Bracket by bracket, Jock ascended. Peter followed him up. Jock was sitting on the cleat, gulping water from a canteen. Peter crouched beside him.

"Okay?"

Jock nodded vaguely. His face was pale, his hands trembling.

"Just take a minute," Peter said.

"Hell, take the whole day," said Foto. "Take the rest of your life."

Jock was staring into space. Though he wasn't really seeing anything, Peter guessed.

"Try to relax," Peter said.

Jock glanced down at Peter's harness. "You weren't clipped in?"

"There wasn't time."

"So you just ... did all that. Holding the rope."

"It worked, didn't it?"

Jock looked away. "I thought I was dead for sure."

"You know what gets me?" Foto said. "That little shit didn't even thank you."

They'd knocked off early; the two of them were sitting on the front steps, passing a flask. They'd seen the last of Jock; he'd turned in his tool belt and walked off.

"That was smart, with the brackets," Foto continued. "I wouldn't have thought of that."

"You might have. I just got there first."

"That kid is fucking lucky, is all I have to say. And look at you, not even rattled."

It was true: he'd felt invincible, his mind perfectly focused, his thoughts clear as ice. In fact, there was no lip at the edge of the roof; the surface was perfectly smooth. I make you see the game the way I need you to.

Foto capped the flask and got to his feet. "So I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Actually, I think that's it for me," Peter said.

Foto stared at him, then gave a quiet chuckle. "Anybody else, I'd figure they were worried about getting killed. You'd probably like it if somebody fell every day so you could catch them. What will you do instead?"

"Somebody's offered me a job. I thought I wasn't interested, but maybe I am."

The man nodded evenly. "Whatever it is, it's got to be more interesting than this. It's true what they say about you." They shook hands. "Good luck to you, Jaxon."

Peter watched him go, then walked to the capitol. As he entered Sanchez's office, she glanced up from her papers.

"Mr. Jaxon. That was fast. I thought I was going to have to work a little harder."

"Two conditions. Actually, three."

"The first is your son, of course. I've given you my word. What else?"

"I want direct access to you. No middlemen."

"What about Chase? The man's my chief of staff."

"Just you."

She thought only a moment. "If that's what it takes. What's the third?"

"Don't make me wear a necktie."

The sun had just set when Michael knocked on the door of Greer's cabin. There was no light inside, no sound. Well, I've walked too long to wait out here, he thought. I'm sure Lucius won't mind.

He put his bag on the floor and lit the lamp. He looked around. Greer's pictures: How many were there? Fifty? A hundred? He stepped closer. Yes, his memory had not betrayed him. Some were hasty sketches; others had obviously required hours of focused labor. Michael selected one of the paintings, untacked it from the wall, and laid it on the table: a mountainous island, bathed in green, seen from the bow of a ship, which was just visible at the bottom edge. The sky above and behind the island was a deep twilight blue; at its center, at forty-five degrees to the horizon, was a constellation of five stars.

The door flew open. Greer stood at the threshold, pointing a rifle at Michael's head.

"Flyers, put that down," Michael said.

Greer lowered the gun. "It's not loaded anyway."

"Good to know." Michael tapped the paper with his finger. "Remember when I said you should tell me about these?"

Greer nodded.

"Now would be the time."

The constellation was the Southern Cross-the most distinctive feature of the night sky south of the equator.

Michael showed Greer the newspaper, which the man read without reaction, as if its contents came as no surprise to him; he described the Bergensfjord and the bodies he'd found; he read the captain's letter aloud, the first time he had done this. It felt very different to speak the words, as if he were not overhearing a conversation but enacting it. For the first time, he glimpsed what the man had intended by writing a letter that could never be sent; it imparted a kind of permanence to the words and the emotions they contained. Not a letter but an epitaph.

Michael saved the data from the Bergensfjord's navigational computer for last. The ship's destination had been a region of the South Pacific roughly halfway between northern New Zealand and the Cook Islands; Michael used the atlas to show Greer. When the ship's engine's had failed, they had been fifteen hundred miles north-northeast of their goal, traveling in the equatorial currents.

