Before the Dawn

Chapter eleven F is for fake

Going over the John Singer Sargent painting with a small, handheld ultraviolet device, Pepe Henderson — an art expert friend of Logan’s from the Seattle Art Museum — pored over the canvas like a criminalist seeking clues. In his early forties, with a middle-aged spread courtesy of a desk job and too many fast-food lunches, Henderson was an unprepossessing professional, dark hair thinning, with thick black-frame glasses riding a round face, a button-down white shirt challenged at the belly, and black slacks that kept slipping down, revealing the kind of cleavage people do not crane their necks to see.

In a pullover sweater and jeans, apparently relaxed and centered, Logan Cale sat back in one of the two chairs that bracketed his brown sofa, the anxiety pulsing in his stomach a secret.

Three of the paintings Seth had stolen from Engidyne were spread out on the cushions of the sofa, while the other three were smoothed out on the area rug. Unstretched, the canvases had a loose quality, like animal skins, that was somehow disconcerting. The lights were low, to aid the expert in his ultraviolet testing. Logan still couldn’t believe the quality of the art arrayed on and around his couch — N. C. Wyeth, John Singer Sargent, Jackson Pollock, Norman Rockwell, Charles M. Russell, and Frederic Remington... an amazing collection.

In his black leather jacket, blue jeans, and a gray T-shirt that said LEXX (a reference lost on Logan), sullen Seth paced the hardwood floor just beyond the conversation area. As twitchy, as itchy, as a drug addict (Logan even wondered if the boy was low on tryptophan), Seth watched the art expert’s examination of his paintings like an expectant father who’d cheerfully brought his video cam into the delivery room, only to run into a bloody C-section...

“No question,” Henderson said, rising, hitching up his trousers, mercifully.

“I told you they were the real deal,” Seth said, coming around the sofa, cockily.

Henderson raised a hand, like an embarrassed traffic cop. “No — I’m sorry, son... No question it’s a forgery.”

Eyes blazing, Seth stormed over to the seated Logan, loomed ominously over him. “What the hell... what kinda scam?... You told him to say that!”

Logan shook his head. “No, Seth... I didn’t. Frankly, I don’t need to scam you out of money — I have money.” He sighed. “But I admit I was afraid they might be forgeries.”

Seth pointed at the Sargent as if he wanted to shoot it. “Just ’cause that piece of shit’s a fake, doesn’t mean the others are, too!”

“That’s true,” Logan said, calming; but then added: “Still, Seth — it’s hardly a good sign. Don’t get your hopes up.”

The art expert ambled over and joined the conversation. “Don’t get me wrong, boys — it’s a good job.” Henderson shook his head admiringly. “As good a forgery as I’ve ever seen... but fake is fake.”

“Is fake,” Logan said with a nod.

“Well, what about the others?” Seth seethed.

“I’ll need a few minutes,” the expert said, and returned to his work.

Logan stood and placed a hand on Seth’s shoulder; that the boy did not brush it off was a small miracle.

“Come on,” Logan said, smiling a little. “We’ll go into the kitchen. Get out of Pepe’s hair.”

“What there is of it,” Henderson said good-naturedly.

“Are you high, Logan?” Now Seth did brush off the hand. “I’m staying right here — your buddy could switch paintings on us.”

“What with?” Logan asked savagely, gesturing all around, suddenly fed up with Seth’s paranoia. “The only thing Pepe brought with him was a small case with his machine. Where do you think he would put six more fake paintings?”

“He... he could have ’em rolled up his pant legs!”

Henderson glanced over. “Fellas, I’ll check your paintings for you, and be happy, too — but if you think I’m gonna drop trou, you got another thing—”

Logan held up a hand. “No, that’s okay, Pepe... please get back to work.” He looked at Seth, an eyebrow raised. “You ready to come back to Planet Earth?”

Seth, embarrassed, turned toward the art expert. “Listen — I didn’t mean anything... You think they’re all fake?”

Bending over a canvas, sharing his ass-crack, Henderson said, “The way this works is, I don’t have any preconceptions. Some pretty sophisticated collectors can get fooled by fakes... sometimes a collection can have a forgery hanging right next to the real thing... Bottom line, till I do my thing, we’re all just flappin’ our gums.”

Logan took Seth gently by the arm. “Let’s go have something to drink... We’ll talk.”

Reluctantly, Seth followed Logan, who poured them cups of coffee in the kitchen, where they sat across from each other on stools separated by a high butcher-block counter.

