Another long silence.

Not only am I a lousy lying coward, I'm a rat.

"You know, Jack," Dad finally said, "I realize you may not want me in your life, or that there may be aspects of your life you don't want me to know about…but—"

Jack went cold. "What…what do you mean?"

"Look, Jack, if you're…if you're g-gay"—he seemed to have trouble getting the word past his lips—"or something like that, it's okay. I can accept it. You're still my son."

Jack sagged against the phone. Gay? Is that the worst he can think of?

"No, Dad. Guys don't do a thing for me. In fact, I can't understand what women see in them. I like women. Always have, always will."

"Really?" Jack could hear the relief in his voice. "Well, then why—?"

"I won't be around, really."

"Okay. I'll buy that. But you did say you'd come down for a visit, right? When's that going to be? Let's set a date."

"I can't set a date right now, but"…he couldn't turn him down cold again…"I promise I'll get there before the year is out. How's that?"

"Okay! It's a deal!"

He kept Jack on for a few more minutes of small talk, then let him go. Jack hung up and simply stood there, recouping his strength. He'd rather face any number of enraged monte grifters than a phone conversation with his father.

He banged his fist against the wall. What did I just do? I promised to visit him, and I locked in a time frame: before the end of the year. Am I crazy?

He hated to travel anywhere, but…guilt springs eternal.

He was stuck. He'd promised.

Jack decided to go back to his room. He needed a rest.

9

Salvatore Roma sat staring at his room's TV, but was only vaguely aware of what was on the screen—a talk show featuring a panel of bizarrely coifed and accessorized males and females bemoaning their treatment by conventional society. His mind was elsewhere, imagining the near future, and the changes he would bring to this world. He smiled at the screen: You whine about your troubles now? Wait…just wait.

An insistent scratching at the door wrenched him back to the present. He pulled it open and Mauricio scampered in.

"I found it," he said, hopping onto the bed.

"It took you long enough."

"I could only get into the rooms when the maids entered for cleaning. I'd still be running around with no answer if I hadn't staked out one room for special attention."

Roma felt his fists clench of their own accord. "The stranger."

"Yes! The mysterious Jack Shelby. The delivery is sitting under the counter in his bathroom."

Roma squeezed his eyes shut. "Opened?"

"Yes, but I saw no sign that he'd attempted to assemble it."

"Not that it would matter. It is incomplete. And even after the rest of it arrives—"

"Let's just hope he hasn't damaged it or lost some crucial component. I think we should reclaim it as soon as possible."

"I disagree," Roma said. "Not with the Twins here. Besides, we have too many unanswered questions. Why did the delivery arrive in his room instead of the basement as planned? Was that his doing, or was it redirected from the other side? Who is this man?"

"If I hadn't spent the whole day searching for the shipment, I might be able to tell you."

"But why is he here? Is he connected to the Twins? If so, we might be playing directly into their hands by revealing ourselves if we make a move against him."

"I don't like it," Mauricio said. He scampered to the door and looked back. "Let me out of here."

Roma twisted the handle Mauricio couldn't reach in his capuchin form. "Where are you going?"

"I need to think."

As the monkey stepped out, it stared down the hallway and froze as if in shock.

10

The made bed in Jack's room indicated the maid had been through. He checked the bathroom and was relieved to see that no other crate had arrived. The original was still there, right where he'd left it.

He lifted the lid and looked again at the miniature girders and rods. Maybe he should take a shot at assembling the damn thing. He checked his watch: no time. Only forty or fifty minutes before Evelyn called in the cavalry to charge Olive's room. Jack had a bad feeling about her no-show at her panel. Out sightseeing? Olive? In Sin City? Hardly.

She'd told him yesterday she was in room 812.

Well…why not pay the room a visit? If she'd died in her sleep, he wanted to know. If she was alive and he found her hiding there for some reason, he'd just tell her he'd been worried about her. And if the room was empty, maybe he could find the disks she said Melanie had given her.

The more he thought about it, the better he liked the idea.

He grabbed a few goodies from his gym bag and headed up to the eighth floor. The hall was empty, and the maid was busy in a room down on the far side of the elevators. Now or never.

He found a "Do Not Disturb" sign on 812's doorknob. That would keep the maid out, but not him. Just to be sure, though, he knocked and softly called Olive's name. No answer.

Okay. He pulled out his own custom made slim-jim—a wafer-thin length of high-tensile steel, twelve inches by two, notched on one side about an inch from the end. He had his lock pick set, but this would be much quicker. He leaned on the door and slipped the metal between the jamb and the wood. The notch caught on the latch bolt. A wiggle, a pull, a slide, and the door was swinging inward—

But only an inch. The swing latch was in the locked position.

Jack froze. Those latches could only be flipped over from the other side. That meant Olive was still in the room.

"Olive?" he said through the opening.

No voice answered, but he swore he heard movement in there.

Jack's heart picked up its pace. Something very wrong here. Someone—maybe Olive, maybe not—was sneaking around in Olive's room.

Jack pulled the door closed again and checked the hall. Still no one coming. He worked his slim-jim between the jamb and the door again, this time at eye level, felt it clink against the swing latch, then pushed. He heard the latch swing back. The he reopened the knob latch and pushed the door inward.

The breeze from an open window hit him immediately. He hadn't felt that a moment ago.

But before he did anything else, he pulled out the tail of his flannel shirt and wiped the doorknob clean. Then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

The bathroom lights were on. He glanced in. The shower curtain was pulled back—no one hiding in here. He moved into the room. The sheer curtains, billowing in the breeze from the open window, caught his eye first. One of those casement jobs that was supposed to slide back only a few inches. Someone must have pried off the safety stop. The window was open wide enough for someone to slip through.

A mental image of Olive leaping from the ledge was taking shape in Jack's brain when he saw open drawers, the clothing strewn about; and then the walls—pictures of Jesus had been taped over the framed prints; and crosses and crucifixes, at least a dozen of them, were taped to the walls, an especially large one over the king-size bed—

"Damn!" he blurted and jumped back when he saw Olive lying in it.

At least he was pretty sure it was Olive—or had been. The covers were pulled up to her neck but she wasn't sleeping. Her eyes had been removed, leaving empty red-crusted sockets staring at the ceiling. But worse, her lips had been cut off, and none too neatly, leaving her with a hideous permanent grin.

Wary, his stomach churning, Jack inched toward the bed. The pillows and spread were oddly clean—not a bloodstain in sight. Her face was a horror, but what had they done to her body? He had to know. Steeling himself, he gripped the edge of the covers and pulled them back.