He gave her butt a gentle pat instead of the hard slap he wanted to.

"Will do. Sleep tight, darlin."

He returned to staring at the ceiling, wondering why he wasn't in shackles on his way back to Creighton, when her words came back to him.

… I feel like shit. . .

Could it be? Could she have morning sickness? If she did it meant for sure that a higher power was watching out for him. Freed from Creighton… released from jail last night… and now this.

He suppressed a giddy laugh.

Oh, please, yes. Pleasel

Oh, Daddy, wherever you are, this could be it!

3

They wound up on the Lower East Side, some side street off Allen, just uptown from Delancey and Chinatown. An old, old part of the city. That writer Winslow lived down here. Coincidence? Yeah, well, a lot of people lived down here—mostly Asian.

Thompson's cab stopped before an old stone building stuck amid brick-fronted tenements. A bedsheet had been strung between two second-floor windows. Someone had spray-painted the now too familiar figure of the Kicker Man on it.

This had to be one of the clubs Thompson had mentioned.

Jack had his driver cruise past and drop him around the corner.

Now what?

Was Thompson just visiting, or was this where he was crashing while in the city? He certainly could afford a hotel room, but maybe he wanted to maintain proletarian cred. Was this where he kept the Compendium?

Jack was staring at the building when a breeze caught the Kicker Man banner and flapped it up. He stiffened when he saw the carving beneath it: the Escherish seal of the Septimus Lodge.

The Lodge… that's what they'd called the one in his hometown… a secret society that supposedly predated the Masons and made them seem like an open book. Jack had sneaked into the local outpost as a kid and had a vague recollection of being unsettled by what he'd seen. Nothing like the fanciful tales whispered in the kids' underground, but definitely strange.

He hadn't known of a chapter here in New York, but why not? Should have expected one in this old part of the city. But what was their connection to Thompson? Was he a member? Or had some Lodge high-ups become Kickers? Jack doubted the latter. But for the Lodge to open its doors to outsiders… that spoke of an intimate connection.

Curiouser and curiouser.

He looked around for a vantage point with a view of the entrance. He figured a surveillance of Thompson was warranted by the Bolton connection. Probably best to set up on the same side of the street, where he wouldn't attract the attention of anyone looking out a window.

One building west he found a spot near the mouth of a narrow alley—a dead-end passage populated by half a dozen battered, empty garbage cans and most likely a colony or two of rats. But it offered a good view, and even a little sunlight. He'd worn his bomber jacket to ward off the chill of the early morning, but the day was beginning to warm.

As he waited his bladder started sending him the full-tank signal. All the coffee that had gone in wanted out, so he risked a quick trip to an Indo-Pak coffee shop down the street. Since the restroom was for customers only, he ordered some curried naan and a Pepsi.

Seated by the window, he had a narrow-angle view of the Lodge. He could have stayed but he needed to be out on the street if and when Thompson reap-peared. So he made a quick trip to the head, then scooped up his food and headed back outside, hoping he hadn't missed Thompson's departure.

He was just polishing off the Pepsi when someone appeared on the steps of the club. He was disappointed to see it wasn't Thompson, but the guy did look familiar. It took him a few seconds before his face clicked. He had bed head and a few days' worth of facial stubble, but yeah: the missing janitor from the museum.

And he was coming this way.

Jack ducked back in the alley and rearranged a couple of the garbage cans, disturbing a trio of rats in the process. They squealed and fled toward the far end. Then he yanked a small wad of bills from his pocket. He dropped a couple of singles near the mouth of the alley, a fin a few feet in, and another even farther in.

Then he pulled out his Spyderco, flicked open the four-inch combination blade, and crouched behind the garbage cans to wait. If the mark was preoccupied or looking somewhere else, he'd miss the bait. Jack was betting a recently out-of-work janitor wouldn't.

He didn't. Jack heard footsteps stop at the mouth of the alley, then move closer. He hid the knife and let his head fall forward on his knees.

The footsteps stopped in front of him. He felt a poke and heard a voice say, "Hey, buddy. You all right?" Another poke. "Hey."

Jack remained immobile until he felt a hand worm its way into his jacket pocket. Then he moved, grabbing a handful of the guy's lanky hair and yanking him down. The janitor landed on his knees, face inches from Jack's, eyes bulging as the knife point pressed against his throat.

"Hey, I was just checking if you was all right!"

"Shut up!" Jack kept his voice menacingly low. "You have something of mine."

"No, I ain't! I never seen you before in my life!"

Jack pressed the point deeper. "Shut up! You speak when I tell you to, otherwise you'll never speak again. Got that?"

The guy nodded as best he could. He'd bought the threat and looked scared. Jack thought about this creep snatching the book—most likely from right under the unconscious professor—and taking off without letting anyone know the old guy was in trouble. He could almost see himself following through with the threat, slicing through his larynx and—

He shook it off.

"What's your name? Speak."

"M-Marty."

"All right, M-Marty, listen up. There's a book missing from the museum where you used to work. That book wasn't the museum's, it was mine, and 1

want it back. And since you stole it, I've come to you to get it." Jack had been watching his pupils. They suddenly constricted. Yep. He was the one. "Now, I don't want to hear any denials, like you telling me you don't know what I'm talking about, because I know you do. The cops are looking for you and you probably thought it would be a bad thing if they found you. But something far worse has happened. / found you first. The cops don't care about getting the book back. I do. Very much."

Had he laid it on thick enough? Yeah, probably.

"So, when I give you permission to speak, you'll tell me where it is and then we'll decide how you're going to get it back to me. Got that?"

Another nod.

"Good. Now speak."

"Look, I swear I didn't—ow!"

Jack gave him a little jab, just enough to break the skin.

"Remember what I said about denials."

"I know, I know. I was just saying that I didn't know it belonged to anyone. I thought it was just the museum's."

Jack refrained from getting into the basic distinction between mine and not-mine, but it might prove too esoteric for Marty.

"I saw it and I don't know what came over me. I only boosted small stuff before. I knew there was gonna be trouble, but…"

"But you saw the Kicker Man and just had to have it, right?"

The eyes widened along with the pupils this time. "How'd you know?"

"Where've you got it stashed?"

He flinched. "I… I gave it away."

"I know—to Hank Thompson."

The eyes widened further. "How do you know this shit?"

"Be surprised what I know."

Easy to figure, what with Marty and Thompson in the same building.

"Now—"

His phone started ringing. Who—?

Probably Levy again.

"You gonna get that?" Marty said.

Jack shook his head. "Later. Now, as I was saying, the question is, are you or are you not going to return my book to me? Think carefully before you answer."