His anger simmering into frustration, Seth said, “God damn it! Here I thought I was finally going to catch a break, for a change, have something go right, in this screwed-up life of mine.”

Logan sipped his coffee and allowed the young man time to vent.

The stool couldn’t hold Seth long, and soon the boy was pacing around the kitchen, pissing and moaning. Modern and airy, the room was a study in stainless steel and natural wood, with plenty of cupboard space. Logan, a neatness freak, kept this room as meticulous as the rest of his condo — reordering the chaos of the world might be beyond his control, but his living space sure as hell would do as he told it.

“I can’t believe this,” Seth was saying. “All that work for nothing.”

“It was hardly for nothing,” Logan said quietly.

“What in hell makes you think so?”

Taking a long pull from the coffee cup, Logan considered the question a moment before answering. “Think it through, Seth — Manticore gave you more than just superior warrior skills... you have an exceptional mind. Use it.”

“Blow me.”

“I’ll pass,” Logan said, “but thanks for the offer... Look, there’s only two reasons for a collector to hang fake paintings on the wall.”

Seth just looked at him.

“One,” Logan continued, “said collector’s trying to protect his collection... so, he has it hidden away, somewhere.”

“And hangs duplicates in their place,” Seth finished.

“Yes — like a wealthy woman with a fantastic assortment of jewelry, who wears paste versions when she’s out on the town.”

“You think that’s what Sterling did?”

“Frankly, no.”

Seth frowned, but more in thought than anger, or even frustration. “Why not?”

Logan shrugged. “Our friend Jared has spent way more money for forgeries of this quality than he would have to, to just put something on the wall to fool his friends. These weren’t meant as decoys, protection against home invasion; they were meant to fool everybody, even Pepe.”

“Your pal Pepe spotted them easily enough.”

“No — not easily... he had to use all the tools of his trade, exert all of his professional skills. Ask him if he would have known these were forgeries, had he just been looking at them hanging on a museum wall... and I think he’ll say they would have fooled even him.”

“But, then... what the hell is the point of the fakes?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “I think Sterling was passing these off as the originals... when in fact, the originals have been sold overseas.”

“Why would he do that?” Seth asked, pausing in his pacing. “Doesn’t he have enough money already?”

“People like Sterling never have enough money. They’re always looking for more.”

“Oh, but you have money,” Seth said sarcastically, “and you would never think to scam me out of—”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Logan interrupted curtly. Then, wryly, he added, “But Sterling’s kind?... If you feel his hand in your pocket, he’s not making a pass.”

Seth stared at Logan, any accusation long gone. “You sound like you know something about the species.”

“I do.” Logan sighed. “Seen it up close and personal.”

This seemed to interest Seth, who asked, “Where?” and returned to his stool.

“Long time ago,” Logan said. “’nother life.”

Logan didn’t want to get into an extended biography of himself and his family. Ever since his parents had died, he’d been trying to put that part of his life behind him; and he definitely didn’t want to get into this discussion with Seth, a borderline sociopath who had no point of reference regarding parents, anyway.

Henderson cleared his throat by way of announcing his presence, as he strolled wearily into the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of coffee, and pulled up a stool next to Logan.

“They’re all fakes, aren’t they?” Seth asked, his voice so subdued Logan wondered if the kid might not cry.

The art expert nodded. “Sorry, son — please don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Shit,” Seth said. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Henderson sipped his coffee, sighed, and said, “If it’s any consolation, these are, without a doubt, the finest forgeries I’ve ever come across.”

“Really?” Logan asked, interested.

“Oh yeah — canvas is the right age, paint is old, properly crazed...”

“What’s crazy about them?” Seth asked.

“Crazed — cracked,” Henderson explained. “I have no idea how anybody could pull off something so... sophisticated.”

Logan shifted on the stool, studying Henderson the way the art expert looked at a painting. “How did you know they were fakes then, Pepe?”

Henderson’s eyes opened wide, and he smirked. “I didn’t — it was the UVIN that figured it out.”

“You put my paintings in an oven?” Seth asked, frowning.

The expert shook his head, saying, “Ultra-Violet Imaging Network... measures a bunch of stuff, using UV rays.”

Logan nodded. “And what did the UVIN tell you?”

“That despite the fact that the paint looks old and cracked, the chemical makeup is about four years old.” Gesturing with his coffee cup, Henderson said, “Take the Sargent painting, for example — Alpine Pool.”

