She wore a white b.u.t.ton down dress shirt, cuffed at the arms, her nipples erect against its fabric.

"Who's this, Timmy?" she asked.

Jack turned back to look at Tim. He guessed old habits were hard to break. Tim wore an embarra.s.sed grin, clasping his hands in front of his chest.

"Jack," he said. "This is Amber. Amber, this is Jack. An old friend."

Jack guessed that old friends were rare for Tim. When compared to Amber, Jack certainly felt old. Knowing the time for useful information had pa.s.sed, Jack said, "Thanks for your time, Tim," and started to leave the house.

From behind him, Tim screamed and Jack heard him drop to the ground.

The girl squealed and rushed to his side.

Nearly at the front door, Jack turned around and headed back into the kitchen, already knowing why Tim was screaming.

Collapsed on the linoleum of the kitchen, a wild look in his eyes, he clawed at his left forearm beneath his sweater. Amber held his right arm. Jack couldn't tell if she was trying to yank him up from the floor or if it was a gesture of comfort. Tim yanked the sleeve of his sweater up and looked, horrified, at what Jack already knew was there.

The strange mark.

Jack now stood over Tim.

"What's that?" Jack asked, playing ignorant. "Can I take a look?"

Tim continued to scream, his eyes darting around in his head. He pointed at Jack and screamed, "You have to leave! Amber! Get him out of the house!"

"I just need to see," Jack said. He felt s.a.d.i.s.tic, leaning over this man, trying to grab his arm so he could have a closer look. Already, since leaving Maria, he had nearly forgotten what the mark looked like. When he saw it on Tim's arm he realized he hadn't forgotten at all. Because he could identify this as the very same mark. The design was just so simple it wasn't something the mind wanted to dwell on.

Tim batted at him with his arm, trying to smack him away. Jack had seen everything he needed to see.

"Okay okay," he said. "I'm going. Sorry to bother you."

"Get the f.u.c.k out!" Tim shouted. And then, "You'll never find her! I hope you know that! You'll never find her!"

This did something to Jack's insides. This man was not like Maria. He was not a friend. By him being Gina's former lover, he was more like an enemy. Jack doubled back into the kitchen one final time. He put his foot on Tim's chest, forcing his back to the floor. Then he leaned over the frightened man and said, "I'm going to find her. Nothing is going to stop me from finding her. And if I find out you had anything to do with this... If I find out you hurt her in any way and caused her to do this, I'm coming back for you. So you might want to think about that." Then he poked the strange brand on Tim's arm, undoubtedly sending a shot of pain through him. "I hope you enjoy the gift."

Once again, Jack turned to leave the house, this time certain he would not be turning back. Tim continued to wail, his teenage girl cooing to him, telling him he was going to be all right, telling him to calm down, asking him if he needed to go to the hospital.

Jack banged out the door and into the gloom, surveying the little neighborhood, unfolding his map to figure out which direction he needed to go in order to find Sam's house. His head was as cloudy as the sky but, somehow, things made more sense now.

It was the mark. The brand. The tattoo. Whatever the h.e.l.l it was. Maybe it was a clue. Whatever it was, it unified everything. So far it was the only thing that followed him through the day. Mr. Moran had the mark. He too had tried to attack Jack. Maria had the mark and she had not tried to attack him but maybe that was only because she knew him better than the others. And then Tim had received the mark. He had not really tried to attack Jack but he was in a big hurry to get him out of the house. Jack remembered what Maria had said about the mark. About how she had seen a clear picture of Jack in her head and he wondered if the others had seen the same thing. Was that why they were so eager to either attack him or run him out of the house? It was entirely possible. It would make sense if that were the case. Something like Pavlovian conditioning. You experience great pain and you a.s.sociate someone with that pain then you probably will not want to see that person, afraid they may cause you pain.

He thought about taking the bus again but knew he didn't have any miracle change left in his pocket. He hoped that another miracle would surface, something that didn't come in a form as petty as correct change. Time was running out. It was now nearly two o'clock. Jack wondered how Gina was doing. He wasn't going to fool himself into thinking Mr. Grin was beyond hurting her. He had heard the screams. He knew that Mr. Grin had stripped Gina down. Those things alone were enough to make Jack want to hurt him very badly. But, he reminded himself, he wasn't just going to have to hurt him. He was going to have to kill him. What would Mr. Grin have to do in order to make Jack feel comfortable about killing him?

