SUNDAY

1

Jack used a piece of toast to guide the last bits of his Everything Omelet—bacon, sausage, ham, mushrooms, onions, and hot peppers—onto his fork. Gia was at PT and Vicky had gone along with her. Abe slept in on Sundays, so he'd wandered over to the Highwater Diner in the West Fifties—so far west it was practically in the Hudson. He loved diners and the Highwater still sported its original chrome trim from the 1940s. But it and its kin were becoming an endangered species in Manhattan. He missed the old Munson on Eleventh Avenue—it closed in 2004. He liked the Cheyenne on Ninth down in the Thirties as well, but sensed its days were numbered too.

Figured he'd better enjoy the survivors while he could. Diner coffee, bacon, toast, two eggs over easy—was there a better meal in the world? And George Kuropolis, owner and chief cook, knew how to fry them with just enough easy on the over. But this morning Jack had celebrated with an EO.

He nursed his third cup of coffee at the counter while bald, chubby George fiddled with the radio, flipping from station to station, looking for who knew what. Not much happening radiowise on Sunday mornings.

Especially today. Why no story on Bolton? The one-twelve must have run his prints by now. The airwaves should be screaming the news about the life-imprisoned Atlanta abortionist assassin being arrested in a bar fight in Queens. But nothing. Maybe the cops were keeping it quiet till they double-checked the prints and called in the feds.

Sometime today it would hit. Had to. And then Bolton would be toast as far as the clinical trial was concerned.

Such a simple solution. He hadn't thought of it until Sam had started hassling him. With all that violence just bubbling under Bolton's skin, getting punched by some drunk was more than enough to set it free. After that—

"Whoa!" he said, waving to George as he heard a lamiJiar voice. "Turn back. What was that?"

George gave him a look. "Since when do you care, Jack?" But he turned it back.

"There!" he said when he heard Hank Thompson's voice. "What station is that?"

He squinted at the dial. "Eight-twenty. Why?"

WNYC—the NPR station.

"Can we listen just a moment?"

"Usually we keep news on, but for you…"

Jack had done some work for George a while back.

"Just a few seconds."

He listened to Thompson's now-familiar rap, then heard the host say that he was "live in our studio"—as opposed to dead?—and would take some calls.

"Thanks," Jack said as he gulped his coffee, threw a ten on the counter—enough for the food plus a big tip—and headed for the door.

Where the hell was WNYC?

He called information and learned it was on Centre Street. Down by City Hall Park. He flagged a cab and headed downtown.

One Centre Street turned out to be a mini-skyscraper. He didn't know where WNYC was in the building and didn't care. All he needed was to spot Hank Thompson leaving.

He didn't feel properly caffeinated yet, so he ordered yet another cup of coffee from a street cart.

"To go," he added, just for fun.

The cart guy gave him a look. "It's way too early on a Sunday morning to fuck with me."

Whistling "I Love New York," Jack found a spot across the street where he could watch the entrance. He was just settling in when his phone rang—possibly the last phone in the city that still had a bell tone instead of music.

He checked the caller ID and saw a 914 area code.

Levy.

"We've got to meet," he said without preamble.

"We met yesterday. Any word yet on that matter I called you about last night?"

"Plenty. That's one of the reasons we have to talk."

Jack didn't like the sound of that. "Meaning?"

"He's out."

"Out?"

"As in free on bail."

"What? How the hell—?"

"1 know how, and that"s one of the reasons we need to meet again."

"That one's plenty. We don't need another."

"We do." Levy sounded exeited. "I have startling—no, amazing news."

"You've already given me that."

"This might top it."

"Give."

"Not on the phone. Besides, you'll have to see to believe."

"Well, you'll have to come down to the city."

"It's Sunday. My wife—"

"If it's important enough you'll find a way."

A pause, then, "I suppose I could take a few hours… where will we meet?"

"I'm outside One Centre Street at the moment."

"But I don't know the city."

"Christ, you must have a GPS in that Infiniti. Use it."

"Oh. Yes. Right. Forgot about that."

"Set it for One Centre Street and go where it tells you. There's no traffic this hour on a Sunday. You'll be here in no time."

He thumbed the END button and returned his attention to the building entrance, but his thoughts were on what Levy had said.

Bolton free on bail… how the hell could that be? Somebody might have the pull to clamp down on the news, but nobody had enough to keep the Atlanta abortionist assassin from going back to finish his sentence.

Someone somewhere had screwed up big time.

And then this other thing… startling, amazing news that had to be seen to be believed… what was that all about?

Half an hour passed while he mulled these as-yet unanswered questions. He was debating a fifth cup of coffee when he spotted Thompson popping through the entrance and stepping to the curb. He flagged a taxi and Jack did the same, giving the driver a follow-that-cab line. The guy, whose name was Mustafa, looked like he was just back from the jihad. He didn't even blink.

2

Jeremy lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. He couldn't believe they'd let him go. When they'd slapped those cuffs on him at Work he had that same lost, helpless, panicked feeling he'd had way back in his teens when they'd cornered him for the Atlanta killings.

What had happened? Had they screwed up the prints? Did the computer burp while it was processing his and not recognize them?

Or had it been a higher power, guiding his fate?

Whatever the reason, he was glad he was out.

He stretched out his hand, expecting to touch Dawn. Instead he found an empty bed. Then he heard the toilet flush and Dawn stumbled into the room, looking pale.

"Somethin wrong, darlin?"

"Feel crummy." Rubbing her arms she crossed the room and closed the two windows. "It's freezing in here!"

He repressed a flash of anger. She hadn't even asked.

"You know I like fresh air."

An open window… no such thing at Creighton. Ever since he got out he'd kept one open in every room. Now, even though the window had been closed only a few seconds, he felt closed in. But he couldn't tell Dawn that.

She tumbled into bed and pulled the covers over her. Jeremy reached under and rubbed his palm over her ass.

"Too crummy for a little lovin?"

She pushed his hand away.

"Totally."

"Hey, you mad at me? That fight wasn't my fault. I was just—"

"If you were home here instead of hanging out at a bar while I'm working—"

Anger flashed through Jeremy but he controlled it.

"Hey, now, darlin. I told you to quit that job."

"And I did. I gave my notice but I can't leave them totally high and dry."

"Fuck "em."

Truth was, he didn't want her or anybody else around all the time. Back at Creighton, day and night, twenty-four/seven, someone had always been around. Even though he craved his own time, needed to be able to drop into a place like Work and just hang, he had to act like the devoted, protective, take-charge boyfriend. He thought of playing that guy Joe Henry's video game yesterday—most likely wouldn't have been able to do that with Dawn along.

That guy was all right—a gamer and a Kicker to be.

"They've got two weeks, then I'm so gone. But what happens last night while I'm there? I get this call that you're in jail and need to be bailed out and I have to leave work and I'm a wreck and now I feel like shit so just let me sleep."