the burning heap and looks around.

Where is he? Some sort of high-rise apartment building canyon. Oh, yeah. Mid-fifties—near Gia's. He spots a taxi stopped down the slope from the burning Beamer. Driver is twisted around. Seems to be trying to back up but the cars stacked behind him are preventing it.

Jack starts walking toward the cab. Driver turns and sees him. Eyes widen in his dark face and he tries to wave Jack off.

A cab, in my city, not wanting to give me a ride? What's happening around here? Has everyone gone crazy?

Keeps walking toward the cab. Driver has stopped waving. Doesn't appear to be the kind who believes in crosses, but from the look on his face if he had one he'd probably be holding it up to ward off this burnt-up and torn-up guy walking his way. Seems about to put the car in gear—Don't even think about it—then changes his mind. Jumps out and runs back toward First Avenue.

Jack stops and watches him go. Now doesn't that beat all. What's wrong with people today? First furious impulse is to run after the little bastard and teach him some manners, but the cab is before him, engine idling, driver door standing open almost like an invitation.

Looks like I'll have to drive myself.

But when he gets in he has second thoughts. Front section of the cab looks like a landfill—empty twenty-ounce Diet Pepsi and Mountain Dew bottles roll, Snickers and Dove Bar and peanut butter cracker wrappers flutter, and scattered all across the floor is a good half-inch layer of empty pistachio shells. Radio's playing some awful song in a foreign language—Farsi?—but at least the radio's still there. Can't say the same about the air bag; its compartment in the steering wheel is a gaping toothless mouth—either somebody stole it or it deployed sometime in the dim dark past and the driver never replaced it.

This is not, repeat, not suitable transportation for someone of Dr. Jack Moreau's stature but it's all he's got at the moment. Grabs the sticky gearshift, rams it into drive, and starts to move.

Wait. Move where?

Out of the city, zips through his brain. Out of the city—fast.

Doesn't remember why he should want to leave the city, but the idea is there, and it's insistent. But where out of the city?

Rage blooms anew as Jack passes the burning Beamer. He knows who owns it. Dragovic. That Serb bastard sent those two gooney boys to kidnap him and bring him—where? To his place in the Hamptons, of course, the place Jack trashed.

Now Jack knows where he's going.

"You want a face-to-face, Dragovic?" he shouts to the streaked windshield as he heads for the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. "You got it!"

Rearview mirror is angled toward him and he starts when he sees a stranger in it. Face in the mirror is blackened with soot, eyebrows and hairline singed. And then he realizes the face is his own.

"Damn you, Dragovic!" he shouts, pounding the steering wheel. "You're gonna pay for this!"

Soon as Jack hits the bridge he puts his foot in the tank and cranks up the speed. Taxi doesn't exactly leap ahead, but it moves. Sunlight seems extra bright, but the birds fly more lazily than usual, and the other cars around him seem slow and ponderous, as if time is passing at a different rate for them.

Then it comes to him. He's not Moreau. He's gone beyond Moreau. His reflexes are superhuman now. He may have a crummy ride, but his newfound powers can more than compensate. He is a new deity.

King of the Road.

Traffic's not so heavy in this direction—most of it's heading into his city—but still pretty thick. The King begins weaving in and out, darting into openings where mere mortals would not dare, earning angry honks and gestures as he cuts across lanes and threads narrow divides.

Screw 'em.

Sees daylight ahead, a nice long stretch of open left lane, and the only thing blocking him from that direct line to infinity is a dark blue Volvo. Jack pulls up behind, riding its bumper. Sees the driver, a woman, idly twirling her hair with a finger as she dallies along in the lane, oblivious to him.

"Lay-deeee!" he shouts, honking. "King of the Road to lay-deeee! Listen to Joan Hamburg in another lane!"

But she makes no move to get over, gives no sign that she's even aware of the King's presence, and this only ups his rage.

He's boxed in, can't go around her, so he leans on the horn.

"Lay-deeeeeeeeeee!" He feels like he's gonna explode now and he's shouting through clenched teeth. "Stop twirling your goddamn hair and get outta the King's way!"

But still no move to the side, let alone acknowledgement of his existence.

That does it. Jack stomps the gas pedal and it feels good, it feels so good when he rams her rear fender.

That gets her attention. The woman jumps as her car swerves left, then right. She glances quickly over her shoulder. Got both hands on the wheel now and she knows, goddamn does she know, that the King is on her tail.

"Move! Move!" he's shouting as he waves his arm to the right.

But still she hangs in the lane, no blinker, no nothing. Jack leans on the horn and hits the gas again. She must see him coming because this time she swerves right just in time.

"Finally!"

As he pulls parallel he wants to sideswipe her, wants to slam into her lousy Volvo and send it careening all the way across the lanes—bam!—into and over the guardrail. And he should; he really should. As King of the Road he owes it to the other drivers on the bridge, owes it to other drivers everywhere in his asphalt domain to send her into screaming free fall, let her drink a little eau du East River, but he can't spare the time. For there's a larger blot on his world, a dark festering sore on the eastern horizon, a foul smudge named Dragovic, and it's Jack's divinely ordained mission to journey to East Hampton and clean it up.

So instead of ramming her he scoots by. You are spared, lady—this time. In his rearview he sees she's got a cell phone to her ear.

That's right, lady; call the cops. Call the fire department. Call anyone you want. Tell them the King of the Road moved you out of the left lane but spared your life. They'll just tell you how lucky you are. So learn from this, lady: the King catches you squatting in the left lane again, no more Mr. Nice Guy.

Makes good time from there and even does well on Queens Boulevard for a while, but he's still seething—at the woman, at the men who tried to kidnap him, at Dragovic, at all the damn cars on the road. Hates them all with equal intensity, which he's dimly aware shouldn't be, but somehow is.

But he's OK. Got it all under control. Saving it for Dragovic.

Then comes a traffic tie-up. Construction on Queens Boulevard, just before the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. At least the sign says construction but Jack can't see a single soul working. No matter, the barriers are up, and all traffic has to funnel down to one lane.

Which has Jack steaming. If there was a way to drive this cab over the tops of the cars in front of him he would, but he's got to wait in line and crawl and merge, and then crawl and merge again. So humiliating for a king. Has to close his eyes and take deep breaths every so often to keep from ripping the steering wheel off the column.

A quarter-mile ahead he can see the cars cruising along the BQE overpass and he longs to be up there. Not much farther now. Just a few more car lengths and he can be up there too. A short jog south will put him on the LIE; he'll be trucking toward the Hamptons and Dragovic in no time. But right now he's got to—

Suddenly this big brand-new black Mercedes is angling into the gap in front of him.

"Where'd you come from?"

Obviously it scooted down the shoulder on Jack's left and cut in front of him while he was staring at the overpass. Jack is confounded… can't believe someone would do this to the King.

Instantly the world takes on this cranberry tint.

Venting an inarticulate cry somewhere between a scream and a growl, Jack hits the pedal and rams the Merc's front passenger door. The Merc rocks back and forth. And while the driver, vaguely visible through the tinted glass, is staring his way in shock, Jack reverses a couple of feet, angles the wheel a little left, and caves in the rear passenger door, but harder. Then he kicks open his door and jumps out of his cab.

Behind him he hears cheers and applause from other drivers, but he ignores them. He's focused on this son-of-a-bitch with his blow-dried salt-and-pepper hair and his multi-thousand-dollar suit getting out of his Mercedes, guy who thinks he's gonna give the King some attitude. Well, listen, buddy, you don't know attitude, you've never seen, never dreamed attitude like you're gonna get right now.

Guy's eyes widen at his first glimpse of Jack, probably because with his singed hair, scorched skin, and torn bloody clothing he must look like someone who's just walked through a burning building for fun. And of course the fact that Jack is screaming and his outstretched hands are curved into claws does not make him look particularly amiable.

