Jack wove through the crowd and made his way to the bar. He wasn't look-ing for a drink, just a vantage point. He reached the corner and started looking around. He'd brought his camera just in case he found Bolton in a corner with a lip lock on one of the waitresses. A photo of that might pry Dawn out of his bed.
He did a slow scan of the front end—no sign of him here—and was starting toward the pool tables at the rear, when someone grabbed his arm.
Jack looked and found himself in the grip of a short but beefy biker type whose breath reeked of Jack Daniels. He had a balding head and a huge red handlebar mustache. Jack half expected him to shout, Great horny toads! or call him a varmint.
"My girl says you was starin at her, you sonuvabitch!"
Jack could barely hear him over the music, but he knew the drill with these guys. They got to feeling mean after a few shots and looked for any excuse to throw a few punches. If you admit looking at his girl, he punches you. If you deny looking at his girl, he accuses you of calling him a liar and punches you. A no-win situation.
The last thing Jack wanted was to draw attention to himself. He gave him a close look.
"Sam?" he shouted over the music. "Is that you?"
The guy looked confused. "What?"
"You're not Yosemite Sam?"
"Ain't no kinda Sam, and you was starin at my girl."
"You might be right, but truth is, Sam, I don't know who your girl is."
"I ain't Sam, and that's her, right there."
He pointed to a busty babe in a skimpy black leather halter top watching them with glittery eyes and a nasty smile.
"Oh, her. Her name wouldn't happen to be Cindy, would it?"
"Cindy? Hell, no. It's Roxanne."
"Weird, man. She's a dead ringer for a girl I knew in high school. I thought it might be Cindy Patterson but I guess not."
As Sam digested these departures from the usual script, Jack looked around for a way out. That was when he spotted Bolton leaning with his back against the bar, staring off into space.
Thinking about the Key to the future, maybe?
And then a whole scenario leaped to full-blown life.
"But listen, Sam," he said, leaning close.
"I ain't Sam, goddammit."
"Oh, right. There's a guy down there been giving Roxanne the eye all night. And I can't be sure, but I think she's been eyeing him back. You know, like they know each other."
He cocked a hst. "You tryin to tell me—?"
"Hey-hey, I could be wrong. But if you and I get into a fight and get thrown out, that'll leave a certain someone a clear field with Roxanne."
He looked around. "Where is this guy?"
Jack nodded toward Bolton. "Down there—tall guy in the denims and cowboy boots. Watch out. He looks tough."
"He looks like a pussy]" he growled. "You wanna see what tough looks like, you watch!"
He started nosing through the crowd like a rottweiler called to dinner.
Go, Sam. Get that there varmint.
Jack watched him step up to Bolton and say something, saw Bolton shake his head and respond with a condescending smile. Sam's fist flashed out but Bolton dodged it and swung a fist of his own.
After that, things got confusing as women screamed and men shouted, some fleeing the fight, some moving toward it, a pair of bouncers homing in, and an infuriated, red-faced, out-of-control Bolton swinging a pool cue at a bloody and astonished-looking Sam. He checked the bartenders but none of them was calling the cops. Probably hoping their guys could control it.
Jack pulled out his officialdom phone and headed for the door.
Somebody had to be a good citizen and phone in this terrible, frightful melee before someone was seriously hurt.
9
Aaron Levy settled at his desk in his Creighton office and opened Hank Thompson's file. No easy task to find it. The clerical staff was long gone. The only people left were the skeleton medical crew and night security. And since Thompson's stay here had begun and ended before Creighton had gone digital, he wasn't in the computer. Aaron had had to retrieve the physical chart from the basement archives himself.
He shuffled quickly to the lab results.
Hmmm. Thompson had been a strong reactor to the fluorescent antibody test. Interesting. Newer tests could better quantify the content, but Hank Thompson might well be a contender for the upper echelons of the oDNA rankings.
