Before the Dawn

Chapter Six Money talks

Housed in a run-down warehouse, a world of dented lockers and rough wood beams and ancient brick and obscene graffiti, Jam Pony Xpress turned out to be just the sort of madhouse where Max could blend in and lie low, while she looked for her sibling.

Having had the whole trip up the coast to replay that grainy video in the theater of her mind, Max was now a gnat’s eyelash away from convincing herself that the “young rebel” she’d seen kicking cop ass on that news show was indeed her brother Seth.

The X5 didn’t know how long it would take to find him, but this innocuous cover was looking like it could work for the long haul: no one, not even Moody or Fresca or any of the Chinese Clan, had any idea she’d booked for Seattle. Dodging Manticore all these years had given her very few peaceful nights of sleep; but somehow here — in Original Cindy’s Emerald City — Max felt safer, more underground even than in LA, where she’d drawn attention to herself and her singular abilities by her cat-burglar activities.

As Original Cindy had predicted, the bike messenger gig allowed Max to learn the city at a far faster rate than if she’d just been bouncing around on the Ninja, hoping to get lucky in her search for Seth. Living with Kendra in the off-the books apartment was working out just fine, too, though the rent was a bitch, thanks to that greedy bent cop.

But living in a squatter’s hotel was perfect: no sign of Max would appear anywhere in the city records, and amiable airhead Kendra was easy to live with and was turning into a good friend.

At the same time, Max’s friendship had grown with Original Cindy, cemented by Max staking Cindy for the cost of the bike you needed to even apply at Jam Pony. The two women were spending almost every leisure moment together, with Kendra frequently in the mix.

Original Cindy had found her own pad, after only a week at Jam Pony. Not only was she more independent, her crib was closer to Max’s apartment than the friend’s place she’d initially crashed at. Every morning Max would hook up with Theo, then bounce over on their bicycles to pick up Original Cindy, and the three of them would ride together. They would get coffee and bagels, stop in a park on the way and eat, then wheel on in to work.

It was during these light, chatty breakfasts that Original Cindy, Max, and Theo started getting to know more about each other. Max knew she was learning a lot more about her friends than they were finding out about her, and sometimes she could feel Cindy’s hurt vibe that Max was remaining overly secretive.

But since O. C. and Theo didn’t seem to be genetically enhanced killing machines, developed in a supersecret government lab, they had a tad fewer secrets than she did.

A month had glided by since Max had left Moody and the Chinese Clan, and the only thing she had to complain about (to herself, that is) was that she hadn’t found Seth... hadn’t even turned up a lead. Even the news had been devoid of any mention of the “young rebel” in league with “Eyes Only.”

Of course, as good as Max was at looking, Seth would be better at hiding. He’d had the same training as her, and — like Max — had been on the run a long time, knew how to cover his tracks far better than she knew how to uncover them. After years of running and hiding, Max found it difficult to turn the process around, to look through the hunter’s end of the telescope.

One thing was for sure: she would never give up. A relentlessness was bred into her — whether by Manticore or her own human genes, she could not say. She just knew she would find Seth.

The only doubt that managed to creep in, from time to time, was the notion that she might be wasting her time, chasing someone who — though a remarkable specimen, and similar to her — wasn’t really an X5.

Even worse was the possibility that this might be one of Lydecker’s X5s, the star of some later Manticore graduating class, doing covert work the media was playing up as the work of a “rebel.”...

In the meantime, Max found herself in the midst of a new life, and even a new family — some of these other Jam Pony riders were all right.

The nominal boss, however, Normal — whose work moniker was an improvement over his real name, Reagan Ronald — had turned out to be just as uptight as Theo had claimed. Conservative to the bone, a fan of both Bush presidencies, the oblong-faced, perpetually distracted Normal — with his long straight nose, thin lips, and headset that seemed as much a part of him as his hands or ears — wore his brownish blond hair short and combed back, his black-frame glasses and constant frown making him look like a sad librarian.

Normal considered Max and his other employees a bunch of slacker losers, which hardly inspired the best in them. Constantly saying, “Bip, bip, bip,” his secret code for “hurry up,” hadn’t gained him any new friends either; neither had his favorite, painful pseudo-expletive — “Where the fire truck is...?” Fill in your favorite Jam Pony rider, like for example...