"You think 'cause you drive a Mercedes you can just cut in front of anybody whenever you damn well please? 'Snooze, you lose'—is that what you were thinking? Well this time you cut off the King of the Road and you do not ever cut off the King of the fucking Road!"

Jack jumps up on the Merc's trunk and comes for the driver. Wants to tear this guy apart with his bare hands and can see by the look on the guy's face, florid outrage blanching to oh-shit-what-have-I-got-myself-into? pallor, that the guy knows it. Leaps onto the car roof and slides across feetfirst as the guy ducks back in behind the wheel. Driver door is closing but Jack catches its upper edge with both sneakers, kicking it back open.

Now he's down inside the door with his feet on the pavement, pulling the guy out of the car, and the guy's kicking and clawing at Jack, whimpering please don't hurt him and how it was a mistake, a dumb careless mistake, and he's sorry, he's so terribly sorry.

Yeah, now you're sorry, Mr. Mercedes, but you weren't sorry a minute ago, were you, no, you weren't sorry at all then, and Jack wants to punch his face in but the guy proceeds to wet his pants and that's so pathetic and now he's burping and gagging and oh jeez he's gonna puke.

Jack turns the guy a quick one-eighty and lets him blow breakfast onto the concrete divider. Not gonna punch him out now, not with barf all over him.

All right, tell you what, Mr. Mercedes, we're gonna do a little trade, you and me. That's right, I'm going to be Mr. Mercedes now and you're gonna be Mr. Cabbie. Either that or you're gonna walk from here to wherever you're going.

Jack shoves him and sends him stumbling away, then gets in. Have a nice day. Slams the Merc into gear and peels rubber into the space that's opened up in the logjam while they've been having their little discussion. Smells good in here and it's cool. These are the sort of wheels he should always have, a full flash ride—except for the annoying little seat belt warning light. If he had one of his guns right now he'd shoot it out.

Seat belt? The King of the Road doesn't wear a seat belt.

Ooh, and looky here. Nifty little black driving gloves.

Slips them on, like a second skin, and thirty seconds later he's in the clear, gunning for the ramp to the BQE. And just like he knew, takes him no time to reach the Long Island Expressway. Once on that it's clear sailing.

Gets the Merc up to eighty and he's rolling maybe fifteen minutes like this when the sign for the Glen Cove Road exit looms large in the windshield—coming up in two miles.

Whoa. Glen Cove Road. That's the way to Monroe. And Monroe's where that dumb-ass freak show's keeping big bad Scar-lip the rakosh caged up.

Jack slips his hand inside his torn shirt and fingers the three thick scars that ridge the scorched skin of his chest. Scar-lip scars. Never paid back the big ugly for these. Matter of fact, went and stopped those two carny guys from poking him. Why the hell'd he do that? What was he thinking? Scar-lip scarred him—scarred the King. Can't let something like that go. What would people say? Got to go back and straighten it out, and now's as good a time as any. Yes, sir, overdue for a little side trip to kick some rakosh donkey.

Jack yanks the wheel to the right, cutting off a Lincoln and a Chevy as he zips across three lanes to the exit. But the going on Glen Cove Road is a lot slower. Pushes it as much as he can with his dodge-and-weave thing and makes decent time, but then the divided highway ends and it's down to two-lane blacktopville and he's steaming because nobody knows how to drive around here.

Hey, it's not Sunday afternoon you jerks so move your fat automotive asses or get off a my road!

And so he's riding bumpers, leaning on the horn, blinking his high beams, pushing the yellow traffic lights to the max, and zipping through a couple of reds until he sees other red lights, the bubble-gum kind, flashing in his rearview mirror.

A hick Glen Cove cop. Obviously he doesn't know who he's dealing with. You don't pull over the King of the Road.

Jack ignores him for a few blocks but then the guy has the nerve to hit his siren. Just a single woop but it sets off a rage bomb in Jack. Time to set this fool straight. Instead of slowing, Jack speeds up. Not too fast—doing forty in a twenty-five—but enough to make it plain that this big black Mercedes is giving Offissa Pupp an automotive single-digit salute.

Jack can't see the cop's face but he's got to be pissed because he's cranked his siren up to full blast now and not only are his flashers doing the dervish but his headlights are strobing like it's disco time as he crawls up the butt of Jack's Mercedes.

You like driving close? How's this?

Jack presses back against the headrest as he slams on the brakes and is jolted as the cop car plows into his rear bumper. Jack pauses long enough to see the cop disappear behind a billow of white; then he roars off, laughing.

Eat hot flaming air bag, Deputy Dawg!

But a mile or so farther on he's got another wooping flashing Glen Cove policemobile on his tail and it doesn't seem to matter that Jack's in Monroe now; the cop keeps coming. Jack speeds up, hoping to catch this guy same as the last, but Cop One must've put out the word because Cop Two hangs back. Jack's slowing down and speeding up, trying to reel him in, and maybe just maybe he's paying too much attention to the rear-view, because when he focuses back through the windshield during the next speedup he sees this Pacer driven by an Oriental dude turning in front of him so he stands on the brake and hauls the steering wheel left and skids across the road and everything would be fine except this brand new Chevy Suburban the size of Yonkers is barreling down the other lane and it catches him broadside like a high-velocity ninety-thousand-caliber hardball, flipping the Merc onto its side and bouncing Jack in half a dozen directions at once around the front compartment. He's a human pinball between a set of power bumpers and as he sees the front right windshield post coming in fast for a face kiss he remembers the seat-belt warning light with sudden wistful fondness; then memory and consciousness take a breather…

6

Luc fidgeted anxiously in his chair in his book-lined study and decided he could put it off no longer. He'd stayed home today but had been checking the employee sign-in list at the GEM offices via his home computer. Nadia's name was still absent.

He glanced at his watch. Almost eleven. If she hadn't signed in by now, she wasn't going to. Time to call the clinic. He punched in the number.

"Diabetes clinic," said a woman's voice.

"Yes. Is Dr. Radzminsky there?"

"No. She's gone for the day."

"Do you know when she left?"

"Who's calling, please?"

"This is Dr. Monnet. She works for me as a researcher."

"Of course. She's mentioned you."

Has she? I wonder what she said.

"Well, she hasn't shown up for work yet and I was wondering…"

Luc listened patiently while the receptionist related how Dr. Radzminsky was upset because of her fiance's disappearance and so on, and he made properly sympathetic noises. The important thing here was to establish his concern for a missing employee.

After learning that Nadia had left later than usual—almost nine-thirty—Luc told the receptionist to ask her to please call his office immediately should she return.

He leaned back and sipped his coffee and thought of Nadia's coffee. Undoubtedly she'd drunk from her NADJ mug by now and was presently wandering about somewhere, firmly in the grip of Loki madness.

Luc sighed with relief and a touch of regret as he wondered where she was and what she was doing. He confessed to a certain professional curiosity as to what behaviors the Loki would bring out in a sweet, even-tempered person like Nadia. He remembered reading about a meek mousy little housewife who, after taking a heavy dose from a well-meaning friend, cut her abusive husband to ribbons. Nothing so gory from Nadia, he hoped. Just enough to get her arrested and charged… and her credibility ruined.

He rose and returned to the living room. He surveyed the crates of wine neatly stacked and ready for shipment. He'd personally packed every one of them. Only four more to go.

He glanced at the television and saw that Headline News was replaying the Dragovic videotape. Luc had already seen it three times but he sat down now, eager for a fourth viewing. He could not help grinning at the close-up of Dragovic firing wildly at the Coast Guard helicopter. Oh, this was delicious, utterly delicious.

He tried to imagine how small, how utterly humiliated Dragovic must feel right now and could not. He wondered who was behind this marvelous prank. Whoever he was, Luc could kiss him.