It shouldn't be a problem to check. If everyone had done their job down through the years, blood and tissue samples from Hank Thompson should be sitting in the freezer.
Aaron smiled with pride at his foresight. He'd known biotechnology would progress by leaps and bounds, so he'd planned for the future. He might never have a chance to examine these subjects again in person, but he'd have their DNA at his beck and call.
He flipped through the documentation and was surprised to see his signature on the order to transfer him to Creighton. He shook his head. So many inmates over the years. Couldn't remember them all. But why Thompson? What had brought him to Creighton's attention?
A couple of more flips and he found it. The charge had been GTA. Not the typical Creighton-worthy offense. Then he saw it. Seemed young Hank had become violent when the cops pulled him out of his stolen car. Took five of them to hold him down so he could be cuffed, and even then he'd kicked and screamed and struggled. Had to put him in leg irons. Seemed they'd found a liberal application of the baton necessary to subdue him. His mug shot showed swollen cheeks and blackened eyes.
Yes, that sort of violence would trigger a look. Blood had been taken, he'd reacted with a strong positive, so off he'd gone to Creighton.
Only one admission, which meant no further convictions—because once a Creighton inmate, always a Creighton inmate. Any further convictions brought you straight back. Somehow Thompson had learned to control or sublimate his violent tendencies, or had managed to escape arrest and conviction. Or perhaps he didn't carry the trigger gene. They hadn't known the existence of the trigger at the time he was here. But Aaron would check for it now.
Vital statistics. Hmmm. Born January of the same year as Jeremy Bolton. Eleven months older. Interesting coincidence. Born in Selma, Alabama, to Diane Thompson. Father unlisted. No sibs. Another parallel: Both Thompson and Bolton grew up the only sons of poor single mothers.
Aaron made a note: Check sib rate of high reactors. Does high oDNA level inhibit subsequent sibs?
He'd just turned to the last page when his cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and saw no name. Robertson? He took the call.
"Yes?"
"/z'.s me. Our mutual friend was just led away from a bar in cuffs by the TSYPD. Seems he got into a bad fight. He's being processed now at the hundred-and-twelfth precinct.""
And then the caller was gone. But Aaron knew who it was.
He's done it!
Somehow, someway, Jack had succeeded in getting Bolton arrested. And making it look like Bolton's own fault, it would seem.
Amazing.
The routine fingerprint check at the precinct would set off alarms in Vi-CAP. The resultant firestorm would cause a PR nightmare for Creighton, but that wasn't his problem. The agency would have to handle it. One thing for certain: Jeremy Bolton was off the street for good.
Aaron leaned back. Thank God! Maybe now he'd be able to get a decent night's sleep.
As he sat there his gaze fell upon Hank Thompson's file and the discharge photo he'd opened to. Something familiar about his eyes…
And then it came to him.
Aaron felt his jaw drop as a cold wave of shock swept through him. He knew why young Hank Thompson looked so familiar. At least he was pretty sure. Had to confirm.
He lit up his computer terminal and tapped in the access code for Jeremy Bolton's highly restricted file. He paged down till he reached the intake photo, then leaned forward, staring.
Oh, yes. Oh, yes! This was wonderful. Not only would Bolton be back in custody, but Aaron had thisl
&
nbsp; Absolutely wonderful!
SUNDAY
1
Jack used a piece of toast to guide the last bits of his Everything Omelet—bacon, sausage, ham, mushrooms, onions, and hot peppers—onto his fork. Gia was at PT and Vicky had gone along with her. Abe slept in on Sundays, so he'd wandered over to the Highwater Diner in the West Fifties—so far west it was practically in the Hudson. He loved diners and the Highwater still sported its original chrome trim from the 1940s. But it and its kin were becoming an endangered species in Manhattan. He missed the old Munson on Eleventh Avenue—it closed in 2004. He liked the Cheyenne on Ninth down in the Thirties as well, but sensed its days were numbered too.