... Herbal Thought, a Rastafarian with a shaved head, short beard, and ready smile, a generous and philosophical instant friend. Frustratingly cheerful, he was always ready to share anything he had — even his ganja, which Max took a pass on — as well as to proselytize for Jah and the theory, “It’s all good, all de time.”

The other messenger who befriended Max and Original Cindy, from day one, was a scarecrow with long, lank, black hair, greasy strands of which trailed down over his dark eyes. Sketchy, they all called him — a nickname that applied more to his thought processes than any artistic ability.

More than a little weird (“He the lost Three Stooge,” Original Cindy opined), Sketchy had sold himself out for experiments in a psych lab before he’d signed on at Jam Pony, and many of his friends thought that might explain his somewhat odd... sketchy... behavior.

Today, like most days, the four of them — Max, Original Cindy, Sketchy, and Herbal — were taking their lunch break at The Wall up the street from Jam Pony, a cement slab where the gang hung out, doing bike tricks and generally chilling. Here they sat and wolfed sub sandwiches from a nearby shop. Herbal passed on having a sandwich, however; his main course was a spliff he lit up — not much bigger than Max’s thumb — and inhaled deeply.

“Ah, ’tis a gift from God,” Herbal said, as he leaned blissfully back against the table.

“I should become a Rasta,” Sketchy piped in, admiringly. “That’s my kinda sacrament.”

Herbal shook his head and made a tsk tsk at the front of his mouth. “Ah, but worshiping Jah is not about the ganja, man. Worshiping Jah is about faith... faith and growth.”

“Growin’ ganja,” Original Cindy said, and they all laughed, including the Rastafarian.

The strong scent tickled Max’s nose. “No wonder you think it’s ‘all good,’ ” she said.

“Hey,” Sketchy said brightly, as if the idea he was about to express weren’t something he suggested every day, “who’s up for Crash after work?”

“Original Cindy could be up — how ’bout you, Boo?”

Max shrugged. “Guess I could hang for a while.”

The nature of the job — each rider out doing his or her own deliveries — prevented them from tiring of one another’s company by the end of a long day; they enjoyed gathering to tell war stories, share anecdotes about Normal, and swap tales of tricky deliveries and asshole clients.

“Cool!” Sketchy turned to Herbal. “You?”

“If my brother and sisters need me to be there, you know Herbal will indeed be there.”

“Don’t refer to yourself in the third person, my brother,” Original Cindy said, frowning. “Original Cindy don’t dig that affected shit.”

Everybody looked at her, not sure whether she was kidding; and they never found out.

“Okay,” Sketchy said, eyes glittering, proud of himself for organizing something that happened almost every day. “We all meet at Crash!”

“Sounds like a plan,” Max said, rising, only half her sandwich eaten. “Gotta bounce — Normal’s loaded me up with every shit delivery that came in today.”

Original Cindy shrugged, smirked. “He jus’ knows you can go into any nasty part of town, and come out with your ass in one piece.”

Sketchy frowned in fragmented thought. “Wouldn’t that be... two pieces?”

Max left them to argue that one out.

Over the course of the afternoon, she made four deliveries. The first was to a place way the hell up on Hamlin Street, by Portage Bay; the next on the way back on East Aloha Street, just off Twenty-third Avenue East; the third on Boylston near Broadway; and the last turned out to be the Sublime Laundry, downtown.

The place — a combo Laundromat and dry cleaner — looked less than sublime, and too dingy to launder anything except maybe money. The Asian woman behind the counter was about as friendly as a Manticore training officer. Shorter than Max, her black hair tied back in a severe bun, the woman had a raisin face with raisin eyes, and a mistrustful expression.

“Package for Vogelsang,” Max announced.

“I take.”

“I kinda don’t think you’re Daniel Vogelsang.”

“I take.”

“Mr. Vogelsang has to sign — it’s marked confidential, and only Mr. Vogelsang can sign for it.”

“I take.”

