"If you do it should be used already. Don't give those gonifs another royalty. And set aside a long time. A thousand or so pages it runs."

Jack winced. "Do they have Cliff Notes for it?"

"You might find something like that online. All sorts of nuts online."

"Still, millions of people seem to believe in it."

"Feh! Millions, shmillions. That's what they they say. It's a fraction of that, I'll bet." say. It's a fraction of that, I'll bet."

"Well, it's soon going to be a fraction plus one. I'm a-goin' to church."

"You mean you're joining a cult."

"They call themselves a church. The government agrees."

Abe snorted. "Church smurch. We should listen to the government? Dormentalists give up control to their leaders; all decisions are made for them-how to think, what to believe, where to live, how to dress, what country country even! With no responsibility there's no guilt, no outcome anxiety, so they feel a mindless sort of peace. That's a cult, and a cult is a cult no matter what the government says. If the Department of Agriculture called a bagel an apple, would that make it an apple? No. It would still be a bagel." even! With no responsibility there's no guilt, no outcome anxiety, so they feel a mindless sort of peace. That's a cult, and a cult is a cult no matter what the government says. If the Department of Agriculture called a bagel an apple, would that make it an apple? No. It would still be a bagel."

"But what do they believe?"

"Get yourself The Book of Hokano The Book of Hokano and read, bubbie, read. And trust me, with that in front of you, insomnia will be no worry." and read, bubbie, read. And trust me, with that in front of you, insomnia will be no worry."

"Yeah, well, I'll sleep even better if you find me a way to become a citizen again."

Impending fatherhood was doing a number on Jack's lifestyle, making him look for a way to return to aboveground life without attracting too much official attention. It wouldn't have been easy pre-9/11, but now... sheesh. If he couldn't provide a d.a.m.n good explanation of his whereabouts for the last fifteen years, and why he wasn't on the Social Security roles or in the IRS data banks as ever filing a 1040, he'd be put under the Homeland Security microscope. He doubted his past could withstand that kind of scrutiny, and he didn't want to spend the rest of his life under observation.

Had to find another way. And the best idea seemed to be a new ident.i.ty... become someone with a past.

"Any more from your guy in Europe?"

Abe had contacts all over the world. Someone in Eastern Europe had said he might be able to work out something-for a price, of course.

Abe shook his head. "Nothing definite. He's still working on it. Trust me, when I know, you'll know."

"Can't wait forever, Abe. The baby's due mid-March."

"I'll try to hurry him. I'm doing my best. You should know that."

Jack sighed. "Yeah. I do."

But the waiting, the dependence on a faceless contact, the frustration of not being able to fix this on his own... it ate at him.

He held up the book. "Got a bag?"

"What? Afraid people will think you're a Dormentalist?"

"You got it."

8.

"Slow down, Vicky," Gia said. "Chew your food."

Vicky loved mussels in white wine and garlic sauce. She ate them with a gusto that warmed Jack's heart, scooping out the meat with her little fork, dipping it in the milky sauce, then popping it into her mouth. She ate quickly, methodically, and as she worked her way through the bowl she arranged her empty sh.e.l.ls on the discard plate in her own fashion: inserting the latest into the previous, hinge first, creating a tight daisy chain of glistening black sh.e.l.ls.

Her hair, braided into a French twist, was almost as dark as the sh.e.l.ls; she had her mother's blue eyes and perfect skin, and had been nine years old for a whole two weeks now.

Every Sunday since his return from Florida, Jack had made a point of taking Gia and Vicky out for what he liked to think of as a family dinner. To-night had been Vicky's turn to decide where they ate and, true to form, she chose Amalia's in Little Italy.

The tiny restaurant had occupied the same spot on Hester Street off Mulberry since shortly after the discovery of fire. It had gained the status of a Little Italy inst.i.tution without becoming a tourist trap. The main reason for that was Mama Amalia, who decided who got seated and who didn't. No matter if a stranger had been waiting for an hour on a busy night, if she knew you from the neighborhood or as a regular, you got the next available table. Countless tourists had left in a huff.

Like Mama Amalia could care. She'd been running her place this way all her adult life. She wasn't about to change.

Mama had a thing for Vicky. The two had hit it off from the start and Mama always gave Vicky the royal treatment, including the traditional two-cheek air kiss she'd taught her, a big hug, and an extra cannoli for the trip home. The fact that her mother's last name was DiLauro didn't hurt.