Figured he'd better enjoy the survivors while he could. Diner coffee, bacon, toast, two eggs over easy—was there a better meal in the world? And George Kuropolis, owner and chief cook, knew how to fry them with just enough easy on the over. But this morning Jack had celebrated with an EO.
He nursed his third cup of coffee at the counter while bald, chubby George fiddled with the radio, flipping from station to station, looking for who knew what. Not much happening radiowise on Sunday mornings.
Especially today. Why no story on Bolton? The one-twelve must have run his prints by now. The airwaves should be screaming the news about the life-imprisoned Atlanta abortionist assassin being arrested in a bar fight in Queens. But nothing. Maybe the cops were keeping it quiet till they double-checked the prints and called in the feds.
Sometime today it would hit. Had to. And then Bolton would be toast as far as the clinical trial was concerned.
Such a simple solution. He hadn't thought of it until Sam had started hassling him. With all that violence just bubbling under Bolton's skin, getting punched by some drunk was more than enough to set it free. After that—
"Whoa!" he said, waving to George as he heard a lamiJiar voice. "Turn back. What was that?"
George gave him a look. "Since when do you care, Jack?" But he turned it back.
"There!" he said when he heard Hank Thompson's voice. "What station is that?"
He squinted at the dial. "Eight-twenty. Why?"
WNYC—the NPR station.
"Can we listen just a moment?"
"Usually we keep news on, but for you…"
Jack had done some work for George a while back.
"Just a few seconds."
He listened to Thompson's now-familiar rap, then heard the host say that he was "live in our studio"—as opposed to dead?—and would take some calls.
"Thanks," Jack said as he gulped his coffee, threw a ten on the counter—enough for the food plus a big tip—and headed for the door.
Where the hell was WNYC?
He called information and learned it was on Centre Street. Down by City Hall Park. He flagged a cab and headed downtown.
One Centre Street turned out to be a mini-skyscraper. He didn't know where WNYC was in the building and didn't care. All he needed was to spot Hank Thompson leaving.
He didn't feel properly caffeinated yet, so he ordered yet another cup of coffee from a street cart.
"To go," he added, just for fun.
The cart guy gave him a look. "It's way too early on a Sunday morning to fuck with me."
Whistling "I Love New York," Jack found a spot across the street where he could watch the entrance. He was just settling in when his phone rang—possibly the last phone in the city that still had a bell tone instead of music.
He checked the caller ID and saw a 914 area code.
Levy.
"We've got to meet," he said without preamble.
"We met yesterday. Any word yet on that matter I called you about last night?"
"Plenty. That's one of the reasons we have to talk."
Jack didn't like the sound of that. "Meaning?"
"He's out."
"Out?"
"As in free on bail."
"What? How the hell—?"
"1 know how, and that"s one of the reasons we need to meet again."
"That one's plenty. We don't need another."
"We do." Levy sounded exeited. "I have startling—no, amazing news."
"You've already given me that."
"This might top it."
"Give."
"Not on the phone. Besides, you'll have to see to believe."
"Well, you'll have to come down to the city."
"It's Sunday. My wife—"
"If it's important enough you'll find a way."
A pause, then, "I suppose I could take a few hours… where will we meet?"
"I'm outside One Centre Street at the moment."
"But I don't know the city."
"Christ, you must have a GPS in that Infiniti. Use it."
"Oh. Yes. Right. Forgot about that."
"Set it for One Centre Street and go where it tells you. There's no traffic this hour on a Sunday. You'll be here in no time."
He thumbed the END button and returned his attention to the building entrance, but his thoughts were on what Levy had said.
Bolton free on bail… how the hell could that be? Somebody might have the pull to clamp down on the news, but nobody had enough to keep the Atlanta abortionist assassin from going back to finish his sentence.
Someone somewhere had screwed up big time.
And then this other thing… startling, amazing news that had to be seen to be believed… what was that all about?