Max glanced at the ceiling, rolled her eyes, and thought the hell with it. “Look, if Mr. Vogelsang isn’t here, I’ll just have to come back another time.”

“I take.”

“You can’t take, you aren’t him and you can’t sign.” Max turned on her heels and headed for the door, the woman’s language of choice moving from English to Chinese, her vocabulary expanding considerably from the two words Max had previously heard.

Max had enough Chinese training to know that some of the names she was being called should earn the woman a chance to have her mouth washed out with soap, and even in this shithole laundry, soap wasn’t in short supply...

But Max was learning to choose her battles more wisely, these days — attracting attention in Seattle was not on the itinerary.

As she reached the door, a male voice behind her boomed: “Ahm Wei, what the hell’s going on out here?”

Max turned to see a heavyset man with blond crew-cut hair, mild features, and a goatee on a droopy-eyed bucket head, wearing baggy slacks and a Hawaiian slept-in shirt.

“She got package,” Ahm Wei said. “She no leave.”

“Ahm Wei, you know when they need my signature, you’re supposed to come get me... Young lady! Hold up there.”

Max sighed and swiveled. “You Vogelsang?”

“Could be.”

“You take?” Max mimicked, her patience growing thin, holding out the package. “If you’re Vogelsang, this package is marked confidential, which means it has to be signed for personally. No tickee, no laundry, get it?”

“Punk-ass mouth on you,” the guy muttered. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m Vogelsang. Come on in back — I don’t do my business out here.”

Already tired of this rigmarole, but not wanting to have to deal with Normal about the rejected package, Max let out another world-weary sigh and followed Vogelsang through double doors into a cramped office. Max’s trained eyes automatically took it all in: washer parts, jugs of dry-cleaning chemicals, unidentified stacks of boxes, typical backroom stuff.

But centrally, in front of a wall of battered file cabinets stacked with more boxes and papers, a maple desk squatted, arrayed with piles of papers, the occasional Twinkie box, and empty Chinese takeout containers... a swivel chair behind the desk, a comfortable client’s chair opposite, beige walls adorned with bulletin boards bearing police circulars and such... what was this place?

Max handed the frumpy bear of a man the signature pad, he put on reading glasses and signed where he’d been told, and she asked, “What the hell do you do back here?”

“Private investigations.”

Her eyes widened a little. “You’re a detective, huh?... What kind of investigations?”

He handed her the clipboard, she handed him the package, wrapped in brown paper; it was a little smaller than a shoe box.

“You know, divorces, runaways, skip trace, stuff like that.” He finally tore his eyes from the package and looked up at her — in his business, even invisible people like messengers rated a once-over. “Why?”

“If I was looking for someone, you could find them.”

“I could try.”

Without an invitation, she eased into the chair opposite Vogelsang, hooked a leg over its arm. “So — what’s something like that cost?”

Vogelsang stroked his bearded chin, the package all but forgotten; tossed his glasses on the desk and took the chair back there. “Depends.”

“That’s a great answer.”

“Depends on who we’re looking for... and how much they don’t want to be found.”

A sour feeling blossomed in Max’s stomach. Already, she could see where this was heading: money. She’d been living the straight life since she and Original Cindy had landed in Seattle, hadn’t pulled a single score; and to tell the truth, she sort of liked it. But she had to find her sibs.

“All right, Mr. Vogelsang — give me an estimate.”

Big shoulders made a tiny shrug. “Thousand-dollar retainer against two hundred a day... plus expenses.”

She rolled her eyes. “You high? I’m a freakin’ bike messenger!”

He shrugged, putting the reading glasses back on, his attention returning to the package.

“This office isn’t exactly uptown,” Max pointed out. “How can you charge rates like that?”

“The uptown offices don’t have my downtown connections... The private eye game is a dirty one.”

“So you set up shop behind a laundry.”

He peered at her over the reading glasses. “Are we done here?”

“Okay, Mr. Vogelsang... let’s say I get you the money...”

He threw the glasses on the desk again. “You got that kind of cash?”

“I can get it.”

“Little girl like you.”

“Don’t pry into my business, Mr. Vogelsang.”

“I won’t.” He grinned at her; he was like a big naughty hound dog. “Unless somebody pays me to...”