“What about it?” Seth asked.

“Well, the real one was painted around nineteen-oh-seven.”

Hand to his forehead, as if testing for a fever, Seth stared into nowhere. “Goddamn it. I shoulda known. What a chump I am...”

“Hardly,” the expert said. “If I’d seen these paintings in any respectable museum or private collection, it would never have occurred to me they might be fakes.”

Seth and Logan traded looks — Henderson had just confirmed what Logan had told the boy earlier.

Henderson was saying, “Remington died in nineteen-oh-nine, Russell in nineteen-twenty-six, Wyeth died in nineteen forty-five, Pollock in ’fifty-six, and Rockwell in ’seventy-eight... Yet these canvases were all painted in the last three to five years.”

Seth seemed to fold in on himself a little, hunkering over the counter; he looked as if he might be sick.

Henderson finished and set his cup on the counter. “Sorry I didn’t have better news, gentlemen — it would have been a kick to be in the same room with the real paintings.” The expert climbed off the stool and tipped an imaginary hat to his host. “I’ll get my stuff together.”

Now the X5 and the cyberjournalist were again alone in the kitchen. They could hear Henderson rustling around in the living room, so Logan kept his voice low: “Seth, those paintings were a bonus — they weren’t what we went in for. You got what we went in for...”

Seth looked up, his eyes dull, lifeless. “Huh?”

“The computer disc — remember?”

The X5 said nothing.

Logan smiled tightly, and tried to keep it upbeat: “You stole the paintings as a distraction — so that Sterling would think the only reason for your break-in was to steal art. He probably has no idea that we have that computer disc.”

Nodding, though rather listlessly, Seth managed, “Probably not.”

“And,” Logan said, “if I can break that code, we might learn something that will help us bring him — and Kafelnikov — down.”

“Like what?”

Logan shrugged. “Could be anything on that disc — financial records, a tally of where the original paintings have gone, who knows?... Maybe even the link to Lydecker and Manticore.”

Out in the living room, Henderson called, “I’m ready to take off, Logan,” and Logan raised a hold-that-thought finger to Seth, then met the art expert at the door.

He shook hands with Henderson, saying, “I’ll give you a call later.”

Henderson, very softly, said, “You okay, alone with that kid?”

“Fine.”

“I don’t know, Loge... seems kinda dangerous to me.”

“That’s because he is.”

Henderson rolled his eyes and hauled himself and the small black carrying case out of there.

When Logan returned, he said, “You’ll be glad to learn all the paintings are still in the living room.”

“Great. And what are a buncha freakin’ forgeries worth?”

Logan stood next to the seated boy. “That’s what I’m trying to explain, Seth — in terms of what we’re trying to accomplish, a hell of a lot.”

“Does it help me get rich?”

Logan shrugged. “Probably not. But you will have helped to stop Kafelnikov, and possibly Sterling, who is looking pretty damn dirty now.”

None of this seemed to console Seth.

“Look,” the X5 said, “my life comes down to this... Current scenario: I’m on the run, hiding my ass, needing money all the time to do that. Worst-case scenario: Lydecker and Manticore catch up with me... and, since there’s no way in hell I’m goin’ back to Manticore alive, they kill me. Best-case scenario: I get enough money to disappear, I mean really disappear... only then can I stop lookin’ over my goddamn shoulder. These paintings coulda been my ticket.”

Logan asked, “Are you through?”

Seth glared at him. “What do you mean, am I through?”

“With the self-pity routine? What the hell happened to the rebel who wanted me to help him take Manticore down? Manticore exposed, destroyed, Lydecker out of your life permanently... that’s your ‘best-case scenario.’ ”

Now Seth was just staring at him.

Logan met the boy’s gaze, steadily, knowing he had just jumped the ass of a killing machine who could reach out and snap his neck like a twig. And, if anything had been established thus far about Seth, it was the X5’s ability to perform homicide without a twinge of conscience.

Finally the silence was so terrible, Logan had to fill some of it.

He said, “You help me close down Kafelnikov, and find out where Sterling figures in this... and I promise, even if this lead is a cold one, you and I will find a way... either we’ll banish Manticore from the face of this earth, or I will call on all my powers and resources to relocate you safely, in a new life.”

Seth drew a deep breath, expelled it, and said, “Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Sorry I was such a whiny candyass brat... what can I say...” The boy shrugged. “... shitty upbringing.”

