"Oh, that makes all the difference."

But she folded her arms and stayed put.

The area wasn't quiet, but Holger didn't see or hear anything that didn't fit. It looked and sounded-and smelled- like a run-down neighborhood full of run-down tenements. Nothing he hadn't seen before. His trench coat was out of place here; made him look like cops. Useful at the moment. The street people eased out of his way and watched him with wary eyes.

The door to the building he sought was open. He entered the hallway and paused by the bottom of the staircase. A naked bulb halfway up the stairs to the next floor was the only light working to push back the gloom of the windowless hall. He went up the creaky stairs, headed for the third floor.

Two teenagers squatted on the second landing. They wore gang colors but they didn't posture or threaten when Holger reached the landing. For all the attention they paid him, he might not have existed. Holger noted the syringe one of them held in her dirty, limp hand. The sudden, harsh smell of fresh urine and the puddle spreading from beneath her companion said that these two pieces of urban trash were the real thing.

Holger pa.s.sed them by and walked down the dark hall. Black's apartment was the next to last on the left. Holger slid a card into the frame and encountered a resistant bolt. 1 ,ocked. He listened but heard nothing from the other side. One of the junkies on the landing sn.i.g.g.e.red when he rapped on the door.

There was no response.

After a minute, Holger took his lock opener from one of his trench coat's inner pockets. Standing to one side, he inserted the opener's rod into the keyhole, triggering the enzyme that would expand the plastic of the rod to match the tumblers. When the expanding plastic had nowhere to go but back into the opener, a second enzyme was released to halt expansion and stiffen the rod's new shape into a custom-fit key. Holger turned the opener and felt the bolt retract. Firmly gripping the Glock concealed in his pocket, he entered.

The room was empty.

The debris suggested that more than one person had been living in the apartment, possibly as many as three or four. Nothing suggesting that any of them were female. No doubt there were things here that a good lab could tie the people who had lived here to anyone he found-once he found them-but right now a full sc.r.a.ping search of the place was a waste of time; a hair was anonymous unless you had other hairs or something else with the same DNA structure to compare it with.

His search gained him one significant item to confirm that he was on the right track. Gummed to the inside of a trash can by some noxious black substance was an embroidered patch. Pried free and turned over, it revealed the likeness of a small dog in armor, a symbol of the Woodman Armory. Such patches were worn by the security guards at the museum. Examination of the patch showed that it had been carefully cut from a garment, probably by someone who had wanted to keep the shirt wearable. Someone who had left Worcester wearing only the clothes on his back might want to keep such a shirt wearable even if he wanted to rid himself of any visible a.s.sociation with the museum. Someone like John Reddy maybe?

Circ.u.mstantial evidence, but suggestive.

He heard familiar footfalls in the hall. He wasn't surprised when Spae spoke from the doorway.

"I told you there was no one here."

"And you were correct, Doctor. I've satisfied myself here for now. We may as well leave."

He had seen enough. Black's return to this place showed him to be unimaginative and, frankly, fairly stupid. But the runaway custodian was not so stupid as to stay here once he had a hint-as Holger's call had been-that someone was onto him. Black and his companions had abandoned this place, but they were still out there somewhere, probably gone to ground. Their coming here in the first place suggested that Black was their leader, or at the least their native guide. That was fine by Holger, for Black had already demonstrated his skill level in hide-and-seek. Holger would find them. It was just going to be a matter of time.

At least he and Spae were ahead of the Mitsutomo team. Those corporate slugs were still working Worcester.

CHAPTER.

I2.

lt was the first truly sunny day in weeks, and John couldn't pa.s.s up the chance to take in some of the warm radiance. His tears of being recognized had been laid to rest long ago, so lounging on the porch of MaxMix Manor didn't seem dangerous in the least. This was his neighborhood now-more or less; he knew the people who lived here and could spot a stranger as far as he could see along twisty River Street.

But for all that, he didn't really belong here.