“If they do, I’ll double whatever they give you. I’d be buying loyalty, as well as discretion.”

The detective was studying her, taking in her confident manner, her youth obviously troubling him.

She brushed by that, asking, “How long to get results?”

“This is a missing person?”

“Yes.”

“Without much information to go on?”

“If I had information, I wouldn’t need you, would I?”

Another tiny shrug from the big shoulders. “Searching for people is not an exact science, uh... what’s your name?”

“Max.”

“Just Max?”

“That a problem?”

“Not if you pay in cash.”

“Count on it.”

The private eye shrugged. “Could be a day, could be never. When your retainer is exhausted, we’ll talk. Decide if you’re throwing good money after bad. I’m not a thief, Max.”

She mulled that over for a moment. “All right,” she said finally. “When can you start?”

He gave her another shrug. “When can you have the money?”

She gave him one back. “Tomorrow, the next day at the latest.”

With a nod, he said, “Which is exactly when I can start. Nice how that worked out.”

“Yeah — it’s all good.” She rose and moved toward the door. “I’ll be back with a grand. Fill you in then.”

Vogelsang smiled — a big teddy bear of a man who was not at all lovable. He touched his temple with a thick finger. “Got ya mentally penciled in.”

She went straight from Vogelsang’s to Crash, where Sketchy, Herbal, and Original Cindy had already commandeered a table and were on a second pitcher of beer.

An old brick warehouse not unlike Jam Pony, the place had been converted to a bar years ago, pre-Pulse. Round brick archways divided the three sections and video monitors, including a massive big screen, displayed footage of stock car races, dirt bike events, and skateboarding, all featuring the wild crashes that gave the bar its name.

Small tables fashioned from manhole covers were scattered around with four or five chairs haphazardly surrounding each. A jukebox cranking out metal-tinged rock hunkered against one wall, and through the nearest archway lay the pool and foosball tables. The entire wall behind the bar was a backlit Plexiglas sculpture of bicycle frames.

“Hey, Boo,” Original Cindy said as Max came up.

With a tired-ass smile, Max took a seat and Sketchy poured her a beer.

Herbal said, “Ah, how goes the battle, my sister?”

Max forced the smile to brighten. “Why it’s all good, my brother.”

Herbal smiled and nodded, convinced he had a convert; Sketchy handed Max the beer with his trademark stunned-baby-seal expression.

“You up for some pool, home girl?” Original Cindy asked Max, giving her a sideways look.

Sketchy shook his head and even Herbal’s eyes narrowed in warning.

“O. C.’s a shark, Max,” Sketchy said. “Watch your ass.”

“My brother speaks the truth,” Herbal said. “Our sister has already made poor men of us both.”

“Yeah, but it’s still all good, right?” Max glanced toward Original Cindy.

With a shrug and no chagrin, she said, “What can I say? Original Cindy’s better with balls than these boys.”

Sketchy thought about that, while Max grinned and said, “Well, bring it on, girlfriend, bring it on.”

Leaving the guys at the table, the two young women — though familiar sights around here, they were followed by every male eye in the bar, and a few female, too — sashayed over to an empty table.

Though her analytical ability and enhanced eyesight gave her an advantage, Max still lost three straight games to Cindy.

The encounter with the private detective had been replaying in her mind ever since leaving the Laundromat. Jam Pony paid peanuts, and her bankroll from Moody had been eaten up by travel expenses and the cost of living, not the least of which was paying off that cop at squatter’s row. Now she needed a cool k, in less than twenty-four hours... and she had no idea where she was going to get it.

“Had enough, girl?” Original Cindy asked, leaning on her cue.

Max nodded slowly and they headed back to the table.

“You okay, Boo? Your mind’s on some other planet.”

“Just a little distracted.”

They reached the table, where Sketchy and Herbal sat before an empty pitcher, with the slightly buzzed expressions to match.

“Somethin’ Original Cindy can do?”

“Just workin’ out some private stuff.”

“Well, you call me in off the bench, girl, when the game goes into sudden death.”

Max smiled at her friend... maybe her best friend. “Yeah?”

“Hell yeah!”