Logan risked a smile. “Yeah — somebody really spoiled you.”

Suddenly Seth exploded in laughter, and Logan laughed, too; the boy extended his hand.

“It’s a deal, partner,” Seth said.

“It’s a deal,” Logan echoed.

The two men shook hands.

“Okay,” Seth said, after a sip of coffee, “what about this famous computer disc?”

Logan sat down again. “Well, I’ve got my best cryptology program working on it. Could take ten minutes, ten hours, or ten days. There’s no way to know. But it will work. It’s never failed me yet.”

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I haven’t slept in four days.” Seth followed this with a world-class yawn. “Can I crash on the couch?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Take the guest room.”

“Rad. Point the way.”

Logan showed his guest to the bedroom.

Seth flopped onto the bed, saying, “Call me when your computer has good news for us.”

“Will do.”

“And why don’t you catch some z’s? You look like shit, partner.”

Half a smile dimpled Logan’s lightly bearded cheek. “Manticore wasn’t big on tact, either, I see.”

“Isn’t that something you put on the teacher’s chair?”

The two smiled at each other... and, for the first time, felt like friends.

Donald Lydecker was livid.

Normally a man whose emotions were held in tight check, Lydecker — in a gray zippered jacket, black T-shirt and black jeans — stood in an FBI office in the Federal Building at Second and Madison, his temper taxed to its limits.

“You’re not going to help,” he said, “with a matter of national security?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Special Agent in Charge Gino Arcotta, seated behind a desk piled with work. “Not exactly.”

Arcotta was a thin, fit man of thirty-eight, his short hair black and curly, his angular face cleanly shaven, his brown eyes alert and sharp.

“What I said,” he continued, “is that I don’t have any men available to assist you, right now.”

“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear,” Lydecker said. “This is a matter of...”

“National security,” Arcotta said wearily, with just a touch of temper, himself. “Colonel, let me be perfectly clear...”

Richard Nixon, 1968, Lydecker thought.

“This office is manned by six agents, three on days, three on nights. That’s all the manpower Washington has allotted us... and even with that small a staff, we can’t stay within our budget.”

“My budget is tight, too. That doesn’t mean we shirk our responsibilities.”

Arcotta continued on, as if Lydecker hadn’t even spoken: “Now, of the three day-shift agents, two are investigating a bank robbery across town. All three night-shift agents are investigating a kidnapping and are at this moment...” He checked his watch. “... in the sixteenth hour of their tour.”

“Even one man would be helpful, Agent Arcotta.”

“Colonel, the last day-shift agent is me... and this desk does not go unmanned; that’s policy. Tell me, sir... where do you suppose I’m going to find agents to assign to you?”

“I can think of one place you might look,” Lydecker said sweetly, and exited the office like a man fleeing a burning building.

He wasn’t going to get any help on the federal level, that was obvious. His own men wouldn’t be here for another twenty-four hours, due to unsafe weather conditions grounding their aircraft in Wyoming.

Well, if he couldn’t get help from the feds, he’d go farther down the food chain...

Twenty minutes later, he stood across a desk from a police lieutenant.

“Four men for twenty-four hours,” Lydecker said. “That’s all I need.”

The lieutenant — balding, forty, his teeth brown from cigarettes, hazel eyes in droopy pouches from too many years on the job — said, “How about twenty-four men, for four hours? Couldn’t do that, either.”

Lydecker opened his fist to reveal a rubber-banded roll of bills; then he closed his fist again. “You look like a reasonable man — I can’t believe that we can’t reach some sort of compromise.”

The lieutenant was hypnotized by Lydecker’s fist, which periodically opened — as if he were doing a flexing exercise with the roll of money — to provide green glimpses.

“All I need, Lieutenant, are four men, hell, two men, for twenty-four hours... until my own people get here.”

“We’d have to shake on it,” the lieutenant said.

Lydecker extended the hand with the roll of money, shook with the lieutenant, and brought the hand back, empty. He tossed a card on the desk. “My hotel is on the back... one hour.”

An hour later, in the hotel bar, Lydecker and his cup of coffee sat across a booth from two detectives and their beers; ancient Frank Sinatra ballads were filtering in over a scratchy sound system, and the smoke was stale enough to be left over from Rat Pack days, too.