No. Jack knew it wasn't about being comfortable with killing him. He didn't know if anyone outside of gang members and the military ever felt comfortable with killing another human being. But what would it take to make him want to kill Mr. Grin?

It was hard to think beyond his need to find Gina and take her to safety. To bring her back home.

He quickened his pace. On his way to Sam's house.

Fifteen.

It was like the more things that happened to him, the more confused he became. Was he any closer to Gina now than he was when he had received his first call from Mr. Grin? He didn't know. He couldn't know. It just didn't seem possible. Of course, none of this seemed possible. It was like it was happening to someone else. He nearly resigned himself to the fact Mr. Grin was just toying with him. Like maybe they were states away by now. Maybe there really wasn't any hope at all of Jack finding them.

Then what happened?

Would tomorrow morning roll around and then... would that be it? Would that be the last he would ever hear of Gina?

No. He was going to find her. He had to find her.

As he walked at his now customary brisk pace through the neighborhood, maybe only a mile from Sam's house, his thoughts returned to the marks.

They had to mean something.

What did they mean?

Were they given to those people as a warning? As some way to dissuade them from helping Jack? If Mr. Grin were capable of somehow telepathically inflicting these marks on people then he was a lot more powerful than Jack could have ever imagined. That was something bordering on the supernatural and, thus far in his life, Jack had never seen anything even remotely resembling the supernatural. Growing up in Glowers Hook, there had been rumors but, even there, he had not seen so much as a ghost. Not even something fleeting past the corner of his eye. What he had witnessed so far, both the good and the bad, could be explained through science or human nature.

On the other hand, maybe the marks were put there to help guide Jack. To show him he was on the right path. Admittedly, that was no less supernatural but he liked thinking Mr. Grin didn't hold all of the cards.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He couldn't remember turning it to the vibrate setting.

He pulled it out, holding it in the palm of his hand. There was a moment of dread before he flipped it open. But there was also a moment of joy. Because, as long as Mr. Grin was calling him, that meant the game was still being played. It was entirely possible, Jack thought, some third party would be onto Mr. Grin, stepping in to interrupt him from torturing Gina. What would happen then?

Finally flipping it open, he stared at it like it was some magical instrument.

He put the phone to his ear, not saying anything, continuing to walk, his legs moving in a rhythm they had established long ago.

A strange sloshy sound came from the other end. But no voices yet. This continued for nearly a minute, Jack's breath and heartbeat sounding just as loud in his ears.

Then: "Hear that?"

He didn't say anything. He did not want to play this psycho's game.

"I said, 'Hear that!'" Mr. Grin shouted.

"Yeah, yeah. I heard it. What the f.u.c.k was it?"

"That was the sound of my d.i.c.k in Gina's mouth."

Jack felt his gorge rise. But what could he do?

Nothing.

The only thing he could do was try to find her. Anything he said to Mr. Grin could only set him more off balance than he already clearly was.

"You like that sound?" Mr. Grin said. "Remember when she used to suck your d.i.c.k? Let me tell you, you were lucky if it felt anything at all like this. Don't worry though, she's not going to bite it off or injure me in any way. I know you would be disappointed if the game couldn't continue. But, like I said, don't worry. She ain't gonna do nothin with this gun at her head."

The sloshing sounds filled Jack's ear again. He heard Gina gag and then cough and then Mr. Grin's voice, not into the phone, saying, "Come on, you can take it. Suck it down in there." The picture came to Jack, unwanted, of Gina down on her knees, Mr. Grin holding the phone down near her mouth with his left hand, his right hand gripping a gun, pressing it to Gina's temple.

Maybe he could use this unwanted scene, though. Think about the background. Where are they?

In his imagination, the room was dim. Not dark, because it was light outside and maybe there were curtains or blinds drawn but it was never enough to keep out all the light. He saw a room that was not filthy but not clean and a little out of date. In the background, he saw a bland nightstand, bland lamp, and bland painting hanging up on the wall.

He realized he was picturing a hotel room. It had to be. Not that his imagination was the truth. But it was something that was so much greater than the nothing he had received so far.

The spitty sloshing sounds continued. He tried his hardest not to picture Gina.

He wanted to hang up. He didn't want to hear this. He looked forward to meeting Mr. Grin. No amount of physical pain the man could inflict on him would come even remotely close to this. This was degradation. It hurt his soul and he couldn't even imagine what it was doing to her.