Much as he would dearly love to search the channels for more replays, he had to keep moving. The calendar on this, his last day in America, was pretty well filled. He had to finish packing the very last of his wine before the shippers arrived at three. Once the cases were safely on their way to France, he would have an early dinner, his last in New York, and then head out to the airport. A tingle of anticipation ran up the center of his chest. He was booked first class on the ten o'clock to Charles de Gaulle. A mere eleven hours and—

The phone rang. Luc checked the caller ID. If it was anyone from GEM, especially his partners, they could talk to his voice mail. His heart dropped a beat when he saw "N. Radzminsky" on the readout. He snatched up the receiver.

"Hello?" His suddenly dry mouth made his voice sound strange.

"Dr. Monnet, this is Nadia. I tried your office but—"

"Yes, Nadia. How are you?"

The question was not conversational routine—he truly wanted to know.

"I'm terrible," she said, her voice edging toward a sob. "I just got back from Brooklyn after spending an hour in the Eighty-fourth Precinct talking to the police. They've got no leads on Doug."

She sounded upset, her voice quavering, but she was undeniably rational. How could mat be? The Loki…

"I'm so sorry, Nadia. Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes," she said, a hint of steel creeping into her voice. "I just got off the subway and I'm two blocks from you. I've got a few things I want to talk to you about."

Dear God! Coming here? No, she couldn't! She'd see the boxed-up wine, she'd guess—

"I-I was just leaving. Can't we—?"

"This isn't going to wait." Her voice grew more sharply edged. "Either I get answers from you or I have my new friends at the Eight-four do the asking."

Luc dropped into a chair, his heart thudding, the living room spinning. Was this the way her dose of Loki was taking her? Whatever the case, he could not allow her up here.

"I don't understand this. You sound so upset. I'll meet you outside. We can talk while I wait for a cab."

"All right," she said, then cut the connection.

Luc was wearing a light sweater and slacks. He threw on a blue blazer and hurried to meet her. He reached the sidewalk just as Nadia arrived. She wore a shapeless beige raincoat and looked terrible—puffy face, red-rimmed eyes—but not deranged.

But just in case…

"Walk with me," he said, taking her arm and guiding her up Eighty-seventh, away from his building. "What do you think I can tell you?"

"You can tell me if you had anything to do with Doug's disappearance."

Luc almost tripped. His first attempt at speech failed. On his second he managed, "What? How… how can you ask such a thing?"

"Because Doug knew things. He hacked into your company computers. He found out where your R and D funds were going."

"I had no idea!" Did he look surprised enough? "Why on earth—?"

"And I know things too. I know that Loki is being sold on the street. And I know you're involved with Milos Dragovic."

He glanced around at the lunchtime crowds beginning to fill the streets. "Please, Nadia. Not so loud!"

"All right," she said, lowering her voice a trifle. "But tell me… let me hear it straight from your lips: did you have anything to do with Doug's disappearance?"

"No! Absolutely not!"

Panic sent his thoughts caroming through his brain. Oh, dear God, she knows about Dragovic, about Berzerk and all the rest! How can this be happening? Not now! Not when I am almost free!

"How about Dragovic?" she said.

Think! Think! Think!

"Nadia, one of the downsides of going public is that anyone can buy your company's stock. Unfortunately, Mr. Dragovic owns a large block of ours and—"

"What's his relationship with you?"

Luc felt as if he were on the witness stand, being grilled by a prosecutor.

"It is very complicated, and I will explain it in full to you someday if you like, but suffice it to say that Mr. Dragovic could not be involved in Douglas's troubles because I doubt very much he even knows Douglas exists."

A long pause. They'd reached the corner of Lexington; he guided her left… downtown… toward her home… away from his neighborhood.

Finally she said, "I think I'm going to have to go to the police about Dragovic."

No!

Luc fought to keep the panic out of his voice. "Please don't be precipitous, Nadia. You will cause much misery and embarrassment for many people, and none of it will bring back your Douglas one minute sooner."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"Please give it a little more time, Nadia—at least until tonight, I beg you. Milos Dragovic is a vile, vile man, but I swear to you by all I hold holy he has no connection to Douglas. And if you've been watching the television at all, you must know he's had other matters on his mind."

Another pause, longer this time, then Nadia closed her eyes and breathed a deep, tremulous sigh. "Maybe you're right. I don't know. I'm so worried, so frustrated, I feel I've got to do something!"

"Wait. Just give it until tonight. I'm sure you'll hear something by tonight. If not, then do what you must. But give the police just a little more time."

"All right," she said, her voice barely audible. "Till tonight."

She turned and, without another word, continued walking downtown on Lexington.

Luc stepped to the side and leaned against the front of an appliance store. Somehow Nadia hadn't been dosed with the Loki. Or if she had she was resistant to its effects. Whatever, she was out and about and more dangerous than ever.

His eyes drifted to the TVs in the front window of the store where the Dragovic footage was playing again. A moment ago he'd tried to imagine how small and utterly humiliated Dragovic must feel. If Nadia went to the police… he had visions of stepping off the plane and finding officers of the Surete waiting for him, of returning to New York in manacles, walking a gauntlet of photographers… He would no longer need to imagine how Dragovic felt… He would know firsthand.

He turned, found a public phone, and called a number he knew by heart. After three rings, Ozymandias Prather's deep voice echoed through the receiver.

"Prather, it's me." He needed to be discreet here. "I need your services again."

"Who is it this time?"

"A researcher. The fiancee of the last one. She suspects."

An odd laugh. "Do you warn people when you hire them that they might not have a future with your firm—or any future at all?"

"Please. This is an emergency. She could ruin everything."

"Really. That's a shame."

"Can you do it? Now?"

"In daylight? Out of the question. Too risky."

"Please!" He loathed begging this man but had nowhere else to turn. "I'll double the usual fee."

"Double, ay? And you say it's the fiancee of the last one. That presents possibilities. I'll need some information…"

Flooded with relief, Luc gave Prather what he wanted: name, address, phone numbers, whether or not she lived alone. When he was finished…

"I will send someone by within the hour to pick up the payment."

"I'll have it ready." He'd pay for this himself, draw out the money immediately.

"Excellent. And since you're such a good customer, I believe I can work this one to cover for the last as well."

"Really? How?"

"You will see. Remember: money in an hour."

Luc hung up and headed for the nearby Citibank. Most of his money had been transferred to his Swiss account, but he still had more than enough left to pay Prather.

He stopped and took a few deep breaths. This is what he got for trying to find a humane solution. If he'd put Prather on it in the first place, he wouldn't be in this state.

He glanced his watch. Noon. Ten more hours. Maybe he could find an earlier flight. As soon as he settled with Prather he'd call his travel agent. New York was becoming too dangerous for him.

7

Took Jack a moment or two to realize he was in a hospital room. The IV running into his left arm pretty much clinched it.

A small narrow room, semiprivate, but the other bed empty. A dark dead television screen stared at him from the opposite wall a few feet beyond the edge of the bed. Cracks in the ceiling, in the walls, chipped paint on the doors. This place had seen better days.

So had his head—it was killing him. The rest of him didn't feel so hot either. Sat up and maybe that wasn't such a good idea—the room swam around the bed; his stomach heaved; pain shot through his left ribs—but he grabbed the side rails and hung on for the ride.

While he waited for the walls to stop moving he tried to figure out what the hell had put him here. Slowly, in brief bright flashes and glittery pieces, it came back… a succession of cars, shots, collisions, cops, all suffused with an overriding giddy exhilaration mixed with murderous rage. Psycho time, a berserko bender—

Berzerk. That's right. Remembered now, remembered that he must have been dosed with the crazy-maker stuff, and the only way it could have happened was in the coffee Nadia had given him. Didn't make sense that she'd do it. Which could only mean that the dose had been meant for her.

Jack had a pretty damn good idea of who had meant it. He'd figure out the why later. Right now he had to get out of. here.

What time was it? No clock in the room. How long had he been here? Last thing he remembered was the cops chasing him and—

Cops… was he under arrest?