The seating was family style, at long tables covered with red- and white-checkered cloths. With the crowd light tonight, Gia, Vicky, and Jack wound up with a table to themselves. Jack worked on his calamari fritti and a second Moretti while Gia picked at her sliced tomatoes and mozzarella. She and Vicky were splitting a bottle of Limonata. Normally Gia would have been sipping a gla.s.s of Pinot Grigio, but she'd sworn off alcohol as soon as she discovered she was pregnant.

"Not hungry?" Jack said, noticing that she'd only half finished her appetizer.

Gia had let her blond hair grow out a little but it was still short by most standards. She wore black slacks and a loose blue sweater. But even in a tight top he doubted anyone would know she was pregnant. Despite nearing the end of her fourth month, Gia was barely showing.

She shrugged. "Not particularly."

"Anything wrong?"

She hugged her arms against herself as she glanced at Vicky who was still absorbed in her mussels. "I just don't feel right."

Now that she'd said that, Jack noticed that she did look a little pale.

"A virus?"

"Maybe. I feel kind of crampy."

Jack felt a stab of pain in his own stomach.

"What kind of cramps?" He lowered his voice. "It's not the baby, is it?"

She shook her head. "No. Just... cramps. Only now and then, few and far between. Don't worry."

"Don't worry about what?" Vicky said, looking up from her mussel sh.e.l.l rosette.

"Mommy's not feeling so hot," Gia told her. "Remember how your stomach was upset last week. I think I may have it now."

Vicky had to think a moment, then said. "Oh, yeah. That was gross, but not too bad. You'll be okay if you drink Gatorade, Mom. Just like me."

She went back to arranging her sh.e.l.ls.

A virus... Jack hoped that was all it was.

Gia grabbed his hand. "I see that look. Don't worry worry, okay? I just had my monthly checkup and Dr. Eagleton says everything's going fine."

"Hey, if she can't tell whether it's a boy or a girl yet, how do we know she-?"

Gia held up her hand in a traffic-cop move. "Don't go there. She delivered Vicky and she's been my gynecologist ever since. As far as I'm concerned she's the best OB on the planet."

"Okay, okay. It's just I worry, you know? I'm new to this whole thing."

She smiled. "I know. But by the time March rolls around, you'll be a pro."

Jack hoped so.

He poked at his calamari rings. He wasn't so hungry anymore.

9.

Jack returned to his apartment after dropping off Vicky and Gia-who was feeling better-at their Sutton Square townhouse. He'd been carrying his .380 AMT Backup at the restaurant but wanted something a little more impressive along when he visited Cordova's place-just in case he got backed into a corner.

He wound through the Victorian oak furniture of his cluttered front room-Gia had once called it "claustrophobic," but she seemed used to it these days-and headed for the old fold-out secretary against the far wall. He occupied the third floor of a West Eighties brownstone that was much too small for all the neat stuff he'd acc.u.mulated over the years. He didn't know what he was going to do with it once he and Gia were married. It was a given that he'd move to Sutton Square, but what would happen to all this?

He'd worry about it when the time came.

He angled the secretary out from the wall and reached for the notch in the lower rear panel. His hand stopped just inches away. The hidden s.p.a.ce behind the drawers held his weapons cache-and, since Florida, something else. That something else tended to make him a little queasy.

He pushed his hand forward and removed the panel. Hung on self-adhering hooks or jumbled on the floor of the s.p.a.ce lay his collection of saps, knives, bullets, pistols. The latest addition was a souvenir from his Florida trip, a huge Ruger SuperRedhawk revolver chambered for .454 Casulls that would stop an elephant. Not many elephants around here, and the Ruger's nine-and-a-half-inch barrel made it impractical as a city carry, but he couldn't let it go.

Another thing in the hidden compartment he couldn't let go-or rather, wouldn't let go of him-was a flap of skin running maybe ten inches wide and twelve long. Another leftover from that same trip, it was all that remained of a strange old woman named Anya. Yeah, a woman with a dog, a heroic little chihuahua named Oyv.

He'd tried to rid himself of this grisly reminder of the horrors that had gone down in Florida, but it refused to go. He'd buried it once in Florida and twice again during the two months since he'd returned, but it wouldn't stay. By the time he got home it was already here, waiting for him. As little as a year ago he would have been shocked, repulsed, horrified, and questioning his sanity. Now... he simply went with it. He'd come to the gut-wrenching realization that he was no longer in control of his life. Sometimes he wondered if he'd ever been.

