"Yeah, I guess it is. Thought I'd got that done last night but…"

Jack stared at the photos of the two men, wondering how he could turn their blood ties to his advantage. And as he stared, their features seemed to shift and blur and merge until, with a cold shock of recognition, he realized who they reminded him of.

Christy Pickering.

"Holeeee shit!"

He hadn't seen it in the adults, but those blue eyes plus the soft, hairless eheeks in the photos…

"What?" Levy said.

"The woman who hired me and Gerhard… she could be their sister."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm not sure. But there's a definite resemblance."

Levy paled. "But if Jonah Stevens fathered this woman as well, then Bolton is dating his…"

"Yeah. His niece. Was that why he wanted to go to Rego Park? To be near his niece? That's pretty damn—"

Levy held up a hand. "Aren't we getting a little ahead of ourselves here? We don't know that she's really a blood relation—it's an assumption based simply on a superficial resemblance from a couple of old photos. That's hardly definitive."

Jack had almost forgotten he was speaking with a scientist.

"Point taken, but—"

"We need proof."

Jack watched him. "Such as?"

"Some of her DNA. Do you know her well enough to get hold of a dozen or so strands of her hair?"

Jack had to smile. "You mean, well enough to snag some from her pillow or run my fingers through her lustrous locks? Hardly."

"We need something. There must be a way."

"Oh, there's a way." Jack already had a few ideas developing. "But why do you care? What's this do for your agenda?"

"Nothing. But it has everything to do with genetics. This super oDNA carrier Jonah Stevens could have been spreading his seed across the south for decades before he died. Who knows how many children he fathered, and how many of those are time bombs waiting to explode into killing sprees?"

"And you're worried about their potential victims, of course."

Right.

"I'm concerned, naturally, but I'm fascinated with the research possibilities. If I can identify his offspring, quantify their oDNA, and then assess their criminality or lack thereof—think about what that will do for my research, for our knowledge about the genetic basis of behavior."

"Is that the only reason?"

Levy looked at him. "There might be another. You probably wouldn't understand."

C4T1 *)*>

lry me.

"Have you ever wanted to know something… know it simply ior the sake of knowing… because it's hidden out there somewhere and you feel compelled to uncover it simply because it's hidden?"

"Too many times. Usually gets me in trouble."

"Throughout history it's caused many people big trouble."

"And that doesn't worry you?"

"Of course it worries me. But I need to know."

Jack was beginning to like Aaron Levy. Not a lot, but for a man who did a lot of lying, he had a core of truth.

"Okay, I'll get you your samples."

"Thank you. I—"

Jack raised a hand as he glanced again at the front of the Kicker club and saw the door open. "Wait."

"What?"

Hank Thompson stepped out and trotted down the steps. He had a backpack slung over his left shoulder.

What's in there, Hanky boy? A big old book, maybe? Taking it to someplace safer than the Lower East Side?

"Get ready to roll."

"Roll where?"

"Wherever I tell you."

Thompson turned away from them, quick walking up to Allen Street where he began waving for a cab.

"Recognize him?" Jack said.

Levy squinted. "Hank Thompson?"

"Yep. And we're going to follow him."

Levy shook his head. "I don't know…"

"This is one of those just-gotta-know things. And besides, he may be key to getting Bolton off the streets. Pull out and start rolling toward him. When he catches a cab, follow."

After a few seconds' hesitation, Levy complied, easing the car forward and heading for the corner. By time they reached it, Thompson still hadn't caught a cab. Levy slowed to a crawl. The light was green and a car behind them honked.

"What now?"

Jack hunched low in the seat. "Make the turn and pull over upstream. Soon as he's moving, we follow."

5

After a slow, frustrating trip uptown, mostly on First Avenue, Thompson's cab made a left on 39th Street and headed west.

Back to his publisher?

Could have a meeting, could be going out to lunch. That meant another lengthy wait. Jack wished he knew whether or not he had the book on him. If not, this was all a waste of time.

The cab pulled to the right and stopped, not before the Vector Publications building but a branch of the Bank of New York. Three words immediately tumbled through Jack's brain.

Safety deposit box.

Maybe Thompson had one, maybe he was about to rent one, but whatever the case, Jack couldn't let him stash the Compendium in a bank. He'd never see it again.

"Quick! Pull up behind him. Close as you can."

As Thompson paid the cabby, Levy eased to a stop and Jack crawled into the backseat. He lowered the rear passenger-side window and stuck his head out. Thompson was stepping out of the cab, swinging his backpack over his shoulder as Jack called.

"Mister Thompson! Hank!" Jack waved as Thompson turned. "Hey, buddy! Remember me?"

Thompson's curious expression morphed into a glare. "I remember you, you phony bastard!"

Must have done some checking up. Jack pretended not to hear.

"I'm so glad I ran into you. I have a couple of follow-up questions I'd like to—"

"You lying fuck!" Thompson was striding toward the car. Now that Jack knew they were brothers, he could see Bolton in his eyes. "What are you after?"

"Nothing. I—"

Closer.

"I mean, what's your game, man?"

"I just need to ask," Jack said, then let his volume fall. "Do you hang it to the left or right'/"

Closer.

"What?"

"You deaf or something? Left or right? Does yours hang left or right?"

Jack eased back as Thompson pushed his face right up to the window opening, a definite Texas Tower look growing in his eyes.

"I want you out of my sight, scumbag! I ever see you again I'm gonna—"

Jack hit the window up button as he grabbed a fistful of his curly Morrison locks and yanked his head inside. Thompson tried to pull back but the rising edge of the window caught him under the chin, trapping him without quite choking him.

Thompson went wild. Red-faced with bulging eyes, he filled the car with incoherent screamed curses as he thrashed about like a trapped animal, twisting, kicking, straining, pounding his fists against the window and door and roof.

Jack slid toward the opposite side of the seat. He saw Levy's white face and wide eyes staring at him over the backrest.

"Dear God! What are you doing?"

"Only be a minute."

Jack slipped out the door on the driver side and stepped around the rear of the car. Few people were looking, and only long enough to nudge and point and grin. This was New York, after all.

Still, Jack hated this. He preferred subtle, preferred to operate shielded, from a distance, invisible. This was crude and it exposed him, but he couldn't stand by and watch the book sealed away in a bank vault. Sometimes you had to go with the most direct method.

Thompson made quite a sight with his head buried in the car and his limbs flailing and kicking in a pattern somewhere between the Charleston and an epileptic fit. His screams of rage were muffled out here but still audible. He'd dropped the backpack. Keeping an eye on the thrashing arms and feet, Jack picked it up and unzipped the rear compartment.

There she lay in all her metallic glory: the Compendium ofSrem.

He pulled it free, dropped the backpack, and returned to the other side of the car. As Jack slipped back into the rear seat, Thompson saw the book and lost it.