But even if it didn't, this was still more to his liking than sitting and watching Kemel's apartment.

3.

When Jack reached the corner he untied his sneakers and pulled them open, leaving the tongues sticking up. He buttoned his coat wrong, and then started up the sidewalk opposite the security car.

About halfway there, he shambled across the street, approaching the car from the front. He didn't want to startle these two by appearing out of nowhere—somebody might do something stupid.

Jack stopped about ten feet from the front bumper and pointed at the car, grinning. He pulled his window-cleaning squeegee from the bucket and held it high as he approached.

Squeegeeman had spotted a customer.

Through the windshield he could see the two beef jerkies inside waving him off, but Squeegeeman is never deterred by a reluctant driver. Drivers so rarely seem to appreciate how much more efficiently and safely they will be able to perform the task at hand, namely driving, after their windshield has been smeared with soapy water and then wiped clean.

The driver's window slid down and a head leaned out. The few features Jack could make out in the dim light suggested that evolution sometimes worked in reverse.

"Keep moving, asshole," said the head.

Jack leaned over the fender and quickly lathered up the windshield.

The front door started to open. "Fuck!" said the voice. "Didn't you hear me—?"

"I heard you, man," Jack said, launching into his patter, "but Squeegeeman's offering a Try-Before-You-Buy special tonight. Here's how it works: I do your window, just like I'm doin' now, and when I'm through, if you don't think it's the cleanest window you ever seen, then you don't pay. I mean, you can't beat that, can you? I mean, I'm out here in the cold doin' all the work while you're in there nice and warm and cozy. You tell me what could be better than that. Go ahead—you tell me."

The beef jerky hesitated and stared at him, both of his brain cells obviously working overtime as he considered Squeegeeman's offer. Then the guy in the passenger seat said something, and the driver door, pulled closed.

Jack smiled. He'd been counting on their reluctance to cause a scene and risk someone calling the police. But if worse came to worst, he had a Tokarev 9mm automatic in his shoulder holster.

"That's right," he said. "Roll up your window, sit back, and watch how beautiful the world looks when I'm finished with your glass."

The window slid closed. Jack added a little more lather to the windshield. When he had it satisfactorily opaque, he pulled a small vial of T-72 from the bucket and poured its contents into the heater's air intake at the base of the windshield wipers.

Then he began wiping the glass dry. He took his time on the windshield, moving slowly, dabbing at the corners, playing the role to the hilt. And doing a damn fine job, by the way.

When he was done, he stepped up to the driver window, grinned, and held out his hand.

The driver returned the grin—and gave him the finger.

Jack looked hurt and pressed his hands together as if praying.

The driver's grin broadened as he brought up his other hand to add a second bird to the window display.

"Keep smiling," Jack said softly.

And then the guy in the passenger seat slumped against the driver's back. The driver jerked around, pushed him off, and shook him, but the guy was limp as overcooked linguine. Then the driver turned back to the window and Jack could all but see the light go on in his head.

"That's right, guy," Jack said. "You got trouble."

The driver fumbled for the inner handle and started to open the door, but Jack slammed against it and held it closed. The driver struggled and might have got out—he was bigger than Jack—if the T-72 hadn't been working on him. He made a couple of weak shoulder butts against the door, then slumped against the steering wheel and joined his friend in slumber land.

Jack waited to make sure he was out, then he opened the door and quickly ran through the driver's pockets. He found two sets of keys and took both. He closed the door and left the motor running.

He glanced around—no one in sight. Good.

After pocketing the T-72 vial, he placed his bucket and squeegee by the curb and settled back to wait for Alicia.

4.

Alicia forced her feet to keep moving, placing one shoe in front of the other as she turned the corner and trod the sidewalk toward that house.

She tried to think about anything but the house, pushing her thoughts toward Hector in PICU. The little guy was fading away. No question about it now—a resistant strain of C. albicans. His white blood cells, one of the body's main defenses against infection, were disappearing from his bloodstream. The WBC count had been down to 3,200 this morning and had dropped to 2,600 this afternoon. The infection was running rampant, overwhelming his bone marrow's ability to crank out the white cells.

And there was nothing more she could do for him.

Which allowed her thoughts to escape Hector and return to the house.

The house…

Why am I making such an ordeal of this? she wondered. It's only a building, a collection of bricks and lumber. What's the big deal?

But cold reason wasn't working. The closer she got to the house, the faster her heart raced. She wouldn't look at it. She kept her eyes straight ahead on the figure in the baggy coat leaning against the security car.

She tried to think of something else, to focus on the events of the day, but all that came to mind was the series of phone calls from Will, asking if she was all right, calls she'd been too embarrassed to return.

The hurt and confusion in his recorded voice still echoed in her brain, making her want to hide. How could she explain last night to him? It was all her fault. She shouldn't have let him get that close. When would she learn? She had to resign herself to the reality that she couldn't have a completely honest relationship with any man. Really… once the truth was out, what man wouldn't head for the door? And frankly, Alicia wasn't sure she'd want to have much to do with any man who didn't.

Alone was better. Alone was easier. Alone was less painful—for everyone concerned.

She was closer now, still keeping her eyes on Jack. She heard him whistling and recognized the tune as the theme from "The Bridge Over the River Kwai."

"Ready?" he said as she reached him.

She bent and peered into the car, then stepped back when she saw the two bulky forms slumped in the front seat. Her already racing heart kicked its tempo up another notch.

"They're not… you didn't… are they…?"

"Dead?" He smiled. "Nah. Just napping." He looked around. "Okay. Let's get moving. I don't know how much longer they'll be out."

Here it was—the moment she'd been dreading. Alicia didn't move. Couldn't move.

"Alicia?" Jack said. "You okay?"

But she had to move. She wasn't going to let this get the best of her.

Just a house… just bricks and lumber…

And she was going to conquer it.

She took a breath and turned to face it.

The wrought-iron gate, the tiny front yard, the trellised alley to the back… just as they'd always been. But the rest of the front had been altered enough to make it look like a different house… somebody else's house.

And with its windows boarded up like patched eyes, it looked like a blind house. It couldn't see her.

Not so bad, she thought. I can handle this.

"I'm fine," she said. "Let's go."

"Let's try the back door," Jack said, leading her toward the trellis. "I've got a bunch of keys here and don't want to spend too much time out front looking for the right one. Someone might remember us."