Still, the day was too fine to let old anxieties nag him into a foul mood. He sat down on the railing and swung up his feet; the balcony support at his back allowed him to maintain his balance on the narrow seat. The sun washed over him, warm and soothing, seeming even to mute the music blaring from the Ramirez house down the street. It was still weeks before the real spring weather would arrive, and the heat felt good. He felt calmer than he had in some time, mellowed.

Was this how cats felt when they stretched out in a sunbeam?

Like a cat, he slitted his eyes and watched the street without seeming to. River Street didn't get a lot of traffic, mostly just locals on foot or bicycle going about their business. Not too many cars; the road was full of untended potholes. It was a bad part of town, don't you know.

Feeling relaxed, John just watched the kids playing in the street, racing between the old multistory houses and across yards, sidewalks, and street as if there were no distinction. Once in a while a car would negotiate the road, dodging pits and kids as necessary. Slick d.i.c.k put in an appearance in the lot by Rosamund's Haircuttery and set up shop early; Slick must have been touched by the fineness of the day as well, because John saw him actually accept trade goods for th junk he was pushing. The day was almost ruined when Mr. Talisano's thunderous old Chevy fumer rumbled past in blue clouds of foul-smelling exhaust. Mr. Talisano was a good mechanic, which was the only way he could keep that old antique running, but he wasn't a sensible guy; gas guzzlers like the Chevy were just too anti-green.

A twin pair of black leather jackets turned the corner from Pickett, a guy and a girl with arms wrapped around each other. He recognized the male's silhouette at once; such a tall, rail-thin scarecrow had to be Hector. Since the guy was Hector, the girl had to be Carla, his woman. John didn't need to see the backs of their jackets to know they were painted with the flaming-rapier emblem of the Downtown Dons. Though the pair were both several years younger than John, their emblems were older and more worn than the one on the back of John's jacket.

Hector disengaged himself from Carla and bounced up the steps. Spinning, he kicked out and knocked John's feet from the railing. John nearly followed them, but not quite. He'd antic.i.p.ated Hector's move and had taken a restraining grip on the railing. Hector grinned at John while he swung his feet back up onto the railing. Once John was settled, Hector's face went all solemn.

"Watch them rays, okay, Compadre Jack? They make you pale boys look like the main course at Red Lobster house. Don't you be thinking you can go cancerboy on us and darken up to a real color."

Life with the Dons wasn't the same as living on the street alone, nor was it like having a corporate family, but it was a way of getting by. If getting by was all you wanted. Three months hadn't reconciled John to thinking of Hector as any kind of family, even if he was friendlier than many of the gangers. Nor had those months gotten him used to the physical liberties Hector took. But those months had taught him how to play the game.

"Making like a lizard, Compadre. Rays is warm." He stretched out a hand and inspected it ostentatiously. "Girls like me well enough pale like this."

Carla giggled.

Hector looked at her sideways. "Girls get strange sometimes. Who can figure?"

Carla tilted her head down and gave Hector a wicked grin. "I thought you liked strange."

"Time and place, babe." He grinned. "Time and place."

They welded themselves back together. When they came up for air, Hector turned to John.

"Say and hey, where's the warlord?"

"Why? Trouble brewing?"

Hector shrugged. "Who can say? Nothing the Dons can't handle, hey? Don't got all day to look." He squeezed Carla and she squeaked. "So, where's he be?"

MaxMix Manor had once been a beautiful private home with a big bay window that punched out the front of the building on the first two floors. John pointed with his head toward the second story, where an open window leaked something that sounded like a doc.u.mentary on helicopters.

"Bear's facing again," he said, using the slang the loose way most of the folks around here did. The warlord wasn't actually in direct machine interface, just using the vid set. He didn't even have a virtual receptor headset, but any interaction with tech was "facing" around here.

"Don't seem right, ya know?"

No, John didn't know. Artos was doing what he'd been doing since he woke up, learning. Learning about anything and everything about the strange world he found himself in.