The near certainty of that sent a bolt of sick pain through his already throbbing head. Checked his fingertips—not the cleanest they'd ever been, but no sign of fingerprint ink. Yet. So far in his life he'd managed to keep his photo and fingerprints out of the criminal databases, and he desperately wanted to keep it that way.

He noticed a plastic wristband. "John Doe" had been typed in the patient name space. His admitting physician was a doctor named A. Bulmer.

John Doe… but you can call me Jack.

Next question: was he under guard?

Probably, but only one way to find out. Door to the hall stood open about a foot. A peek outside would give the answer.

Twisted the release on the side rail and slid it down. But as he swung his legs over the side, the room began to do the Harlem shuffle again. He let it finish, then eased his feet to the floor. Clinging to the IV stand for support, he stood. As the room swayed again—a slow dance this time—he felt cool air on his butt and realized that his shirt and jeans had been replaced by a light blue hospital gown with—check it out—full rear ventilation, monroe community hospital ran in black along the hem.

Monroe again. Somehow he kept winding up in Monroe. Maybe he should move here.

Not a chance.

Didn't feature having his bare back end exposed to the world and hoped his own clothes were somewhere near, but first he had to check the hall.

With the IV stand as a rolling crutch, he shuffled to the door and peeked through the narrow gap on the hinged side. His heart sank at the sight of one of the local men in blue standing across the hall, talking to a nurse.

One cop. But what a cop. Size of a double-wide Kelvinator freezer. Badge on his chest looked like a refrigerator magnet. On a good day Jack might have been able to work something on him—maybe. But at the moment Barney Fife would have been a handful.

Only one other way out. Jack eased back and crossed the room toward the window. Legs were feeling a little steadier now but weakened again as he passed the mirror between the closets. The face reflected was a mess: fire-reddened skin, two black eyes under singed-off eyebrows, a swollen nose, and a wide bandage around his head. Lifted the gauze and winced at the sight of a four-inch row of sutures running up his right-front scalp. Worse, someone had clipped away the hair around the cut to give a clear field for the needlework.

The Frankenstein monster had looked better after his trip through the burning windmill.

Shook his head. A bad, bad day, and not getting any better.

Got worse when Jack reached the windows: he was in a third-story room overlooking the rear parking lot. And even worse news waiting when he checked the closets: empty, both of them. Maybe the cops had kept his clothes as evidence; more likely whoever had treated him had tossed them in the garbage. Either way…

Amid a sudden surge of anger Jack's fist cocked back to smash the closet door but he managed to hold it back. Barely.

What was this? Was he stupid? A noise like that would bring Officer Kelvinator running.

He realized he must still have a little Berzerk perking through his nervous system. The fluid from the IV probably had diluted it some, but he'd better be careful.

And as for the IV, that had to go. He undid the tape, pulled the needle from the vein, then slapped the tape back over the hole.

Back to the windows: a pair of old-fashioned double-hung storm types with the glass up and the screen down to let in the spring air. The weather had changed while he was out cold. The once bright skies were lidded now with gray, heavy-bellied clouds. Pulled up the screen and stuck his head through. A few feet down, a small ledge, half a brick wide, ran along the wall at floor level. The corner of the building was to his left; another set of windows sat six feet to the right.

Jack knew with sad sick certainty that those windows were his only option. What if he fell trying to reach them? What if the screen was locked when he got there? What if the room was occupied?

None of the what-ifs mattered, given the alternative. Could not allow himself to be arrested, booked, arraigned, whatever. Once that happened, life as he knew it would end. They'd do a background check and learn that he didn't have a background, did not even exist according to their records. And then the feds would get involved, wanting to know if he was a spy, and if not, then the IRS would want to know why he'd never filed a 1040, and on and on, smothering him. He'd never extricate himself.

Reaching that window was his only option, and if he didn't start moving now, he'd have zip options. Because as soon as Big Blue's nurse friend got called away, he'd be peeking in to see if his charge was conscious yet.

Jack suppressed a groan—part hip pain, part reluctance—as he swung his left leg through the opening. Slowly, gingerly, he straddled the sill until his foot found the brick ledge. The outer edge of his sole overlapped the ledge's three-inch width. He could have done with another inch but was glad for any ledge at all. Ducked his head through, biting back a cry as pain lanced along his ribs, then eased the rest of himself through.

Soon as he was outside, he pulled down the screen, which left him only the window frame to cling to. The next pair of windows was a mere half-dozen feet away, but it looked like the distance to the moon.

Arms spread, palms, chest, belly, and the right side of his face flush against the bricks, he began to move. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something white moving in the parking lot—an elderly woman with a cane limping toward the hospital from her car. Just then a gust flapped his hospital gown up around his shoulders.

Please don't look up, lady. Might make your day, but it'll ruin mine.

He edged along, left foot first, right foot following, inches at a time, and doing pretty well until he felt the building tip to his left. Knew it wasn't, couldn't be tipping, and hammered back the reflex to shift his weight to correct for it, a shift that would surely send him into free fall. Instead he pressed himself against the wall, creating a brick-and-mortar relief map on his right cheek; breath whistled between his clenched teeth as he dug his fingertips into the mortared grooves and hung on like a spider on the roof of a runaway train.

Finally the building steadied itself. He waited a few seconds to be sure, then moved on. Despite the breeze, he was bathed in sweat. When his leading hand finally touched the neighboring window frame, he resisted a sigh of relief; knew it was premature. Too many what-ifs still remained.

A few more inches and his fingers found the screen. No lip to grasp so he jabbed his finger through the mesh and pulled up. It moved. Great. And better still, no cries of alarm from inside. He'd lucked out—nobody home.

He slid the screen up and eased himself inside. Leaning on the sill, waiting for his racing heart to slow, he heard the snoring. He turned, slowly. The room was a mirror image of his, the near bed empty. The sound came from beyond the pulled privacy curtain. Jack padded to its edge and peeked around.

A heavy, balding, middle-aged man lay in the bed, IVs running into each arm, oxygen flowing into the right nostril, a clear tube snaking out the left into a collection bottle, wires running from his chest to a heart monitor, stained bandages across his abdomen. Looked like he'd just come from surgery.

Not good. Didn't know much about hospitals but figured they kept a close eye on postop patients, which meant a nurse could pop in any second.

Turned and opened the closets. Yes! Clothes. So to speak. Faded yellow-and-green checked pants, canvas slip-on boat shoes, islanders ran across the back of the satin jacket and nascar across the front of the cap, but Jack felt like he'd struck gold.

Everything but the hat was too big on him but he didn't care. Soon as he had the cap snugged over his bandage, he peeked into the hall. Big Blue was still yakking with the nurse, so Jack stepped out of the room and strolled the opposite way.

Kept the brim low and his head down, looking up only to check for exit signs. His heart was pounding again, his nervous system taut as he waited for bells to start ringing and security men to come running through the halls. But all remained quiet. Took the stairs instead of the elevator, hurried through the lobby to the front entrance and into the air.

Free. For the moment at least.

The wind was picking up and the clouds looked lower and heavier than before. Rain coming. Wanted to get as far as possible from the hospital so he started walking. Couldn't move too fast, though. Every step sent a stab of pain down his left leg; something was using his brain for an anvil and his scorched face tingled in the breeze.

Other than that, I feel just great.

But where was he? He'd been through Monroe a couple of times last month but didn't recognize this stretch of road. All these post-World War Two residential neighborhoods with their ranches and Cape Cods and neat little lawns tended to look pretty much the same. Then he spotted an arrow-shaped sign for business district and followed that. He'd stand out less in a crowd.

Along the way he searched the pockets of the Islanders jacket and found the hospital admission papers with the owner's name—Peter Harris—along with a few coins and two twenties.

Thank you, Peter Harris. I get out of this, I'll pay you back with interest.

Downtown wasn't exactly chock-full of pay phones—maybe they didn't blend with the old whaling port motif—but he found one in front of a seafood restaurant and made a collect call to Abe.