Snatching up the pitcher, Max said, “My turn to buy,” and moved off toward the bar. She was almost there when two guys in the far corner triggered her peripheral vision. Crash wasn’t crowded at this hour, and two guys confabbing so far from everybody else in the place put them on Max’s radar.

With a seemingly casual sideways glance, she focused in and watched as a wad of cash passed between them... also a package the size of a fist, wrapped in brown paper, passing the other way.

Drug deal.

Max had an instinctive dislike of hard drugs — possibly linked to the medical tampering she’d been subjected to — and suddenly, an inner smile forming, she knew exactly where the money for Vogelsang was going to come from...

She had always been that kind of thief. Moody had made sure to send her after unsavory types; something about crooking a crook just... sat better with Max. This would be like ripping off the Brood, only minus the acrobatics — easy, profitable, and stealing from guys who weren’t exactly model citizens, anyway.

The bartender gave her the pitcher, she paid, and hustled back to the table, her smile wide and genuine.

“Nectar,” Sketchy said, accepting the pitcher as if an award for Best Bike Messenger 2019, and started sloshingly filling glasses.

“Just say no,” Max said, holding up a hand to block Sketchy from pouring her another glass; her peripheral vision still trailed the drug dealers, who were on the move.

So was she.

“Gotta jet,” she said.

Original Cindy looked at her with only partly feigned outrage. “Yo, Boo, you just got here! What can be more important than kickin’ it with your homeys?”

“Just remembered an errand I’ve got to run... for me, not Normal.”

“Take care, my sister,” Herbal said, in benediction.

“Catch ya in the mornin’, girl,” Original Cindy said, picking up on Max’s distracted gaze but unable to latch onto whatever Max was trained on.

Sketchy saluted her with a beer glass but said nothing, having just moved into a nonverbal state.

The two drug dealers split out different exits. Max tailed after the one with the cash — dealing the drugs was a line she couldn’t cross.

Outside, the light was little better than in the bar, and Max couldn’t tell much about the guy except he was tall, and so skinny he seemed lost in that expensive brown leather jacket; also, he had short brown hair, big ears, and walked with a definite slouch. Except for the short hair, from this distance, he could’ve been Sketchy.

She stayed with him for several blocks, on foot, on the opposite side of the street, hanging back enough to keep the guy from making her. The brown leather jacket kept moving, and half a dozen blocks melted away, as he led her into a seedier side of the city than she’d yet seen as a messenger. Max was still more than a block behind him when three figures emerged from the shadows and planted themselves in front of the guy.

They obviously planned to rip him before she did — and that pissed her off!

As she crept forward, she watched two of the interlopers move to either side of the dealer, leaving the third facing their mark. These were wide, tough men, buzz-cut white guys in muscle shirts who’d pumped themselves into brawny animals — blocky torsos with arms, legs, and no necks, possibly part of a local neo-Nazi group, the Swatzis, known to loot dealers and then peddle their own shit through intermediaries to minorities... making money off their idea of homegrown genocide.

The apparent leader, positioned in front of the dealer, stepped forward. Trimly Satan-bearded, he was smaller, still muscular, though he probably depended more on his brain than his brawn. Plus, there was that nine-millimeter auto in his hand...

“Give up the money, lowlife, and you just might limp away.”

Traffic was nil; Max didn’t even have to look both ways when she raced across the street in an eyeblink, and sprang high; she came down in the middle of the four men as if she’d fallen from outer space, poised with catlike grace in a battle stance.

Their mouths all dropped open at once.

One at a time, she closed them.

Starting with the devil-bearded gunman: she decked him with a left, the automatic flying out of his hand and clattering to the street; then she spun, taking out the nearest would-be Nazi with a sweeping kick. Down low, she swung an uppercut to the dealer’s groin, and, coming up, headbutted the last Nazi and watched him teeter, then tumble to the sidewalk, as unconscious as the cement that received him.

The scrawny, big-eared dealer rolled on the ground, his hands clutching his jewels. The Nazi she’d kicked to the pavement struggled to his knees in time for his face to halt a flying kick from Max. He, too, fell unconscious, his face a bleeding, broken mess. Scrabbling in the street to find and snatch up his pitched pistol, which he managed, the gunman turned, grinning, raising the automatic as he came.