There was nothing wrong with that, but around here, learning anything not directly related to survival was considered a waste of time. That's what didn't seem right to John. Life in the Northeast sprawl, and the people here, were very different from what he knew. He didn't feel at home at all; too much was different, and it made him unhappy.

Hector looked up at the window, uncertainty on his face. "You been hanging with him longer than me, Compadre Jack. He gonna get squeaky if this ain't important?"

"Depends on how stupid your news is."

"I dunno. Maybe I should come back."

"He'll squeak for sure if it's important and you don't tell him. Only one way to find out."

Hector looked dubious. Apparently, intruding on the warlord was a very serious business.

"No b.a.l.l.s, no fun," John taunted. Hector's interruption of his lazing, then the hesitancy to follow through, made John testy. "He does have cojones, doesn't he, Carla?"

"More than you, bianco," Hector bristled before his woman could answer. "Maybe I'll cut yours off and add them to my collection."

"And maybe I'll eat yours for lunch."

"Anytime, bianco."

"That's what Chico said."

"This ain't no dark alley and you ain't got no allies."

"You said 'anytime.' But it ain't gonna be now, 'cause I ain't starting a cut and slash under the warlord's nose. I can wait. I've waited before."

It was low and a little stupid, but that was the way John felt most of the time around these people. Low, and a little stupid. If he didn't come to grips with it, it'd get him in real trouble. To judge by Hector's scowl, he might be in real trouble already. And Hector was one of the friendlier gangers. Making s.e.xual slurs in front of the guy's squeeze might not have been the brightest idea, but it was beat by bringing up that business with Chico. More than a little stupid. But the code said you never backed down unless you wanted to get torn down.

The only way out was sliding around the problem. Later would be, well, later.

"You want to see Bear or not?"

"Yes," Carla answered quickly.

Hector accepted the out. With an elaborate shrug he reset-lied his jacket and dropped the tension out of his shoulders.

"Compadre Bear's the man we came to see."

"Let's go, then." John led them upstairs to Bear's room, rapping twice on the door before opening it. The warlord of l he Downtown Dons spun his rickety old office chair around and stood. The Don of Dons wasn't a tall man, but his breadth of shoulders was impressive. He looked a lot more commanding in black leathers and studs than he had in a ratty velvet robe.

"Hector, my man," said Artos, whom the Dons knew as Compadre Bear, their warlord.

Compadre Bear was a different man from "Ar-tos, not Ar-tur." A lot had changed since John and Artos had abandoned Trashcan Harry's apartment and hit the streets, and Artos had come a long way from the confused and confusing refugee who'd followed John's lead since that night of magic at the museum. Together with Trashcan Harry they'd gone I rom homeless wanderers to members of this urban gang. Artos had even made himself leader of the gang. He was a quick learner; his command of street idiom was only one proof of that.

Uncharacteristically hesitant, Hector started, "I don't wanna bother..."

"No bother, Compadre. Always time for a warrior." I lector grinned at the implied compliment. He even flashed his teeth at John, as if to cement his worth and superiority over John. John had yet to fight in one of the gang's wars. Ilear ignored the byplay. "Jack, get the lady a seat."

While John did as he was told, Hector, obviously impressed by his reception, just babbled out his thoughts. "You're not like Compadre Ferd."

"Ferddy was a booter," Bear said admiringly as he rubbed at his rib cage where the previous warlord had cracked it in their first encounter. The demonstration of scars was good etiquette here. It served as a form of history, a way of remembering what had happened to you. It also served to show you belonged, a way of demonstrating you had earned your place. John's scars weren't so demonstrable.

"Yeah, a real booter," John agreed. "All fist, no brain."

"But Ferddy's gone," Bear said firmly. "I do things differently." Hector nodded and Carla looked expectant, almost hopeful. "Why have you come to see me?"

Carla and Hector exchanged glances. She nodded almost imperceptibly. He spoke.

"Trashcan Harry ain't come into Louie's last night."

"He doesn't go every night," John pointed out.

"He does when Ledo's singing," Hector informed him.