"Abe, I need a ride."

"A ride to where?"

"Home."

"You can't take a cab?"

"I'm in a bit of a jam."

Abe sighed. "And where is this jam that you happen to be in?"

"Monroe. In front of a restaurant called"—he checked the sign—"Memison's. When can you get here?"

"Oy. Monroe. You couldn't be someplace closer? OK. I'll pick you up in front of this Memison's, but don't figure on less than an hour and a half."

"Thanks, Abe. And listen—call Gia and tell her I'm all right. I'd call her myself but I don't want to hang in the open on this phone much longer. Tell her somebody dosed me with the same stuff that made the preppies crazy but I got through it OK."

"On the run and stranded in Monroe… this is OK?"

"Just tell her, Abe."

Jack hung up and looked around. An hour and a half to kill. The clock on the bank said twelve-thirty. Damn. He'd been out for hours, and by now the cops had to know he was missing. They'd concentrate on the hospital first, but when they were satisfied that he wasn't hiding there, they'd start sweeping the town. Where could he go for an hour where he wouldn't be noticed?

And then he knew.

8

The phone was ringing. Nadia didn't budge. It wasn't her cell phone—that was the only number she'd given the police—so she didn't care who was on the house phone.

She sat in her mother's front room, wiping her eyes. She'd found the little Quisp ring Doug had given her the other night. For an instant she saw him sitting at his computer in his boxer shorts, being so sweet, sexy, and silly at the same time, and she burst into tears.

Forcing herself to move, she rose and stepped to the window and watched the preschool children playing in St. Vartan's Park across the street. She felt lost, sapped of energy. Uncertainty about what to do or who to turn to had gnawed at her, leaving her all but paralyzed.

Doug, where are you? What happened?

"Nadjie!" her mother called from the kitchen. She sounded almost hysterical. "Praise God! My prayers have been answered. It is Douglas!"

Nadia scrambled out of the chair and almost tripped in her mad dash to the kitchen where she snatched the receiver from her mother's hand.

"Doug?"

"Nadia! How I've missed you!"

She burst into tears at the sound of his voice. It was him; oh sweet God it was him.

"Oh, Doug! Doug, where have you been? I've been worried sick about you!"

"I'm so sorry about that but this is the first chance I've had to call. I'm in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I can't go into that now. Let's just say I shouldn't show my face for another week or so."

"Oh, God! This is crazy!"

"I know it is. Look, can you help me out with a little cash? I don't dare use my ATM."

"Of course."

"Great. Can you draw out a thousand and meet me?"

"I don't think I have that much."

"Whatever you can spare."

"OK. Where do I find you?"

"I'm hiding out near a little town called Monroe. You know it?"

"Near Glen Cove."

"Right. Come there and wait near the pay phone in front of Memison's restaurant right on the main drag.

I'll call you on that phone at two and tell you where to meet me."

"Doug, this sounds like something out of a bad spy movie."

"I know, and I'm sorry. But I don't have anyone else to turn to. Please, Nadia. Hang in with me on this one and I'll explain everything once we're face-to-face."

Face-to-face… God, she wanted that. More than anything in the world. She wanted to see Doug, touch him, make sure he was all right.

She glanced at the clock. Go to the bank, rent a car, drive out to Long Island… she'd have to get moving if she was going to make it by two.

"OK. I'm on my way."

"Thank you; thank you! I love you. And you won't regret this, I promise you."

She double-checked the name of the restaurant, then hung up and hugged her mother.

"He's all right! I'm going to meet him!"

"Where is he? Why can't he come here?"

"I'll explain everything later, Ma. The main thing is he's all right! That's all that matters!"

"Call me when you meet him," her mother said. "Just to let me know that you are all right."

"Sure! Soon as I give him a big fat kiss!"

She felt almost giddy with joy and relief as she ran to find her pocketbook.

9

The rain came in tropical style. One minute it was simply threatening; the next Jack was treading through a waterfall. Tried to run the remaining quarter-mile to the entrance but his banged-up legs and bruised ribs allowed for a trot at best. Arrived soaked and mud-splattered and in a foul mood. At least the main tent was still up, although the front flap was down and no one was selling tickets. Place looked pretty much deserted.

Jack slipped through the flap. The stale air trapped under the leaking canvas was redolent of wet hay and strange sweat. His feet squished within his wet deck shoes as he made his way toward Scar-lip's cage but stopped short, stopped stone-cold dead when he saw what was behind the bars.

Scar-lip, all right, but the creature he'd seen thirty-six hours ago had been only the palest reflection of this monster. The rakosh rearing up in the cage and rattling the bars now was full of vitality and ferocity, had unmarred, glistening blue-black skin, and bright yellow eyes that glowed with a fierce inner light.

Jack stood mute and numb on the fringe, thinking, This is a nightmare, one that keeps repeating itself.

The once moribund rakosh was now fiercely alive, and it wanted out.

Suddenly it froze and Jack saw that it was looking his way. Its cold yellow basilisk glare fixed on him. He felt like a deer in the headlights of an 18-wheeler.

He turned and hurried from the tent. Outside in the rain he looked around and found the trailer Monnet had entered the other night. Its canvas awning was bellied with rain. A plate under the office sign on the door read : "Ozymandias Prather." Jack knocked.

He stepped back as the door swung out. Prather stood staring down at Jack.

"Who are you?"

"And hello to you too. I was here the other night. I'm the 'Hey, Rube' guy."

"Ah, yes. The defender of rakoshi. Jack, isn't it? I barely recognize you. You appear to be a bit worse for wear since last we met."

"Never mind that. I want to talk to you about that rakosh."

Oz backed up a step or two. "Come in, come in."

Jack stepped up and inside, just far enough to get out from under the dripping awning. The rain paradiddled on the metal roof, and Jack knew he had about five minutes before the sound made him crazy.

"Have you seen it?" Oz's voice seemed to come from everywhere in the room. "Isn't it magnificent?"

"What did you do to it?"

Oz stared at him, as if genuinely puzzled. "Why, my good man, now that I know what it is, I know how to treat it. I looked up the proper care and feeding of rakoshi in one of my books on Bengali mythology and acted appropriately."

Jack felt a chill. And it was not from his soaked clothing.

"What… just what did you feed it?"

The boss's large brown eyes looked guileless, and utterly remorseless. "Oh, this and that. Whatever the text recommended. You don't really believe for an instant that I was going to allow that magnificent creature to languish and die of malnutrition, do you? I assume you're familiar with—"

"I know what a rakosh needs to live."

"Do you now? Do you know everything about rakoshi?"

"No, of course not, but—"

"Then let us assume that I know more than you. Perhaps there is more than one way to keep them healthy. I see no need to discuss this with you or anyone else. Let us just say that it got exactly what it needed." His smile was scary. "And that it enjoyed the meal immensely."

Jack knew a rakosh ate only one thing. The question was: who? He knew Prather would never tell him so he didn't waste breath asking.

Instead he said, "Do you have any idea what you're playing with here? Do you know what's going to happen to your little troupe when that thing gets loose? I've seen this one in action, and trust me, pal, it will tear you all to pieces."

"I assume you know that iron weakens it. The bars of its cage are iron; the roof, floor, and sides are lined with steel. It will not escape."

"Famous last words. So I take it there's no way I can convince you to douse it with kerosene and strike a match."

"Unthinkable."

Jack flashed on something a couple of the troupe members had said the other night.

"Why? Because it's a 'brother'?"

Oz didn't flinch from the term. "In a manner of speaking."

Jack leaned back against the door frame. This was beginning to make some sense, but not much.

"This is all related to the Otherness, isn't it."

That got a reaction. Oz did a long, slow owl blink and sat down. He motioned Jack toward the room's other chair but Jack shook his head.

"What do you know about the Otherness?"

"I've had a couple of people lecture me on it."

