Cal didn't mention that the location's biggest asset—its isolation—had its downside. At this time of year it offered no distractions for the men during their down time. Cabin fever—or island fever—would set in pretty quickly.

Well, no one had said the job would be easy.

"I wonder," Miller said. "Don't you get the feeling this guy's playing with us? Like he could take us all out any time he pleases but he'd rather play cat and mouse?"

"You mean like leaving Diana alive."

"Exactly. And if he can take us out when he wants, then everything we're doing is useless. We're not even delaying the inevitable because he's got us plugged into his calendar, and when the time comes"—he drew a finger across his throat—"we're cooked."

"Maybe that's why he didn't kill her. To get us thinking it's all an exercise in futility but keep us on the string. He feeds on hopelessness. Maybe we're snack food. But maybe not. Maybe—"

The chime again. This time it was Geraci. Cal buzzed him in, then turned back to Miller.

"You ready to give up?"

Miller gave him a hard stare. "Me? You should damn fuck know better than that."

"1 do. Just checking."

Another chime. Cal looked and saw Zeklos. He'd called the little guy back in because they were so shorthanded. He'd meant to tell Miller in advance so he'd be prepared, but hadn't had the time.

He buzzed him in and then tapped the heel of his fist on Miller's knee.

"I called Zek in."

Miller stiffened in his chair. "You what?"

"We need every warm body we can get, so just put aside your—"

He shot to his feet. "No fucking way!"

Zeklos came through the door then, rolling a wheeled suitcase behind him.

"This is terrible, terrible!" he said. "How did such a thing—?"

"You!" Miller shouted, pointing at him. For a crazy instant he reminded Cal of Ralph Kramden. "Out!"

Zeklos stopped and stared, shock in his eyes and his expression.

"But Davis—"

"I don't give a shit what Davis said, I'm not working with you ever again!"

"Easy, Miller," Cal said. "We need him."

"Fuck we do! He's a Jonah! He loses his Oculus, then shows up here and we lose ours."

Zeklos stood his ground.

"The other day you say to me, 'the fact remains that your Oculus is dead and you are not.'" He held up his index finger. " 'Strike one.' Remember? Well now / say to you that your Oculus is dead and you are not." Now the index finger pointed at Miller. "Strike one on you."

Cal couldn't believe his ears. Neither could Miller, apparently, because he stood staring at Zeklos with a slack, drop-jawed expression.

Cal recovered first. Knowing what would happen next, he grabbed Miller's upper arm with both hands and held on as Miller started toward Zek.

"Why you little piece of—!"

"Cool it!" Cal shouted. "We just lost seven brothers and our Oculus! This is not the time to start fighting among ourselves! This is exactly what the Adversary wants. You're playing right into his game."

Miller dragged him a few steps, then stopped, red-faced, panting.

"He's not coming along!"

"We need—"

He whirled on Cal. "If he comes, I stay. And I'm pretty sure I won't be the only one."

"You'd sabotage our whole operation over some personal vendetta?"

"It's not personal. He's a menace. And I mean what I say. Him or me and others. Choose."

Miller knew damn well he'd left Cal with only one choice.

The door chimed again. Cal glanced at the monitor, saw Portman, and hit the button.

"Well, what's it gonna be, Davis?" Miller said.

Cal was looking for a way out when Portman walked up and dropped a newspaper on the monitoring console. The headline of the Post's late edition leaped out at him.

HIT & RUN HORROR!

The subheading read: MOTHER AND DAUGHTER MOWED DOWN BY RED-LIGHT RUNNER.

Cal's stomach clenched as he looked up at Portman. "Yeah, we know. We were there, remember?"

Portman had a funny expression. "Check out page three."

Cal did just that. He recoiled at the grainy black-and-white photo of EMTs loading a small figure on a stretcher into an ambulance.

"So?"

Portman tapped a fingertip on one of the paragraphs.

"Says here she's still alive. Looks like we missed again."

Cal felt a burst of elation.

He heard Miller mutter, "Shit."

Behind Portman, he saw Zeklos raise two fingers.

"Strike two, Miller."

28

Jack found himself at the corner of a park he hadn't known existed. Looked to be about two blocks long and one deep. He stared up at the street sign: 78th AND CHEROKEE PLACE.

Where the hell was he?

He vaguely remembered Dr. Stokely telling him that his visiting time in the trauma unit was up but he could come back later. Until then he could wait in the family lounge. But that meant more sitting, and Jack couldn't sit.

The baby… on top of everything else, the baby… gone.

Had to get out, had to move. He'd fled the hospital and walked into the night. Must have turned uptown, then turned east at some point because he could hear the roar of racing traffic ahead of him, and see twinkles of distant lights across the water. The traffic had to be the FDR, the water the East River, and the lights Queens, or maybe Roosevelt Island.

The cars made the only sound. The park lay deserted to his right. No surprise in that. Nobody with any sense would be looking for a park bench on a night as cold as this. And even if they were, the eight-foot, spike-topped wrought-iron fence would keep them out.

A nearby plaque read JOHN JAY PARK.

He'd heard of the place but had never been here.

He spotted a ramp ahead, leading to what looked like a pedestrian bridge over the FDR. He started moving again. Midspan he stopped and looked through the high, tight, chain-link fencing at the cars below.

If the NJ Turnpike had had this sort of fence on a certain overpass fifteen years ago, he'd be leading a different life now. He never would have met Gia and Vicky, and he'd be so much poorer for that. But at least they wouldn't be fighting for their lives now.

He didn't know exactly how, but he had no doubt this was all his fault.

A crushing fatigue settled over him. Feeling as empty as the promenade on the far side of the overpass, he stumbled down the ramp, found a bench, and dropped onto it.

He'd never been here before, but could imagine the concrete path packed with joggers, strollers, and bike riders during the warmer weather. A low wrought-iron fence on the far side of the promenade separated him from the water running a dozen feet below. He noticed huge dock cleats, painted black like the fencing and spaced every twenty feet or so along the edge. That told him boats used to dock here. Maybe they still did.

Baker Street—style lampposts lined the walk, augmenting the wash of light from the FDR's overhead lamps.

He sat and stared at Roosevelt Island, a long clump of land plopped in the center of the East River. The lights of the apartment buildings blazed, blocking his view of Astoria and Long Island City on the far side. He watched a jet glide into LaGuardia. To his right the lights of the graceful Queensborough Bridge twinkled in the night while the Roosevelt Island trams shuttled to and from Manhattan on their wires.

On any other night he'd have thought it a beautiful sight, but beauty is better when shared. He'd have loved nothing more in the world than to be sitting between Gia and Vicky right now, an arm around each of them. He could almost hear Gia saying that she'd like to come back to this spot tomorrow night and paint the scene.

And then he thought about the baby, his lost child. He remembered all the times in the past few months he'd imagined himself bouncing his little boy on his knee, tickling him to make him laugh, teaching him to throw and catch and—