Half an hour passed while he mulled these as-yet unanswered questions. He was debating a fifth cup of coffee when he spotted Thompson popping through the entrance and stepping to the curb. He flagged a taxi and Jack did the same, giving the driver a follow-that-cab line. The guy, whose name was Mustafa, looked like he was just back from the jihad. He didn't even blink.
2
Jeremy lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. He couldn't believe they'd let him go. When they'd slapped those cuffs on him at Work he had that same lost, helpless, panicked feeling he'd had way back in his teens when they'd cornered him for the Atlanta killings.
What had happened? Had they screwed up the prints? Did the computer burp while it was processing his and not recognize them?
Or had it been a higher power, guiding his fate?
Whatever the reason, he was glad he was out.
He stretched out his hand, expecting to touch Dawn. Instead he found an empty bed. Then he heard the toilet flush and Dawn stumbled into the room, looking pale.
"Somethin wrong, darlin?"
"Feel crummy." Rubbing her arms she crossed the room and closed the two windows. "It's freezing in here!"
He repressed a flash of anger. She hadn't even asked.
"You know I like fresh air."
An open window… no such thing at Creighton. Ever since he got out he'd kept one open in every room. Now, even though the window had been closed only a few seconds, he felt closed in. But he couldn't tell Dawn that.
She tumbled into bed and pulled the covers over her. Jeremy reached under and rubbed his palm over her ass.
"Too crummy for a little lovin?"
She pushed his hand away.
"Totally."
"Hey, you mad at me? That fight wasn't my fault. I was just—"
"If you were home here instead of hanging out at a bar while I'm working—"
Anger flashed through Jeremy but he controlled it.
"Hey, now, darlin. I told you to quit that job."
"And I did. I gave my notice but I can't leave them totally high and dry."
"Fuck "em."
Truth was, he didn't want her or anybody else around all the time. Back at Creighton, day and night, twenty-four/seven, someone had always been around. Even though he craved his own time, needed to be able to drop into a place like Work and just hang, he had to act like the devoted, protective, take-charge boyfriend. He thought of playing that guy Joe Henry's video game yesterday—most likely wouldn't have been able to do that with Dawn along.
That guy was all right—a gamer and a Kicker to be.
He gave her butt a gentle pat instead of the hard slap he wanted to.
"Will do. Sleep tight, darlin."
He returned to staring at the ceiling, wondering why he wasn't in shackles on his way back to Creighton, when her words came back to him.
… I feel like shit. . .
Could it be? Could she have morning sickness? If she did it meant for sure that a higher power was watching out for him. Freed from Creighton… released from jail last night… and now this.
He suppressed a giddy laugh.
Oh, please, yes. Pleasel
Oh, Daddy, wherever you are, this could be it!
3
They wound up on the Lower East Side, some side street off Allen, just uptown from Delancey and Chinatown. An old, old part of the city. That writer Winslow lived down here. Coincidence? Yeah, well, a lot of people lived down here—mostly Asian.
Thompson's cab stopped before an old stone building stuck amid brick-fronted tenements. A bedsheet had been strung between two second-floor windows. Someone had spray-painted the now too familiar figure of the Kicker Man on it.
This had to be one of the clubs Thompson had mentioned.
Jack had his driver cruise past and drop him around the corner.
Now what?
Was Thompson just visiting, or was this where he was crashing while in the city? He certainly could afford a hotel room, but maybe he wanted to maintain proletarian cred. Was this where he kept the Compendium?
Jack was staring at the building when a breeze caught the Kicker Man banner and flapped it up. He stiffened when he saw the carving beneath it: the Escherish seal of the Septimus Lodge.
The Lodge… that's what they'd called the one in his hometown… a secret society that supposedly predated the Masons and made them seem like an open book. Jack had sneaked into the local outpost as a kid and had a vague recollection of being unsettled by what he'd seen. Nothing like the fanciful tales whispered in the kids' underground, but definitely strange.
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