"Now Jack," Mr. Grin said. "I'm gonna give you a choice. I can either come in her mouth, on her face, or on her t.i.ts. Which do you prefer?"

"What kind of choice is that?" he asked before he could even catch himself. The easiest thing, he knew, was to play his game but he couldn't let go that much. He couldn't give that much to this man.

"There is, of course, a fourth choice. If you choose to answer none of the above then I can ram this gun up her a.s.shole and unload. Then I can unload myself into one of the hot exit wounds. Answer me, you little f.u.c.k!"

"On her chest," Jack whispered into the phone, looking to his left at the row of sane little houses, wondering if anyone who saw him could possibly imagine what kind of conversation he was having.

"On her what? I couldn't hear you so well. Kind of hard to concentrate."

"On her chest."

"Chest. Well, you got a chest and I got a chest but Gina here, she got t.i.ts. I can't hold it much longer, s.h.i.tcrawler."

"On her t.i.ts, okay, f.u.c.king come all over her t.i.ts. Is that what you want me to say?"

"That's exactly what I wanted you to say. But I changed my mind. I want to come in her mouth. Make her suck it all down. That way if you do find me and kill me, the next time you kiss her, you can imagine all my little sperms down there in her stomach."

Mr. Grin's voice was. .h.i.tching and Jack knew he was doing exactly what he said he was doing.

The phone went back to the sloshing/gagging sounds.

Mr. Grin's voice, from far away again, "Jacky here wanted me to go on your t.i.ts but you're swallowin it, baby."

There was another gag and then some slapping type of sounds.

Jack learned the art of walking with his eyes closed. If he had to keep them open, if he had to see all the sane lives around him he might be forced to go up to one of their doors and see if they could help him make his life sane too.

He heard a final gag, more slapping, and then something that could have been vomiting.

"I certainly feel better now," Mr. Grin said.

Jack, for lack of anything better to say, said, "I know where you are," and flipped the phone shut, sliding it back into his pocket like the more quickly he put it away the more quickly he put that horrible image out of his head. His eyes still closed, he pictured the scene. Mr. Grin and Gina slowly faded from the room and he tried to think about all the hotels in Alton.

He opened his eyes as the phone vibrated in his pocket. He wasn't going to answer it this time. For now, he had surpa.s.sed all he could take. In his head, he apologized to Gina if Mr. Grin was going to take this out on her. But, Jack knew, if he had to hear that man right now, he was going to do something that just might spoil everything.

The rain started up again and made everything even colder.

He put his hands in his pockets, drawing into himself, and continued walking.

Sixteen.

Sam Black lived on the edge of the suburbs, where it became just a little bit seedy. Apartments and duplexes mostly, mixed in with fly-by-night storefronts- check cashing places, tanning salons, restaurants. All likely to be out of business this time next year, leaving the s.p.a.ce vacant or occupied with some other evanescent business.

Sam lived in a two-story split level. He lived on the first floor. Jack had hung out with Sam a few times and had heard a lot about him from Gina. As far as she knew, he had not had s.e.x since he was sixteen. He worked in a video store a few days a week and, when not working, spent most of his time smoking pot in front of the television and watching p.o.r.n, movies most people had never heard of, playing video games or reading comic books . Sam was sloth personified. Jack liked him quite a bit.

Jack tapped on his living room window. Sam's blinds were drawn and Jack hoped he was home. He had to knock on the window because if he knocked on the front door then one of the residents from upstairs would undoubtedly come down and open it. He didn't want to disturb them. It was easier and more immediate to just knock on the window.

He slid his phone out of his pocket.

2:46.

He had wasted a lot of time walking here. And he didn't really know how Sam could possibly help him.

A bloodshot eye peered out between two parted slats of the blind. Then a hand appeared, holding up the index finger. One second. Then the index pointed to the left. Front door. He had become accustomed to these hand signals.

He walked up the porch steps and stood at the front door.

Sam pulled the door open. He wore an old Cincinnati Bengals shirt and baggy, dirty pajama pants. His salt and pepper hair was pulled back into a thin, greasy-looking ponytail.

"Jack," he said, opening the door. Jack was greeted as much by the smell of smoke and sweat and possibly old s.e.m.e.n as he was by his name.

"Sam."

"Come in. Come in." Sam ushered him inside.

The door to his apartment was to the left. Jack followed him into the smelly pit.

If he told Sam Gina was missing, could he trust him not to tell anyone else?