Bear ran fingers through his beard, thinking for a moment before stating, "Ledo sent you."

Carla nodded. "She got a soft spot for strays. Thinks the old dode's sweet, not that she'd want him to know. G.o.d help her, the dode trails after her too much already. But she's, you know, worried that, like, something might have happened to him. We're just doing a favor for her, you know."

"Compa.s.sion for others is nothing to be ashamed about." Bear didn't specify anyone's compa.s.sion in particular, but John took it as a condemnation of his att.i.tude. Bear wasn't looking at him, though. "Anyone seen him around today?"

Trashcan Harry rarely pa.s.sed up a meal, and John realized the old custodian had done so today. "He wasn't in the kitchen this morning."

He was surprised to find himself worried about the guy. Strange as it was-strange as Trashcan Harry was-Harry was John's only link to the life he used to lead. Well, not only. Faye was still around. Occasionally. Very occasionally.

His memories swept him back to the night his old life had died. He remembered the terror and the confusion, the wonder of what he had seen. Trashcan Harry had shown up and offered a way out, and John had grabbed it, running away from what he couldn't deal with. At the time, the custodian had seemed a G.o.dsend, someone who knew what to do, which John had found comforting. The next morning, John had learned that he was supposed to be dead; Trashcan Harry had shown him the net story.

In shock, he'd listened to Trashcan's plan, listened and agreed. Trashcan Harry had told him that there were people out there who knew that John was involved in what had happened at the museum, and who knew that he was not dead. They had to avoid those people. John had listened. That was how he'd found himself at the train station, telling himself over and over that the old guy had experience and that he was older than John, that he had some idea of what was going on. The only part of Trashcan Harry's plan John had balked at was the suggestion that they leave Artos behind. John insisted; it had been obvious that the guy needed someone to look after him. More than obvious when it came time to get Artos on the train. Artos had been pretty pa.s.sive until he saw the train pull into the station, but one look at the train had set him to backing up and quivering. Only continual a.s.surances from John that it was safe had persuaded him to board. Artos had been nearly catatonic the whole way to Boston, but it had been easier to get him onto the next train and, by the end of that ride, Artos had been almost back to his nervous, paranoid self.

It wasn't until they had been holed up in Trashcan Harry's Providence apartment for a couple of days that John realized the old guy was as clueless as Artos about what to do next. But before John's trust was totally undermined, the phone rang. The call had immediately put Trashcan Harry on edge, He'd insisted that they bail out of the apartment. They'd hit the streets, directionless. With winter coming on, it had been ... unpleasant, with even worse prospects. Then they had their run-in with the Downtown Dons and life had changed again. If it hadn't been for Artos ...

They'd joined the gang, and now even John could see that the gang was better off. Artos had restructured the Dons, bringing his brand of law and justice. Even the gang's neighborhood had prospered; though most of its inhabitants still lived in the twilight world of shadows cast by the corporate mainstream and neglectful governmental monoliths, they were better off than they had been. But while living in MaxMix Manor wasn't like living in a rezcom, life in the Manor wasn't as bad as it used to be. If it hadn't been for Artos...

Yeah, if it hadn't been for Artos.

Was his mother still living in their apartment in Rezcom 3?.

"Jack?"

Bear's voice. Time had pa.s.sed; Hector and Carla were gone. The warlord's interruption wasn't exactly welcome.

"What?"

"You're thinking about going back again."

It wasn't a question. It also wasn't a wrong guess. When John had followed Trashcan Harry into the night, he hadn't realized that all of his previous life was being left behind. If he had, he might not have followed Trashcan.

"Is it that obvious?"

"To some." John felt Bear's eyes on him, but the man didn't say anything else until John looked up and met his gaze. "You can't, you know."

"With ail the weirdness that's been coming down in the world, who says the dead can't rise?"

"You're not dead."

"My mom doesn't know that. I shouldn't have let her believe that."

"What's done is done. You thought it wise at the time."

"So I was stupid, all right?"