Jack looked and found himself in the grip of a short but beefy biker type whose breath reeked of Jack Daniels. He had a balding head and a huge red handlebar mustache. Jack half expected him to shout, Great horny toads! or call him a varmint.

"My girl says you was starin at her, you sonuvabitch!"

Jack could barely hear him over the music, but he knew the drill with these guys. They got to feeling mean after a few shots and looked for any excuse to throw a few punches. If you admit looking at his girl, he punches you. If you deny looking at his girl, he accuses you of calling him a liar and punches you. A no-win situation.

The last thing Jack wanted was to draw attention to himself. He gave him a close look.

"Sam?" he shouted over the music. "Is that you?"

The guy looked confused. "What?"

"You're not Yosemite Sam?"

"Ain't no kinda Sam, and you was starin at my girl."

"You might be right, but truth is, Sam, I don't know who your girl is."

"I ain't Sam, and that's her, right there."

He pointed to a busty babe in a skimpy black leather halter top watching them with glittery eyes and a nasty smile.

"Oh, her. Her name wouldn't happen to be Cindy, would it?"

"Cindy? Hell, no. It's Roxanne."

"Weird, man. She's a dead ringer for a girl I knew in high school. I thought it might be Cindy Patterson but I guess not."

As Sam digested these departures from the usual script, Jack looked around for a way out. That was when he spotted Bolton leaning with his back against the bar, staring off into space.

Thinking about the Key to the future, maybe?

And then a whole scenario leaped to full-blown life.

"But listen, Sam," he said, leaning close.

"I ain't Sam, goddammit."

"Oh, right. There's a guy down there been giving Roxanne the eye all night. And I can't be sure, but I think she's been eyeing him back. You know, like they know each other."

He cocked a hst. "You tryin to tell me—?"

"Hey-hey, I could be wrong. But if you and I get into a fight and get thrown out, that'll leave a certain someone a clear field with Roxanne."

He looked around. "Where is this guy?"

Jack nodded toward Bolton. "Down there—tall guy in the denims and cowboy boots. Watch out. He looks tough."

"He looks like a pussy]" he growled. "You wanna see what tough looks like, you watch!"

He started nosing through the crowd like a rottweiler called to dinner.

Go, Sam. Get that there varmint.

Jack watched him step up to Bolton and say something, saw Bolton shake his head and respond with a condescending smile. Sam's fist flashed out but Bolton dodged it and swung a fist of his own.

After that, things got confusing as women screamed and men shouted, some fleeing the fight, some moving toward it, a pair of bouncers homing in, and an infuriated, red-faced, out-of-control Bolton swinging a pool cue at a bloody and astonished-looking Sam. He checked the bartenders but none of them was calling the cops. Probably hoping their guys could control it.

Jack pulled out his officialdom phone and headed for the door.

Somebody had to be a good citizen and phone in this terrible, frightful melee before someone was seriously hurt.

9

Aaron Levy settled at his desk in his Creighton office and opened Hank Thompson's file. No easy task to find it. The clerical staff was long gone. The only people left were the skeleton medical crew and night security. And since Thompson's stay here had begun and ended before Creighton had gone digital, he wasn't in the computer. Aaron had had to retrieve the physical chart from the basement archives himself.

He shuffled quickly to the lab results.

Hmmm. Thompson had been a strong reactor to the fluorescent antibody test. Interesting. Newer tests could better quantify the content, but Hank Thompson might well be a contender for the upper echelons of the oDNA rankings.

It shouldn't be a problem to check. If everyone had done their job down through the years, blood and tissue samples from Hank Thompson should be sitting in the freezer.

Aaron smiled with pride at his foresight. He'd known biotechnology would progress by leaps and bounds, so he'd planned for the future. He might never have a chance to examine these subjects again in person, but he'd have their DNA at his beck and call.

He flipped through the documentation and was surprised to see his signature on the order to transfer him to Creighton. He shook his head. So many inmates over the years. Couldn't remember them all. But why Thompson? What had brought him to Creighton's attention?

A couple of more flips and he found it. The charge had been GTA. Not the typical Creighton-worthy offense. Then he saw it. Seemed young Hank had become violent when the cops pulled him out of his stolen car. Took five of them to hold him down so he could be cuffed, and even then he'd kicked and screamed and struggled. Had to put him in leg irons. Seemed they'd found a liberal application of the baton necessary to subdue him. His mug shot showed swollen cheeks and blackened eyes.

Yes, that sort of violence would trigger a look. Blood had been taken, he'd reacted with a strong positive, so off he'd gone to Creighton.

Only one admission, which meant no further convictions—because once a Creighton inmate, always a Creighton inmate. Any further convictions brought you straight back. Somehow Thompson had learned to control or sublimate his violent tendencies, or had managed to escape arrest and conviction. Or perhaps he didn't carry the trigger gene. They hadn't known the existence of the trigger at the time he was here. But Aaron would check for it now.

Vital statistics. Hmmm. Born January of the same year as Jeremy Bolton. Eleven months older. Interesting coincidence. Born in Selma, Alabama, to Diane Thompson. Father unlisted. No sibs. Another parallel: Both Thompson and Bolton grew up the only sons of poor single mothers.

Aaron made a note: Check sib rate of high reactors. Does high oDNA level inhibit subsequent sibs?

He'd just turned to the last page when his cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and saw no name. Robertson? He took the call.

"Yes?"

"/z'.s me. Our mutual friend was just led away from a bar in cuffs by the TSYPD. Seems he got into a bad fight. He's being processed now at the hundred-and-twelfth precinct.""

And then the caller was gone. But Aaron knew who it was.

He's done it!

Somehow, someway, Jack had succeeded in getting Bolton arrested. And making it look like Bolton's own fault, it would seem.

Amazing.

The routine fingerprint check at the precinct would set off alarms in Vi-CAP. The resultant firestorm would cause a PR nightmare for Creighton, but that wasn't his problem. The agency would have to handle it. One thing for certain: Jeremy Bolton was off the street for good.

Aaron leaned back. Thank God! Maybe now he'd be able to get a decent night's sleep.

As he sat there his gaze fell upon Hank Thompson's file and the discharge photo he'd opened to. Something familiar about his eyes…

And then it came to him.

Aaron felt his jaw drop as a cold wave of shock swept through him. He knew why young Hank Thompson looked so familiar. At least he was pretty sure. Had to confirm.

He lit up his computer terminal and tapped in the access code for Jeremy Bolton's highly restricted file. He paged down till he reached the intake photo, then leaned forward, staring.

Oh, yes. Oh, yes! This was wonderful. Not only would Bolton be back in custody, but Aaron had thisl

Absolutely wonderful!