The Otherness… a force, another reality, inimical, implacable, impinging on this world, hungering for it. It had spawned the rakoshi and had almost killed him—twice. Still he didn't quite understand it, but he believed. After what he'd seen since last summer, he had no choice.

"And I've been up close and personal with a few rakoshi." He gestured through the door, toward the tents. "Your cast of characters out there—they're all…"

"Children of the Otherness? Not all. Some are merely accidents, victims of genetics or development gone awry, but we do feel a certain kinship with them as well."

"And you?"

Oz only nodded, and Jack wondered how the Otherness had marked him.

He took a gamble and said, "How did Dr. Monnet learn about the rakosh?"

"He received a call that—" Oz broke off and exhibited his crooked yellow teeth in a sour smile. "Very clever."

Jack pressed. "A call. Maybe from the same person who tipped you off about where to find the rakosh?"

"Perhaps yes, perhaps no."

Jack was pretty sure it was perhaps yes. Which gave everything that was going on a shape, the semblance of a plan: save the rakosh; cull a chug from its blood; spread that drug everywhere to cause a slow tsunami of violence and chaos.

And chaos was a bosom buddy of the Otherness.

"Does Monnet know about the turnaround in the rakosh's health?"

Oz shook his head. "Not yet. He finds its blood… interesting. He's terribly distraught over the fact that he's losing the source of that blood." He smiled. "Somehow I just haven't got around to telling him yet."

Leave him twisting in the wind, Jack thought. Serves him right.

"You seem to be remarkably well informed about this," Oz said. "But I don't sense that you are one of us. How does an outsider come to be so involved?"

"Not by choice, I can tell you that. Just seems that everywhere I turn lately I keep bumping into this Otherness business."

"Does that mean that you were here in Monroe last month when something… something wonderful almost happened?"

"Don't know about you, but I don't call a house disappearing 'wonderful.' And it didn't 'almost' happen—it's completely gone."

"I was not referring to the house but to what took it."

"Yeah, well, you might have a different opinion about that if you were there." Jack studied Oz's bright eyes. "Then again, maybe you wouldn't. But we're straying from the main subject here. It's got to go."

The boss's face darkened as he rose from his chair.

"I advise you to put that idea out of your head, or you may wind up sharing the cage with the creature."

He stepped closer to Jack and edged him outside. "You have been warned. Good day, sir."

He reached a long arm past Jack and pulled the door closed.

Jack stood outside a moment, realizing that a worst-case scenario had come true. A healthy Scar-lip… he couldn't let that go on. He still had the can of gasoline in the trunk of his car. As soon as he was back in Manhattan he'd return to Plan A. And if he had to take the whole tent down to get it done, then that was how it would go.

As he turned, he found someone standing behind him. His nose was fat and discolored; dark crescents had formed under each eye. The rain, a drizzle now, had darkened his sandy hair, plastering it to his scalp. He stared at Jack, his face a mask of rage.

"You're that guy, the one who got Bondy and me in trouble!"

Now Jack recognized him: the roustabout from Sunday night. Hank. His breath reeked of cheap wine. He clutched a bottle in a paper bag. Probably Mad Dog.

"You look like shit, man!" he told Jack with a nasty grin.

"You don't look so hot yourself."

"It's all your fault!" Hank said.

"You're absolutely right," Jack said and began walking back in the direction of town to meet Abe. He had no time for this dolt.

"Bondy was my only friend! He got fired because of you."

A little bell went ting-a-ling. Jack stopped, turned.

"Yeah? When did you see him last?"

"The other night—when you got him in trouble."

The bell was ringing louder.

"And you never saw him once after that? Not even to say good-bye?"

Hank shook his head. "Uh-uh. Boss kicked him right out. By sun up he'd blown the show with all his stuff."

Jack remembered the rage in Oz's eyes that night when he'd looked from the wounded rakosh to Bondy. Now Jack was pretty sure that the ringing in his head was a dinner bell.

"He was the only one around here who liked me," Hank said, his expression miserable. "Bondy talked to me. All the freaks and geeks keep to theirselves."

Jack sighed as he stared at Hank. Well, at least now he had an idea as to who had supplemented Scar-lip's diet.

No big loss to civilization.

"You don't need friends like that, kid," he said and turned away again.

"You'll pay for it!" Hank screamed into the rain. "Bondy'll be back and when he gets here we'll get even. I got my pay docked because of you and that damn Sharkman! You think you look bad now, you just wait till Bondy gets back!"

Pardon me if I don't hold my breath.

Jack wondered if it would do any good to tell him that Bondy hadn't been fired—that, in a way, he was still very much with the freak show. But that would only endanger the big dumb kid.

Hank ranted on. "And if he don't come back, I'll getcha myself. And that Sharkman too!"

No you won't. Because I'm going to get it first.

Jack kept walking, moving as fast as he could back to town. When he reached Memison's he saw no sign of Abe's truck so he stepped inside.

"We're closed for lunch and we don't start serving dinner till five," said someone who looked like a maitre d'.

"Just want to check the menu."

Taking in the sodden, ill-fitting clothes and muddy shoes, he gave Jack a please-don't-even-think-about-eating-here look as he handed him the laminated card.

Jack kept one eye on the street while he pretended to read about Memison's "Famous Fish Dinners." He saw a black-and-white unit roll by, the cop inside eye-balling everyone on the sidewalk. About ten minutes later Abe's battered panel truck of indeterminate hue pulled into the curb.

"Maybe some other time," Jack said to maitre d' and handed back the menu.

The relief on the man's face said that Jack had made his day. Always nice to bring joy into someone's life.

Outside, Jack darted across the sidewalk and into Abe's truck.

"Gevalt!" Abe said when he saw him. "Look at you! What happened?"

"Long story." Jack slumped in the seat and pulled the cap low over his eyes, pretending to be asleep. Jeez, it felt good to sit. "Tell you on the way. Right now just get me the hell outta this place."

For the first time since coming to in the hospital he was reasonably sure he wouldn't be spending the next thirty or forty years in jail, and for the first time since that cup of coffee this morning he could sit and think. His thoughts were a mess. Aftereffects of the Berzerk maybe. His mind seemed to be lurching in all directions, emotions a roiling cauldron.

What had happened this morning?

He vaguely remembered racking up three cars, killing two men, but none of that bothered him. The events were dancing shadows in his brain. What he did remember, what kept looping in clear wide-screen sur-roundsound detail, was how close he'd come to slapping Vicky, how he'd wanted to punch Gia.

And that… that was unbearable… knowing he'd been this far from hurting them…

Without the slightest inkling it was going to happen, he burst into tears.

"Jack!" Abe cried, swerving as he drove. "What's wrong?"

"I'm all right," he said, reining in his penduluming emotions. "It's this damn drug… It's still screwing with me. Did you call Gia?"

"Of course. A happy woman she's not."

"Where's your phone?"

Abe fished a StarTac out of his shirt pocket and handed it over. Before dialing, Jack funneled his thoughts ahead, forced his mind toward where to go from here.

First thing to do when he got back to the city was call Nadia and tell her to be careful what she ate or drank. Someone—Monnet most likely—was trying to drug her. Next he'd return here to take care of Scar-lip. After that, he'd have to make up for his behavior this morning with Gia and Vicky.

With that in mind, Jack punched Gia's number into Abe's phone. "Hi, it's me," he said when she picked up.

He heard a long, tremulous sigh. "Jack… what's happening to you?"

"That wasn't me," he said quickly. "Someone drugged me."

He went on to explain about Nadia's coffee and what the drug did to people, finishing with, "Even you'd be dangerous with a snootful of that stuff."

"I don't know about that, Jack," she said dubiously.

"I do know that I never dreamed I'd ever be afraid of you."

That cut. Deep. "You've got to understand, Gia, that wasn't me; that was the drug."

"But what about the next time you show up unexpectedly? How can I be sure someone hasn't slipped you another dose?"

"Never happen."

"You can't guarantee that."