Just as he leveled the gun, Max dropped and rolled toward him, exploding out of the roll with a vicious blade of a left hand that chopped the gun from the man’s hand, then sent a chop across the bridge of his nose, which broke it, leaving him bloody and unconscious on the sidewalk near his buzz-cut companions.

“I hate guns,” Max said, not winded.

Sucking air like a two-pack-a-day smoker, the dealer — his hands still protecting his crotch — made it to his knees. “You... you saved my life,” he managed.

“That’s right.”

“But I think you broke my balls...”

Looking down at him, she said, “Ice pack may help. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t book.”

His eyes were as wide as a puppy begging a bone. “But... why? If you were gonna rescue me... why?...”

Arms folded, Max stood amid the fallen Nazis, all of whom were slumbering, and said, “Just didn’t want you to leave without paying.”

The Dumbo-eared dealer’s face went blank. “Huh?”

“You think I saved your life out of the goodness of my heart?”

“I was... kinda hoping...”

Max shook her head, dark locks bouncing. “What world do you live in?... Hand over the wad.”

The dealer’s voice came out a squeak: “You’re... muggin’ me?”

“That’s such an ugly term. Let’s just say I’m claiming my reward for savin’ your scrawny ass.”

“But... I don’t have any money.”

“Aw, you just want me to put my hands on you,” Max said. “I’m flattered... left front pocket. The money you made tonight at Crash? Selling whatever drugs were in the brown paper wrapper.”

He winced. “You saw that?”

“I recommend a dark alley next time. Time-honored thing, y’know. Give.”

His hands came off his privates and folded prayerfully; begging. “Please... please... you can’t take the money... if I don’t pay my connection, he’ll kill my ass!”

“Here’s how this works — I just gave you a reprieve. Next death sentence, you’re on your own. You rather I knock your lights out, so you can wake up about the same time as the master race, here?”

“I’m not kidding, lady... really, he’s a badass... he’ll kill me... real slow.”

Max sighed, shook her head. “You run with a rough crowd, son, you break a toenail now and then.”

“Jesus! This is serious shit!”

The gunman seemed to be rousing, and Max kicked him in the head, then said to the jug-eared beggar, “If you run you might get away... you can start over. Find a new life, or stay a lowlife, down in Portland or Frisco.”

He got himself to his feet. “What the hell with?”

“With your skin for starters. Hock the jacket.” She pulled back, ready to hit him again. “Or lights-out...”

“All right, all right!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad.

Taking it, Max asked, “How much?”

“Fifteen hundred... Maybe you could steer your way clear to...”

She glared at him. “Disappear.”

The dealer took her advice.

She trotted off toward Crash, where her bike waited, even as the dealer’s shoes hammered the concrete as he ran-limped as far away from her as possible, making hollow echoes in the night.

The next afternoon Max found Vogelsang camped behind his desk, stuffing an Oreo into his mouth.

“Health food?” she said, stepping from the shadows.

The big man jumped — he hadn’t heard her come in. His eyes shot from her toward the double doors and the front of the laundry where the Asian woman was supposed to screen his visitors.

“I found another way in,” she said.

“What the hell... what the hell you doing here?”

“Didn’t you pencil me in?” she asked, stepping up to the desk, arching an eyebrow. “You did say a thousand.”

“Yeah, so?”

She tossed a thick envelope onto his desk. He looked at it as if it might bite, then picked it up, juggled it once, twice. He looked in the envelope — it wasn’t sealed — and studied the thickness of green admiringly.

“That’s a thousand,” she said.

“It would seem to be.”

“Go ahead and count it.”

“Naw... I wouldn’t insult you.” He set the package of Oreos aside, wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, and sat back in his chair. “Now... who is it you want me to find?”

“Two people.”

“But this is one thousand. What, are they together?”

She shook her head.

He cocked his bucket head and made the peace sign. “Max, that’s two cases... one, two.”

“Be that way,” she muttered, and reached for the wad of bills. “I’ll find somebody who likes my money.”

