"If you say so. Listen, Hamad. Here's the situation: The doctors may be able to save you, but even if they do, what then? You're still going to be hurting for days. And after that you're going to have to answer all sorts of questions, and if you haven't got good answers, you're going to land in the pokey."

He looked up at Jack, a plea in his eyes. "You won't… you won't sever my manhood and feed it to a pig? Please, no."

"I won't." Truth. Jack wanted no part of that. It had been Joey's riff, to put a little fear of Allah in them. At least Jack assumed it was. "But that other man—"

"No! Please!"

"He's not here now. But if he comes back I may not be able to stop him."

Hamad closed his eyes and whispered, "Allaabu Akbar."

Jack unzipped the backpack and removed the Tupperware container. Then he unbuttoned his coverall and slipped out down to his waist. An icy gust clawed his back.

Christ, it was cold. Another reason to hurry this along.

"But there is a way for you to escape—not just him, but also escape your pain, and escape the police and the federal agents who will be hounding you."

He pointed to the black band all but encircling his chest. The ends of the Stain were less than two inches apart. He tried not to think about that.

"See this, Hamad? This is the mark of Allah—"

"Allaabu Akbar."

"—and it has special powers. It will help you escape all enemies. Forever."

Jack opened the container and grabbed one of Hamad's bloody hands. He dipped it into the Stain remover, then pressed the dripping fingers against the blackened band on his chest. The hand felt cold.

"All you've got to do now is wish, Hamad. Wish to take the Mark of Allah for yourself."

His voice was a scrape, a rustle. "You are not of Islam."

"I'm a secret special agent of Islam. Undercover. I pretend to be an infidel, but I'm really on Allah's side."

"No…"

"It's true. The Mark of Allah was given to me many years ago by the Ay-atollah Khomeini himself, to save me in an hour of direst need, and now I'm giving it to you. All you have to do is wish for it, Hamad. You want to be safe from your enemies, don't you. Sure you do. This is guaranteed to work. Trust me on this, Hamad. I'm telling you the truth. All you need do is wish."

Al-Kabeer squinted up at him, as if trying to focus.

"This is true?"

"The truest. Go ahead. Wish. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Just say it: I wish the mark for myself."

The Arab coughed, spraying Jack with blood. He swallowed, then whispered, "I wish the mark for myself."

Jack closed his eyes, took a breath, then looked down at his chest.

No change. The Stain was still there.

Shit.

"Try it again, Hamad. Maybe you didn't wish hard e—"

Jack sensed a sudden loss of muscle tone in the hand. It had been slack all along, but this was different.

"Hamad?" He shook him. "Come on, Hamad. Stay with me. Don't crap out on me now."

Jack grabbed his beard and lifted his head.

Dead dark eyes stared back at him.

"No!" Jack shook him. Hamad moved like an oversized rag doll. "No-no-no!"

He threw him back, jumped up, and kicked the Grand Am's fender.

"Goddamn it to hell! Shit!"

He kicked the Grand Am again, then stumbled around in a circle wanting to scream his anger and frustration at the night. This had been his last chance. The book was right. He was stuck with the Stain.

He felt as if fate—or something—was plotting against him. Was this all part of a plan? He tried to repress the paranoia that this whole situation was a setup. His father's death, Tom's intrusion into his life, the Lilitongue, the Stain… had they all been part of some elaborate plan to take him out of the picture?

Was the Otherness after him?

If not, then who? Or what?

He finished his war dance of kicking the car, kicking stones, kicking at the underbrush, then stood panting, his breath streaming in the cold air. He was bare to the waist but didn't care. Being cold was the least of his worries.

What now? What was he going to do with Joey?

And how was he going to get home? Couldn't drive—after the Center shootout every cop in North Jersey would be on the lookout for an old Grand Am. Especially at the bridges and tunnels. Sure as hell couldn't walk. Couldn't even hitchhike—sure way to get stopped and asked a lot of questions he couldn't answer.

He had to get home. Every minute here was a minute subtracted from his time with Gia and Vicky.

Have to do what he'd done at La Guardia: Call Abe.

He looked up at the rumbling roadway overhead. But first he'd have to find out where he was.

He stripped off the bloody coverall and replaced it with the flannel shirt and jeans. He popped the trunk, removed his leather jacket, shrugged into it.

Then he began the steep climb up to the highway, fighting his way through the brush and a thicket of ailanthus trunks.

At the top he crouched behind the guardrail and looked around. Ten feet away he spotted a big red 80 on a blue background.

Okay. He'd figured that. Now… where on 80?

Traffic wasn't heavy so he risked standing during a gap and looking around. About a quarter mile ahead he saw a green-and-white sign for Exit 60.

Okay.

He crouched again, pulled out his Tracfone, and punched Abe's number.

"Isher Sports," said a bored voice.

"Abe, it's me and I need a ride."

"Another ride you need? What happened this time?"

"I'll explain it all when you get here."

"And this 'here' is where?"

"Jersey."

"Gevalt! You want I should leave civilization and venture into the hinterlands just because your car breaks down?"

With effort Jack stifled a shout and kept his voice even. "Look, Abe. I need your help and I need it now. I haven't much time left."

"Oy, you're right. Where do I find you?"

"Go over the GW and get on Route Eighty west. When you come to exit sixty, take it and wait for me near the bottom of the ramp."

"Eighty, sixty, got it. How long this should take?"

"Thirty minutes to an hour. All depends on traffic. Call me when you hit the highway."

"The keys I'm grabbing as we speak."

"Thanks."

Jack cut the connection and started back down the slope toward the river. From the look of the traffic, at least here in Jersey, Abe would probably make good time. Which meant Jack had to hurry.

He had some things that needed doing before he fled the scene, as it were.

9

-13:59

"I know you can't hear me, Joey, but I'm going to say this anyway." Jack had carried Joey's body from the car and laid it gently on the ground in an open area maybe twenty feet away. Nobody finding the car could miss Joey. Jack had straightened the body, positioning it perpendicular to the river, feet toward the water.

He felt a gnawing guilt about leaving a fellow combatant here like this, but what could he do?

He folded Joey's arms across his chest in the classic casket pose "Wish I could take you back with me. You know I would if I could, but it's not in the cards. So I'm leaving you here with as much dignity as I can. You always liked to look good, and this way you'll look good in the crime scene photos. Almost classy."

Except for the bloodstains, of course.

"I have to leave you here but you won't be alone for long. Don't worry about becoming a buffet for whatever animals are around. None of them will have a chance to get near you, let alone chew on you. I'll see to that."

He adjusted Joey's bloody jacket, straightened his pant legs so that the cuffs reached his ankles, then squatted next to him.

"You weren't a model citizen, Joey, but you were a good guy. The marks couldn't believe a word you said but you were always square with your friends. Brave too, risking everything to do right by your brother. You have my respect. If you hadn't been standing between me and the shooter, our places might be reversed right now."