"Yes, I can. Oh, yes, I can. Berzerk is going to be yesterday's news."

Add one more task to his to-do list: Take down GEM, and Monnet and Dragovic with it. Tonight.

Fresh rage percolated through him—not Berzerk-fueled, his own vintage, the dark stuff he kept bottled in his mental cellars. This morning he'd told Nadia that he didn't care about drugs, that they weren't his business. But this was no longer business. This was personal now.

10

Nadia was running late. She'd missed a turn and found herself heading toward Lattingtown instead of Monroe. But now she was in downtown Monroe—a whole five blocks, from what she could see—and it was almost two and she couldn't find a trace of this seafood restaurant anywhere.

Wait… there… an old pub-type hinged wooden sign hanging over the sidewalk with a fish on a plate… and the name: MEMISON'S. And there was the public phone, right in front as Doug had said. But not a parking place in sight.

Then she saw a man in baggy clothes and a soggy-looking cap leave the restaurant and jump into an old panel truck. The truck pulled away, leaving her the open spot right in front of the phone. Talk about great timing.

Nadia pulled her rented Taurus into the space and hopped out. No sooner had she reached the phone when it began to ring. She snatched up the receiver.

"Doug?"

"Nadia! You made it! I knew I could count on you."

Thank God it was him. She looked around. Was he nearby? She felt eyes on her. "Where are you?"

"About a mile and a half away. I'm hiding in a tent show out on the marshes."

"A what?"

"Don't worry. I'm not running off with the circus. You can be here in a few minutes."

She memorized his directions, then hurried back to her car and made a U-turn. She followed the waterfront—sailboats and sport fishers in the water, blue-plastic weatherproofed craft still in dry dock, waiting to be launched for the season. After a quarter-mile she turned left. The houses and shops vanished first, then the pavement: she found herself on a dirt road running through a marsh. To her left a small harbor lay still and gray like pocked steel under the overcast sky. A small ramshackle cabin sat dead ahead at the end of the marching line of roadside utility poles; and to her right, a small cluster of tents, just as Doug had described.

He'd told her to look for a small red trailer beyond the rear of what he'd called the backyard. She saw a few cars parked in a makeshift lot that she guessed could be called a front yard, but no people about.

Where was everybody? The whole area seemed so still and empty, as if holding its breath. Creepy. The idea of wandering about alone on foot did not at all appeal to her, so she drove around to the rear of the tent complex. There she found a battered old trailer whose once proud chrome skin was scarred, dented, and painted a dull red, sitting far behind the tents and the rest of the show vehicles.

Was this where Doug was hiding? She couldn't see anyplace else that matched the description. Her heart bled for him. What had driven him to these extremes?

She parked her car nose-on to the side of the trailer and noticed that all the windows were boarded over. The door hung open. She called out as she stepped out and approached the dark opening.

"Doug?"

"Nadia!" His voice echoed faintly from the dark interior. "I'm so glad you made it."

"Doug, where are you?"

"Right inside. Come on in."

She felt hackles rising. Something wasn't right here. On the phone his voice had sounded perfectly fine. But here, without the filtering effects of wires and microwave transmissions, it sounded different. It sounded wrong. And then she realized that he had called her Nadia instead of his usual Nadj.

"Why can't I see you, Doug?"

A pause, then, "I'm on the couch. I'd really love to meet you at the door but I'm… I've been injured."

Doug… hurt…

Without thinking Nadia found herself dashing up the two rickety steps and fairly leaping through the door. She stopped inside, looking around, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. The air was mildewy and close despite the open door. She heard a rattling, rustling movement to her left.

"Doug?"

"Right here, sweetie," said his voice to her right—and from below.

She jumped at the sound and turned to see what she thought at first was a child, but then she noticed the mustache and the slicked-down hair. He looked like a midget from a barbershop quartet.

He grinned. "See ya later!"

Nadia watched in mind-numbed shock as the little man darted out the door.

His voice… he'd spoken in Doug's voice.

She was just beginning to move, just going into a turn, when the trailer door slammed shut, plunging her into darkness.

"No!"

The cry was a strangled sound as fear took an instant icy grip on her throat, choking off her air. She threw herself against the door, hitting it with her shoulders, pounding on it, shouting.

"No! Please! Let me out! Help!"

But the door wouldn't budge. She battered it and screamed for help even though she knew the trailer was too far from anything and anyone to hear her cries, but she kept it up until her voice was raw. Then she stopped shouting but kept pounding against the door, fighting the sobs that pushed up from her chest.

She would not cry.

And then she heard that rattle and rustle again from the corner and her frenzied panic turned to cold, cringing dread.

Someone, something was in here with her.

The sounds became more frenzied, and through the thrashing she caught muffled growls and whines, and whistling breaths. Whatever it was it sounded furious, but at least it wasn't coming any closer. Maybe it was leashed in the corner. Maybe—

Cell phone! Yes! She could call for help! She reached for her bag and then realized with a groan it was in the car. Now she truly wanted to cry.

More thrashing from the corner.

God, if she could only see! Slivers of daylight seeping through the boarded-up windows provided the only illumination, and what little there was only made matters worse as her eyes adjusted. Whatever was thrashing in the corner looked big.

Nadia felt around her and found a counter and a sink. She must be in the kitchen area. She found drawers and pulled them open, searching for a weapon or even a flashlight, but all she found were food crumbs and dust.

She turned and felt around behind her. A table and—thank you, God!—a candle, maybe three inches long, in some sort of glass holder. She ran her fingers across the tabletop and knocked something to the floor. Bending she patted around and came up with a plastic cylinder. A lighter.

Her initial joy quickly faded when she realized that light would reveal what they'd locked her up with. But as she listened to the hissing, whining, thrashing thing at the other end of the trailer she knew she had no choice. Not knowing was worse.

She flicked the wheel and held the flame before her. It revealed nothing, but all noise except for the hissing breaths ceased.

Was it afraid? Afraid of fire?

The silence was almost worse than the noise. She didn't know how much butane she had left, so she lit the candle. Then, holding it at arm's length before her, she edged toward the far end of the trailer, moving inches at a time.

And slowly on the right she began to make out a shape… and it was human-shaped rather than animal, stretched out on some sort of bed… and as she moved closer she saw that it was a man and he was bound hand and foot, spread-eagle on the bed… and she saw a mouth sealed with silver duct tape, and above the tape wide blue eyes glistening in the light… She knew those eyes and the sandy hair falling over the forehead.

"Doug!"

The candle slipped from her fingers but she caught it again, barely noticing the splash of hot wax across her wrist as she leaped to his side. She was sobbing as she peeled the tape from his mouth.

"Oh, Nadj, I'm so sorry!" he half gasped, half sobbed. "I had no idea!"

She kissed him. "Doug, what happened? Why are we here?"

"I don't know," he said as she began to work on the knot on his right wrist. "I never got to see whoever snatched me."

"They stole your laptop and smashed your computer."

"Then it's got to be GEM."

"I think you're right."

Admitting that was a spike through her heart.

"I should have left their goddamn computer alone. But why you?"

Nadia had loosened the binding enough by then for him to wriggle his hand free. As he went to work on his left wrist and she tackled his right foot, Nadia told Doug about Loki-Berzerk and her suspicions.

When he was free he gathered her into his arms and she sobbed with relief and terror against his chest. His face was stubbled, his clothes wrinkled and smelly, but he was Doug and he was alive and holding her.

"I had no idea what they were planning when the little guy was talking to me," he said.

"The one who imitated your voice? He… he was uncanny."

"He came in with this big dog-faced guy and started talking to me, asking me if I needed anything and did I know why I'd been brought here. He didn't give me any answers, just kept asking questions. Now I know he was studying my voice."

Nadia studied his face in the flickering light. "Did they… have they hurt you?"

"Not a bit. They bring me food—plenty of it—and water." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. 'There's even a bathroom. Except for tying me up an hour ago, they've treated me pretty decently."