"So how did it end up in Galveston?" Greer asked.

"It shouldn't have. It should have sunk, just like the captain said."

"Yet it didn't."

Michael frowned. "It's possible the currents could have pushed it here. I don't really know much about it. I'll tell you one thing it means. There's no barrier and never was."

Lucius looked at the newspaper again. He pointed midway down the page. "This here, about the virus having an avian source-"

"Birds."

"I'm familiar with the word, Michael. Does it mean the virus could still be out there?"

"If they're carriers, it might be. Sounds like the people in charge never figured it out, though."

" 'In rare instances,' " Greer read aloud, " 'victims of the illness have exhibited the transformative effects of the North American strain, including a marked increase in aggressiveness, but whether any of these individuals have survived past the thirty-six-hour threshold is not known.' "

"That got my attention, too."

"Are they talking about virals?"

"If so, they're a different strain."

"Meaning they could still be alive. Killing the Twelve wouldn't have affected them."

Michael didn't say anything.

"Good God."

"You want to know what's funny?" Michael said. "Maybe funny's not the right word. The world quarantined us and left us to die. In the end, it's the only reason we're still here."

Greer rose from the table and fetched a whiskey bottle from the shelf. He poured two glasses, handed one to Michael, and sipped. Michael did the same.

"Think about it, Lucius. That ship traveled halfway around the world, never bumping into anything, never running aground, never downflooding in a storm. Somehow it manages to make its way perfectly intact, into Galveston Bay, right under our noses. What are the odds?"

"Not good, I'd say."

"So you tell me what it's doing here. You're the one who drew those pictures."

Greer poured more into his glass but didn't drink it. He was silent for a moment, then said, "It's what I saw."

"What do you mean, 'saw'?"

"It's difficult to explain."

"None of this is easy, Lucius."

Greer was staring into his glass, turning it around on the tabletop. "I was in the desert. Don't ask me what I was doing there-it's a long story. I hadn't had anything to eat or drink for days. Something happened to me in the night. I'm not really sure what to call it. I guess it was a dream, though it was stronger than that, more real."

"This image, you mean. The island, the five stars."

Lucius nodded. "I was on a ship. I could feel it moving under me. I could hear the waves, smell the salt."

"Was it the Bergensfjord?"

He shook his head. "All I know is, it was big."

"Were you alone?"

"There may have been other people there, but I couldn't see them. I couldn't turn around." Greer looked at him pointedly. "Michael, are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"

"That depends."

"That the ship is meant for us. That we're supposed to go to the island."

"How else can you explain it?"

"I can't." He frowned skepticlly. "This isn't at all like you. To put so much faith in a picture drawn by a crazy man."

For a moment, neither man spoke. Michael sipped his whiskey.

"This ship," Greer said. "Will it float?"

"I don't know how much damage there is below the waterline. The lower decks are flooded, but the engine compartment's dry."

"Can you fix it?"

"Maybe, but it'd take an army. And lots of money, which we don't have."

Greer drummed his fingers on the table. "There are ways around that. Assuming we had the manpower, how long would we need?"

"Years. Hell, maybe decades. We'd have to drain her, build a dry dock, float her in. And that's just for starters. The damn thing's six hundred feet long."

"But it could be done."

"In theory."

Michael studied his friend's face. They had yet to touch on the missing piece, the one question from which all the rest descended.

"So how much time do you think we have?" Michael asked.

"Until what?"

"Until the virals come back."

Greer didn't answer right away. "I'm not sure."

"But they are coming."

Greer looked up. Michael saw relief in the man's eyes; he had been alone with this for too long. "Tell me, how did you figure it out?"

"It's the only thing that makes sense. The question is, how did you?"

Greer drained his whiskey, poured another, and drank that, too. Michael waited.

"I'm going to tell you something, Michael, and you can never tell anybody what you know. Not Sara, not Hollis, not Peter. Especially not Peter."

"Why him?"

"I don't make the rules, I'm sorry. I need your word on this."

"You have it."