“Whoa, whoa — no need to go off like a little firecracker... I like your money just fine. I’ll take this as a down payment, if you understand with two cases, more time is obviously gonna be involved... and we’ll go from there.”

Max didn’t move for a long moment, then slowly relaxed and dropped into the chair behind her.

“Tell me about your two people,” Vogelsang said, the money disappearing into a desk drawer.

“First one is male — white, about my age, athletic, badass.”

“Distinguishing marks?”

She paused. “A barcode on the back of his neck.”

Vogelsang looked up. “A what?”

She repeated what she’d said, adding, “Just a funky tattoo... you know how it goes with us weird-ass kids.”

That seemed to answer it for Vogelsang, who began scrawling some notes. “Any idea where he is?”

“Here. Seattle.”

“It’s a big city.”

“And it’s your city, Mr. Vogelsang. That’s why I’m hiring you. If it was easy, I’d have found him by now.”

“Give me a more detailed description. More than just a badass with a barcode.”

She thought about that, then said, “Six-one, one-ninety maybe, dark hair... I think.”

Vogelsang’s eyes vanished into slits. “You think?”

“Saw him for ten seconds on a crappy video feed.”

She explained about what she’d seen on the news show, and that she thought she’d recognized a long-lost “relative.”

“Might be able to get that clip from somebody I know at SNN,” Vogelsang said, almost to himself. “He got a name, this long-lost relation?”

“Seth.”

“Last name?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know. He’d be using different ones. Maybe even different first names.”

Vogelsang studied the pad, then looked up at her. “Anything else? This is pretty slim.”

“The news story said he might be working with an underground journalist — Eyes Only?”

The detective’s eyes widened, and one of them twitched at the corner; he seemed to turn a whiter shade of pale. “Is that right...”

“Why? Is that gonna be a problem?”

The big man shrugged. “Could be. This Eyes Only guy, he’s on the g’s shit list. Politics make me nervous. Plus, this Eyes Only dude, he’s messed some people up... doesn’t like to be interfered with. Takes himself way too serious...”

Max offered the investigator a reassuring smile. “You find Seth, I’ll take care of Eyes Only... I’ll take the heat... if there’s a problem.”

Flipping a page in the notebook, Vogelsang said, “Okay — who’s missing person number two?”

Max sighed. “Afraid this is gonna be tough, too... maybe even tougher: a woman, Hannah, and that’s all the name I’ve got.”

“What does she look like?”

Max considered the private eye’s question, replayed that first night of freedom in her head. In her mind’s eye appeared a woman in her thirties with dishwater blond hair to her shoulders and wide-set blue eyes the color of a mountain stream... staring down at Max in her memory, as if the nine-year-old were still on that car floor.

She gave Vogelsang the description.

“Anything else?”

The Tahoe dived into a valley, then roared up beside Max, the tires sliding a little as the driver stomped on the brakes and locked them up. Max glimpsed the Wyoming plate, AGT 249, then the driver finally got control of the vehicle and pulled to a stop.

Max told him the license number.

“That’s it?”

“She may have been a nurse, or some other kind of medical personnel. Maybe for the federal government.”

Vogelsang wrote that down. He looked up, his smile friendly. “Okay... give me a week. You got a number?”

“Pager.” She gave him the number.

“Okay, Max — I’ll call when I’ve got something.”

“For a grand — you better.”

Outside the Sublime Laundry, Max hopped on the Ninja and headed for her crib. She felt both closer and farther from her sibs than she ever had.

Unless the media attention had spooked him, Seth was somewhere in this city, right now...

In the meantime, while Vogelsang did his thing, she’d be doing hers, just fitting in with her new Jam Pony family.

Funny... in her brief time on the planet, Max had been part of... and lost... three different families. First the Manticore sibs, then the Barretts, and finally the Chinese Clan.

She’d been separated from her siblings by a strange confluence of force and circumstance; and fleeing Mr. Barrett had been self-defense.

Still, sometimes late at night... and tonight would be one of those... she felt a twinge of guilt for abandoning Lucy, and for running out on Moody and Fresca and the others.

She wondered if the Jam Pony bunch would be just as impermanent.