Nadia looked around, not seeing much. "And there's no way out?"

"None. Believe me, I've tried."

She stared at the candle flame. "What if we started a fire?"

"Thought of it, but who's going to send a fire alarm? These folks could probably put it out before anyone noticed, and even if fire trucks did show up, we'd probably be dead from the smoke before they got us out.

"OK," Nadia said. "No fire. Let's stay alive."

"That's what's got me. If what we know is so dangerous, why didn't they simply kill us?"

"If they haven't yet, they probably don't intend to. I can't think of any other reason to keep us safe and dry and well fed, can you?"

He shook his head.

Heartened by the simple logic of her reasoning, Nadia wrapped her arms around Doug and clung to him.

11

Milos Dragovic sat in the rear of his Bentley in sullen silence. The car glided uptown on Park Avenue, a black cocoon of steel-girded stillness amid the midtown cacophony. Pera, his driver, didn't speak—didn't dare. No music and certainly no news. Milos had heard enough news for the day.

Vuk and Ivo dead… he still could not believe it. How was such a thing possible?

He had seen it on the midday news—the burnt-out, bullet-riddled husk of his car, the two bagged bodies being wheeled away on stretchers, and still he could not accept it. And even less the story that it was a lone assailant.

Witnesses said they had seen one man fleeing in a stolen taxi, but Milos knew this could not be the work of a single man. The news was calling the incident drug-related. It was not. These were the same people who had attacked him in the Hamptons. Now they'd moved to the city. This had been an ambush, a well-planned execution carried out with the precision of a military operation.

And that disturbed him the most. To ambush Vuk and Ivo like that, someone had to know they were coming. But Milos himself hadn't known where they were going until moments before he had sent them. This left only two possibilities: either his office was bugged or he had an informer in his organization.

The realization had chilled Milos's rage. If it was an informer, who? He looked at the back of his driver's head. Pera, perhaps? No, anyone but him. Pera had been with him since the gunrunning days. Pera would never.

A bug then? He sighed. Either was possible. After all, Milos had his own sources within rival organizations, even within the NYPD. None of them seemed worth a damn at the moment. His rivals were laughing at him and playing copies of the TV tape nonstop in their bars, but no one, either publicly or privately, was taking credit.

The police were worthless, searching for this so-called lone assailant. They had no good description other than medium height, average build, and brown hair, although some witnesses were disputing the hair color. They couldn't agree on his facial features either except that he'd been scorched by the flames from the burning car—Milos's car.

The police said he'd hijacked a taxi. That taxi was found abandoned in Queens where he'd apparently hijacked a Mercedes. NYPD later learned that while an all-points had been out on the Mercedes, the man they sought was lying unconscious in a North Shore hospital. The local police had considered him nothing more than a drunk driver. By the time they realized that they held a suspect in a far more serious crime, the man had vanished.

Milos wanted to scream: Not one man! He was a decoy, a set up to make it look like one man could take out two of mine! It's all a plot, a conspiracy to ruin me!

But he would be shouting at the deaf. The only ones listening were on the other end of the bugs in his offices, maybe even here in his personal car.

The thought made him hunger for fresh air.

"Pull over," he told Pera.

He got out at the corner of East Eighty-fifth. He saw Pera looking nervously about. He was spooked. Vuk and Ivo this morning… who would be next?

"Wait here," he said, and began to walk east.

He had decided to take the matter into his own hands. If he could not trust his men, his phones, his offices, his cars, that left him with one resource: himself. He would track down his tormentors and personally dispose of them. It was the only means left to him to salvage his honor.

But he possessed only one hard fact about his enemy: the first call from the so-called East Hampton Environmental Protection Committee had come from a phone on the corner of East Eighty-seventh Street and Third Avenue. That was it. The rest—the man in the car in the security video, for instance—was all speculation.

He reached Third Avenue and turned uptown. Two blocks later he was standing before the phone. He would deal soon, very soon, with the man in the video, and perhaps with his woman and child if need be. But Milos needed to do this first. He needed to be in this place, to stand where his enemy had stood and pushed these numbered buttons to dial his number and taunt him.

Why here? he wondered, turning in a slow circle. Why did you choose this particular—?

He stopped when he saw the high-rise co-op. He knew that building. Last fall he'd had one of his men look up the address. He'd barely glanced at the numbers before handing the slip to Pera and saying, "Drive by this address."

But the building was unforgettable… Dr. Luc Monnet's building.

Milos whirled and slammed his hand against the phone booth's shield, frightening an old woman passing by. He turned away before she could recognize him, and cursed himself for not being more attentive, for letting underlings do too much. If he'd been paying attention last fall he would have connected the location of the phone with Monnet last Friday. He could have brought all this to a halt that very night. And then there would have been no second rain of filthy oil, no helicopter debacle, and no humiliating videotape playing and replaying nationwide today.

He canned himself. That was in the past. That was done. He could not change it. But he could avenge himself.

Because it was all so clear now.

Monnet and his partners wanted him locked up and out of the way, leaving them a clear field to tie up all the Loki trade for themselves.

Fair enough. If Milos could have figured a way to produce the drug on his own, he would have cut them out long ago. That was business.

But to humiliate him so publicly. This went beyond business.

And all Monnet's idea, he was sure.

He ground his teeth. Monnet… Milos never would have guessed that prissy, pissy little frog had the turn of mind to conceive such a scheme, let alone the guts to execute it. But here was the evidence, staring him squarely in the face.

Motive and opportunity—Monnet had both.

Listen to me. I sound like a fucking cop.

But it was true. Same for Monnet's brother worms, Garrison and Edwards.

Time to turn the tables. Time to square accounts and balance the scales. Only blood would settle this.

Unfortunately that would mean a shutdown of the Loki pipeline—a slaughtering of the goose that laid the golden egg. Bad business. But his honor demanded this. He could put no price on it.

Besides, he had his millions stashed in the Caymans and Switzerland. Once he settled accounts he would disappear for a while, go abroad for a year or two. This city, this country had now been tainted for him by Monnet and his partners.

Milos began walking back the way he had come. So forget about the man in the security video now. Why waste time with him when he would only lead Milos back here, to the GEM Pharma partners.

The partners… Milos would have to think of a way to settle with all three. And since he no longer could trust anyone, he would have to do it alone.

He walked on, planning…

12

"So, you're a hit man now?" Abe said, sliding the package across the counter.

Jack began peeling the masking tape from the tan butcher paper.

Once he'd pulled himself together on the ride back from Monroe, Jack had told Abe what had happened and what he needed. Abe had dropped him off at his apartment where he'd cleaned up as best he could. He'd put the muddied borrowed clothes aside; he'd return them to Peter Harris with a hundred-dollar bill when they came back from the cleaners.

Then he'd called Gia to explain things. He should have gone over in person but he didn't want Vicky frightened by seeing him scarred, battered, bruised, and burned.

Gia was not a happy camper. Once again Jack's line of work had put her and Vicky in harm's way.

No argument there.

When was it going to stop?

Good question. One he couldn't answer, one he could put off answering a little longer.

He hadn't brought it up, but they both knew that Vicky was alive now only as a direct result of Jack's line of work. Had he been a workaday member of straight society, she would not have survived last summer. He could still draw on that account, but he knew it was not bottomless.

The conversation had ended on a tense note.

Jack put those troubles aside for now. To take Gia and Vicky out of harm's way, a harm named Dragovic, he had to focus on the matter at hand. He unfolded the butcher paper, exposing the pistol.

"Looks a little like a Walther P-38."

Abe snorted. "If you should have very bad eyes and left your glasses at home, maybe a little. It's an AA P-98, .22 long rifle."

Jack hefted it, gauging its weight at about a pound and a half. Checked out the barrel: the front sight had been ground off and the last three-eighths of an inch were threaded. Then he picked up the three-inch-long black metal cylinder that Abe had wrapped with the pistol.