The older plainclothes dick, in his fifties, looked to still be in pretty good shape, but his face was pallid, his dark eyes sad, his brown hair cut short and graying at the temples; his name was Rush, though he didn’t seem to be in much of one. The younger dick, Davis, was thirty or so, with reddish hair, light complexion, and pale blue eyes.

“So,” Rush said, “the lieutenant said you needed help.”

“Yeah. Looking for somebody wanted in a federal matter.”

“We don’t usually back up ‘federal matters,’ Colonel. What’s wrong with the FBI?”

“I heard in this town, you want something done, you go to the PD — was I told wrong?”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Rush said. “Your perp got a name?”

“Sort of.” Lydecker looked from Rush to Davis and back again. “Eyes Only.”

The detectives exchanged wary glances.

“I need to find him.”

Rush snorted. “Good luck. Give him our best.”

“There’s got to be a way. Look at how you people lock down sectors, those hoverdrones everywhere—”

“Colonel.” Davis spoke for the first time. “We’ve been seekin’ Eyes Only for years now... and we don’t know one thing more than the day we started. He’s careful, he’s smart, apparently funded up the wazoo... and anybody who has had any dealings with him is absolutely loyal to him.”

“It’s like trying to get a cult member to rat out their screwball messiah,” Rush said.

Lydecker twitched a nonsmile. “Well... there’s a second suspect — tied to Eyes Only.” He withdrew from his inside jacket pocket a handful of stills taken from the SNN video of Seth. “Recognize him?”

They each took some of the photos and riffled through them, then exchanged sharp expressions.

Perking up, Rush asked, “You know this character’s name?”

“I was kind of hoping you would,” Lydecker said gently. “I know you must recognize some of his playmates... those Seattle cops he’s throwing around like confetti.”

“Listen,” Rush said, leaning forward. “All we know is this kid beat the shit out of some very good people... and we would seriously like to pick his ass up.”

“And put it down hard,” Davis added.

“Sounds like we’re on the same page,” Lydecker said. “But is that really all you know about this boy? You don’t know why he got into this tussle with your brothers in blue? Convenience-store robbery? Flashing schoolkids? What?”

Rush exchanged another look with Davis, who shrugged. Then the older cop said, “Guy named Ryan Devane, sector chief, powerful guy... Kid was interfering with his business.”

Davis said bluntly, “Hijacking payoffs.”

“Kid mixed it up with our boys,” Rush said. “And you never seen anything like it... got away clean. And now, Devane ain’t been seen in several days.”

Lydecker, proud of his rebellious student, said, “Then Devane is dead... This is a remarkable young man.”

“Tell me about it,” Davis said. “He broke my brother-in-law’s collarbone.”

“But nobody’s found this kid,” Rush said, “and believe you me, the PD looked every damn where.”

“Are they still looking?” Lydecker asked.

Rush shrugged, shook his head; Davis, too.

“Well then,” Lydecker said, sliding out of the booth, “let’s get out there and start the search back up again.”

Lydecker spent the next six hours with Rush and Davis. Displaying the Seth photo, offering generous bribes for any Eyes Only lead, they rousted every snitch, every lowlife, every rat bastard the two detectives had ever met (and they had met a few), with no luck. He rode in the back of the unmarked car as they continued to drive around the city.

“How the hell is this possible?” Lydecker finally asked. “This Eyes Only son of a bitch has been working in this city for years... and no one knows anything?”

Rush, riding up front, smirked back at his passenger. “You’re gonna make me say ‘I told you so,’ aren’t you?”

Lydecker resisted the urge to brood and thought, instead. Finally he said, “We may be going at this from the wrong angle.”

“You got an angle we ain’t tried?” Davis, behind the wheel, asked.

“I think so. This remarkable young man we’re looking for, he’s got a medical problem.”

“What kind?” Rush asked.

“Seizures. Only thing that will control the symptoms is an enzyme called tryptophan. It’s not a controlled substance, but a kid trying not to attract attention is gonna be buying it on the black market, anyway... Any ideas where we might look for such a thing in your fair city?”

Once again the detectives exchanged looks, then nods.

“Sit back and chill, Colonel,” Davis said. “It’s across town, and’ll take the better part of an hour.”

On the way, Davis explained that the guy they were going to see had been busted twice in the last three years for selling controlled substances.

“And he’s at large, why?”

“Guy’s got a hell of a Johnnie Cochran.”

Lydecker smiled at the slang term, wondering if the cop knew enough about history to realize there really had been a Johnnie Cochran back before the Pulse.