After the third try he'd given up on burying the skin. Anya had been much more than she'd let on. Her strange powers hadn't prevented her death, but apparently they stretched beyond the grave. For some reason she wanted him to have this piece of her and was giving him no choice about it. That being the case, he'd go with the flow, certain that sooner or later he'd find out why.

He unfolded the rectangle of skin, supple and fresh as new leather, showing not a trace of decomposition, and stared again at the bewildering pattern of pocked scars crisscrossed with the lines of fine, razor-thin cuts. It meant something, he was sure. But what?

Quarter folding it, he put it away and picked up his Clock 19. He checked the magazine-9mm Magsafe Defenders alternating with copper-jacketed Remingtons-then slammed it home and chambered a round. He changed into darker clothes and traded his loafers for black Thorogrip steel-toed boots. He already had the AMT strapped to his ankle. He slipped the Glock into a nylon small-of-the-back holster and was good to go.

10.

Jack stood on Cordova's front porch and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Last time he'd been here, the house had had no security system. But the owner had had a gun, and he'd taken a shot at Jack as he'd escaped across a neighboring roof. After Jack's break-in, chances were good Cordova had sprung for a home alarm.

He looked around the neighborhood. n.o.body out and about. Sunday night and people were either asleep or watching the 11 o'clock news before heading for bed.

Williamsbridge sits in the upper Bronx-so far up that the subway lines run out of track and trestle just a couple of stops above it. Mostly a grid of old, post-war middle-cla.s.s homes and row houses, the area has seen better days, but lots worse too. Crime here, they say, is on the wane, but Jack spotted a couple of guys dealing under the El as he drove along White Plains Road.

He'd cruised the main drag before hitting the house because he knew from the last time that Cordova liked to hang at a bar called Hurley's between 223rd and 224th. He'd double-parked, popped in for a look around, spotted fatso stuffed into a booth at the rear, and left. He parked half a block down from Cordova's place. He'd brought the car because his plan was to rock the blackmailer's boat by stealing his files and his computer hard drive.

Cordova's house was older than his neighbors'. Clapboard siding with a front porch spanning the width of the house. Two windows to the left of the front door, two above the porch roof, and one more looking out of the attic.

Jack checked the porch windows. Alarm systems installed during construction could be hidden, but the retrofitted ones were easy to spot. He reached into the large duffel bag he'd brought along and pulled out a flashlight with duct tape across the upper half of the lens. He aimed it through one of the front windows across the parlor to another in the left wall of the room. No sign of magnetic contact switches. He angled the beam along the upper walls to the two corners within sight-no area sensors near the ceiling. At least none he could see.

Okay. He'd risk it.

He pulled out his latest toy, a pick gun. They came in electric and manual, to be sold to locksmiths only. Sure. Abe had let him try both last month. Jack had found he preferred the manual over the electric. He liked to fine-tune the tension bar, loved to feel the pins clicking into line.

He went to work. He hadn't had any trouble last time, even with his old pick set, so now- h.e.l.l, it was the same lock. That set Jack on edge. Not a good sign. If Cordova wasn't going to spring for an alarm system, the least he could do was change the locks.

Unless...

The pins lined up quickly. Jack twisted the cylinder with the tension bar and heard the bolt slide back. He stepped inside with his duffel, holding his breath against the chance that he'd missed something. The first thing he did was search for a keypad. If anywhere it would be right next to the door. The wall was bare. Good sign.

He made a quick check of the room, especially along the wall-ceiling crease but found no sensors. He was struck-as he'd been the first time he'd been here-by how neat and clean everything was. For a fat slob, Cordova maintained a trim ship.

Jack waited, ready to duck back outside, but no alarm sounded. Could be a silent model, but he doubted it.

Okay, no time to waste. Last time he was here Cordova had surprised him by coming home early. Jack wanted to be gone ASAP.

Flashlight in hand he ran up to the third floor. He stopped on the threshold of the converted attic s.p.a.ce where Cordova kept his computer and his files, the heart of his blackmail operation.

"s.h.i.t!"

The filing cabinet was gone, the computer desk stood empty. He checked the closet. Last time he'd been here it was a miniature darkroom. Still was, but no file cabinets.

This explained the lack of security. He'd moved his operation. And the most logical site for relocation was his office at the other end of the park.

Time to go for a ride.