Lydecker asked, “What’s his name?”

“Johan Bryant.”

The unmarked car finally pulled to a stop in front of an upscale house in the suburbs, one of those retro ranch-styles the neo-affluent had been building lately. The whole street was lined with homes that probably sold for high seven figures.

“Nice digs for a drug dealer,” Lydecker said.

The well-tended, sloping lawn had a NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH sign.

Rush said, “We are definitely in the wrong racket.”

Nodding, Davis said, “Colonel, practically every asshole in this part of town is into some kind of crooked shit. How else in this economy could they afford pads like these?”

“Why don’t you arrest them?”

“We do,” Rush said. “But every mook in this neighborhood who ain’t into crime is a defense attorney.”

So that’s what they mean by “Neighborhood Watch,” Lydecker thought.

An attractive thirtyish honey-blond woman in an off-white slacks outfit answered the bell. She seemed to recognize Rush, and — without identifying herself (whether she was hired help or the man’s wife or girlfriend remained a mystery) — led the little group to a large room off to the right.

The walls were pale yellow, the trim all white, the carpeting thick and heavy, also white. This might have been the living room, but Lydecker supposed it was a music room of sorts, since the only piece of furniture was a white grand piano where a man who just had to be Johan Bryant sat on the stool, his hand resting casually over the keyboard.

The man at the piano didn’t rise when the trio walked in, Rush in the lead, Lydecker laying back. Tall, blond, and chiseled, Bryant might have been a member of the Hitler Youth if it hadn’t been for his long hippie-ish hair ponytailed back.

“Rush, Davis — how’s it hanging?” he asked, his smile wide and unrealistically white, the same shade as his white slacks; he wore a yellow V-neck pullover and sandals. A glass of clear liquid with a lemon floating in it sat on a coaster on the piano.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Bryant continued affably, looking past the two cops at the unimpressive figure in the gray zippered jacket.

“Not yet,” Lydecker said, with a smile.

“Uncle Sam needs you,” Rush said to the dealer, pointing to the colonel.

“Not the Policemen’s Health and Retirement Fund, this time, huh?” Bryant said, noodling softly on the keyboard.

“Zip it,” Rush said tightly.

Bryant smiled faintly, ironically.

The detectives approached Bryant at the bench. Lydecker was on the other side of Bryant; he withdrew the photos from inside his jacket. The dealer continued playing a meandering tune on the piano.

“We’re trying to locate a suspect,” Lydecker said. “It’s not a narcotics matter.”

Bryant noodled.

Lydecker said, “This individual uses tryptophan.”

The dealer said, “You can get that at pharmacies.”

“Pharmacies have to record sales of that nature. Customers have to sign. This individual wouldn’t like that. Look at the pictures.”

Bryant noodled some more.

Lydecker held one of the photos of the male X5 in front of the dealer. “Have you seen him before?”

Bryant said, “No,” but he was looking at the ivories under his fingers.

Grabbing onto the man’s ponytail for leverage, Lydecker shoved Bryant’s face into the piano keys, making dissonant nonmusic, accompanied by a surprised, pained scream.

The woman came running, and she had a big gun in her little hand. But Davis plucked the weapon like a flower and walked her out of the room, disappearing with her.

Lydecker stepped back to allow the dealer to sit up, and compose himself; the man was touching his face — really, there were just a few cuts and welts, his forehead crying tears of blood onto his yellow sweater. Awkwardly, the dealer started to get up.

But Rush put a hand on Bryant’s shoulder, holding him down. “Interview’s not over.”

Bryant glared back at Rush, who shook his head. Lydecker took this to mean the dealer and these cops had an arrangement... but this matter was not covered by it.

The dealer sat down again, his hands going automatically to the keyboard — but no more noodling.

Lydecker gave the man a handkerchief and Bryant dabbed blood from his forehead, saying to the man who’d caused the wounds, “Thanks.”

“Would you mind taking another look?” Lydecker asked.

The dealer swallowed and looked at the photo Lydecker was holding up. “Yeah, now that I take a closer gander... turns out I have seen him before.”

“Do you remember where?”

“Yeah... yeah, I can help you in that area. Glad to cooperate.”

Lydecker twitched a sort of smile, patted the dealer’s shoulder, gently. “Always a pleasure to meet a civic-minded citizen.”

Bryant said, “If... if I tell you where he lives, will that be the end of it?”

“For you, yes,” Lydecker said.

And with any luck, he thought, for that rebel X5, too.

Seth was still snoring on the guest room bed when Logan came in with the news.

Logan turned on the bedside lamp and carefully shook the boy to wakefulness, trying not to startle him — he would not like to be the alarm clock this sleeper took a swipe at.

“Com... computers come through?” Seth asked groggily, sitting up, yawning again.

“Patience has its rewards.” He gave Seth a sideways grin. “So does bitchin’ software.”

Seth was alert, wide-awake now. “What did you find out?”

Within seconds, they were sitting in the living room, on the leather couch, Logan holding up a sheaf of papers. “When you copied that disc, my friend, you got us everything.”

“Everything? What everything is that?”

“Smoking-gun everything.” Logan tossed the papers on the coffee table. “The kind that includes dates, times, paintings, amounts... every damn criminal thing Sterling and Kafelnikov have been doing together.”

“No shit?”

“It’s all here, Seth — every sleazy transaction... including the next one.”

Seth’s eyes widened. “You know what they’re going to do next?”

“We know, Seth.”

“Where and when?”

“That’s right. It’s just a matter of calling the FBI now.”

Seth’s eyes tightened to slits. “Say what?”

Logan shrugged. “American Masterpieces Act violation — we’ll call in the feds, have them arrested.”

“Logan, you can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Eyes Only cooperate with the feds? They’re fuckin’ corrupt — you always say so yourself.”

“There’s corruption,” Logan allowed. “Widespread. But I have contacts with honest individuals in federal law enforcement.”

“Yeah, and I’ll introduce you to the virgins down at the strip club.” Seth shook his head. “Listen, Logan, we got the chance to do two things here. We can stop these creeps Sterling and Kafelnikov, and we can come away with the nest egg I need.”

“The last time you ‘stopped’ a ‘creep,’ Seth... you killed him.”

“So that’s what this is about... Logan, I wouldn’t whack either of these guys, not right now, anyway — they’re our Manticore connection. And anyway, Jesus! Manticore is the federal government — Lydecker is a goddamn fed!”

Logan knew Seth was right; but the blood on the cyberjournalist’s hands, from their last episode together, was still clinging and damp.

“Look,” Seth was saying, “we intervene when their next deal goes down, save some great slice of Americana for your conscience, Eyes Only exposes the racket with a big bad bulletin, and we help ourselves to a major contribution to the Seth Survival Telethon.”

Logan, shaking his head, rose and plopped into one of the side chairs. “You lose your head again, I’ll be responsible for another death... maybe more than one.”

Seth leapt to his feet, gestured to himself. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re not responsible if I kill someone — I am!”

“We’re ‘partners,’ remember?”

Seth snorted. “Well, let’s dissolve that as of now. From here on out, I work for myself. When we have shared interests, you might throw me a friggin’ bone.”

“A bone like the details from the disc?”

“The disc I stole for you... Logan, you can stop these guys or not — you decide.”

With the biggest sigh he had ever heaved, Logan said, “All right... Do what you have to do... short of homicide. Then you bring me the painting, and keep the cash.”

“How much is that thing worth?” Seth asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the question casual.

Logan read the sheet aloud. “Cow’s Skull Red, White, and Blue by Georgia O’Keeffe. The buyers are Korean and the price is supposed to be a million-one.”

Seth fell back onto the sofa and grinned like a kid contemplating a double-dip cone. “That’ll do the trick, man. That’ll do the trick.”

“You’ve decided to disappear, then? What about Manticore?”

“Let me count my money first, and get back to you. Where and when does the deal go down?”

Logan’s eyes returned to the printout. “Top of the Space Needle...” he looked at his watch. “... in about four hours.”

“About time I took in the tourist sights,” Seth said.

“Needle hasn’t been a tourist site in some time.”

“Whatever... meantime, I gotta get back to my crib, get prepped.”

Rising, Logan faced the X5, who stood and the two men exchanged smiles that had embarrassment and maybe, just maybe, some affection in them.

“Good luck,” Logan said. “Partner.”

“Thanks, bro.”

Seth arrived at his tiny apartment forty minutes later. Little more than a cell with a cheap blackout curtain over the single window, the apartment had a mattress, dresser, minifridge, hot plate, microwave, two chairs, card table, minuscule closet, and a small bathroom with a tub you could shower in but not bathe. A dozen or so books lay in a couple of haphazard piles near the head of the bed, mostly a mix of pre-Pulse horror fiction and weapons/martial-arts manuals.

This was, Seth knew, not quite as nice as Logan’s pad.

After changing into his work clothes — black fatigues and black boots — he also laid out a black jacket, gloves, and stocking cap. The weather had turned nasty on his way home, a driving rain rolling in like it planned to stay a while.

It hadn’t rained in over a week — which was a drought in Seattle — and it seemed that just when Seth needed a dark, starless night, he was going to get one. What he didn’t need, though, were these relentless sheets of torrential rain. He hoped it would let up before he had to go out.

With some time left, he picked one of the books out of the pile. An old travel guide of the city, it helped him to quickly learn about the Space Needle.

Built in 1962 for the World’s Fair, the Needle rose 605 feet, was protected by twenty-five lightning rods, and, at the time of its construction, was the tallest building west of the Mississippi River. Three elevators led up to the observation deck and the revolving restaurant below. One hundred feet up, the Needle had a banquet facility, and on the ground floor a gift shop. It wasn’t a lot of information — the guide had been written in the heyday of the now dead tourist attraction — but it was more than he’d had.

That was when he heard the car on the street.

In this neighborhood the sound of an automobile motor was rarer than laughter — few around here could afford to own a car (Seth kept his own wheels, an old beater Toyota, off the street, hidden in a warehouse blocks away). Car motors meant cops, nine times out of ten, so the sound of one always set off Seth’s mental alarms.

And when he heard the second car, he really knew something wasn’t right. He moved to one side of the window and edged back the curtains enough to see down on the street.

Two police cars were parked diagonally, blocking the way. Just behind one of them, a third vehicle — this one a SWAT van, pulling in now — meant not only was something wrong, that something was probably him...

He invested another second of watching, to get a better sense of what was coming down...

... and saw Lydecker getting out of one of the cars.

Seth lost another second, frozen by the sight. How the hell had his old Manticore keeper tracked him down here?

He grabbed his jacket, gloves, and cap, jerked open the door, and went flying up the stairs. Lydecker would have the building surrounded, but they could only work their way up from the bottom. By the time they got to Seth’s place, he’d be vapor.

Slipping on the jacket, cramming his hands into the gloves, and tugging on the stocking cap, he kept running up flights of stairs. When he reached the door to the roof, he tried it and found it locked. On the other side, he could hear the rain noisily pounding on the door, anxious to get in. A howling wind cried out in protest of its own existence.

He took a step back, and threw a shoulder into it and the door gave, splintering at the jamb, lurching open while Seth jumped through, the rain slashing at him like a killer with a knife.

Turning back, he slammed the door, then picked up a stick from the roof’s blacktop and jammed it under the knob.

Drenched already, he struggled to see through the downpour. He could make out the edge of the building, and sprinted there, to look across a fifteen-foot gap between his building and the next... a matching tenement, also six stories. Gazing down, the unyielding rain pointing the way, he saw cops and SWAT running around the building, some heading up the fire escape on that side.

Seth backed up, took a running leap, jumped the gap, landed on the other building, turning his sliding arrival into a roll, and came up running, to head for the far side of this neighboring building. Two jumps later, he was at the corner building and calmly walked, feet splashing on tar, to a rooftop door that took him down the stairs to the street.

On the sidewalk now, looking back toward his building, he saw Lydecker pounding a fist on the roof of the police car, his clenched teeth flashing in the night like tiny lightning.

It delighted Seth that he could still get the smugly self-controlled Lydecker that pissed off.

Turning, Seth started off at a slow trot. No point drawing attention to himself. Now, he just needed to put distance between himself and Lydecker’s team.

On thing was certain, though: tonight would mark the last act of his new fledgling partnership with Logan Cale. Seattle was used up for the X5.

If his old commander had found him once, he’d do it again. Seth knew the man would never give up. Lydecker didn’t know how to quit — it wasn’t in the bastard’s makeup. The cash that would be exchanged, when Sterling and Kafelnikov’s art deal went down a few hours from now, was more important than ever... it was a future for Seth, maybe the only one he had...

Everything was riding on what happened tonight, and that was fine by Seth. The Manticore X5s had been designed for difficult missions — the greater the pressure, the better they performed.

With the possible exception of Zack, Seth felt he was the best of the X5s.

Tonight, he would get his chance to prove it...

... though he doubted his former teacher would take much pleasure out of Seth’s graduation ceremonies.