9

Jack stood at the bar nursing a watery Coors Light as he went over his options. At least it was better than an even more watery Bud Light from the ruinators of Rolling Rock.

The neon Corona clock on the wall behind the bar said 6:30. Still about an hour until sunset. But from what Christy had told him, if Bolton was coming in, he would have shown by now.

Reminded of Christy, Jack pulled out his phone and called her numbers again. Still no answer. Rehearsal was dragging on. At least he hoped it was rehearsal.

Someone eased over and leaned against the bar beside him: Dirty Danny.

"Need any party supplies?"

"Nope. Sorry. No one's invited me to any parties lately."

Danny gave him a yellow grin. "Well, then have one of your own. That's what I'd do."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Well, you need anything, you know where to find me."

Danny moved on and Jack decided he was tired of Queens, tired of wasting his time waiting for people to answer their phones or show up in bars. Time to head home and see if Gia had any plans for dinner. If nothing was on the stove yet, they could head down to Little Italy where Vicky could chow down on Amalia's mussels in garlic sauce.

He left the rest of the beer wannabe on the bar and headed for the door.

10

A parade of what-ifs were tying Jeremy's stomach in knots as he maneuvered into a parking spot down the street from Work.

What if he hadn't checked Dawn's browser history?

What if she'd gone ahead and had the abortion?

What if she tries again?

It was like the past was repeating itself. But at least this time he wouldn't have to go around killing doctors. He hadn't been able to reveal himself to Moonglow. With Dawn it was different. She knew he was the father, so he could stay close and watch over her.

Watch over her… what a job that would be… nine months of hell until—

No, wait. Maybe only a few months of hell. He knew abortions weren't done after a certain point in a pregnancy. He didn't know that point, but he'd sure as hell find out.

The thing was, he'd have to stay right on top of her, not let her out of his sight until that point was reached. Could he do that? How could he get up to Creighton every week for his injection if he couldn't trust her alone? What was he going to do—chain her in the basement?

He didn't want her along now—not if he was going to have to deal with that Enemy posing as Joe Henry—but he didn't dare leave her home.

"Shit!"

"What's the matter?"

He looked at Dawn and wanted to kill her for wanting to kill the Key. She'd come so close to ruining everything. He saw the fear in her eyes and realized that might be the key… the key to protecting the Key.

Fear.

Make her so afraid of him that the thought of an abortion will never cross her mind again.

But before the fear… marriage. That way he could have some legal say about the baby. But marrying her wouldn't be an easy proposition after the way he'd blown up earlier. He knew he'd scared her bad.

"Nothing, darlin. Just mad at myself for losin it the way I did. You've got to understand that though I never wanted a kid, I do now. And like I said, it's a miracle. I—"

He squinted through the windshield at the man who'd just stepped out of Work: Joe Henry. No… his name wasn't Joe Henry… Moonglow's detective, John Robertson. Or maybe not just a detective. Maybe an Enemy of the Bloodline. And here he was, practically walking into Jeremy's arms.

The Others must be watching over me.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm looking at a guy who's been causing me trouble."

Dawn leaned forward and pointed. "Him? You introduced me to him yesterday. I thought he was a friend." '

"So did I. But I've learned different."

He heard Vecca's voice in his head telling him to make the call, then follow the guy until folks from her mysterious, all-powerful agency grabbed him. He heard another voice telling him, Yeah, that would be the smart thing to do because he couldn't be a hundred percent sure that Joe Henry wasn't really Joe Henry. He might not be a detective or an Enemy, might just be some everyday shlub who liked beer and video games and was reading Kick.

Shit! Hank's book! That was the key. He was carrying it around as a prop—a goddamn prop—because he thought it would make Jeremy lower his guard and let him get in close where he could screw up everything.

Well, it almost worked. It almost fucking worked.

Jeremy felt his blood begin to heat.

Come to think of it, the guy probably didn't know shit about video games either, because he'd let Jeremy do all the playing.

The only thing Robertson had played was Jeremy—like Hendrix played guitar.

He knew his face was reddening.

And Robertson wasn't just some smart-ass detective, he was an Enemy. Carrying Kick around proved it, because only an enemy could know Jeremy and Hank were connected. Must know about the Bloodline too, and the Key. That was why he was here—to mess up the Plan.

His vision took on a red tinge.

"The/uc/c!"

Dawn jumped in her seat. "Jerry! What—?"

Jeremy ignored her as he hit the trunk release and jumped out. He ran around to the rear and yanked on a ring in the floor. Beneath, in the spare well, he found the tire iron and hefted it. Good solid feel, the lug-wrench end nice and heavy.

As he started after Robertson, Dawn lowered her window.

''Jerry, what are you doing?"

"Just stay here. This'll only take a minute."

"But—"

"Be right back. I owe somebody something. Gonna settle up with him."

His blood sang in his ears as he hurried through the dying light toward Robertson, long, quick strides eating up the distance between them. The guy was oblivious, just ambling along the sidewalk like he hadn't a care in the world. Yeah, well, he was about to have a care—a big care. He was about to get messed up.

Jeremy stepped over the curb and onto the sidewalk a dozen feet behind him. He glanced around. Nobody nearby, nobody looking his way except Dawn.

Nine feet to go… six… he tightened his grip on the tire iron and chose a spot on the back of the guy's head. He could almost hear the crack, feel the crunch, see the spray of red when steel hit bone. He took a two-handed grip and raised it high as he closed in.

This was gonna be good. This was gonna be easy. This was gonna be quick and clean. One skull-crushing shot, plus one more for good measure as he went down, then Jeremy would keep moving, barely breaking stride, walking away as if nothing had happened. Someone would find the guy leaking his brains out onto the sidewalk and call EMS. If he survived, he'd most likely never wake up, and even if he did he wouldn't remember shit, and be good for even less.

Jeremy raised the iron higher then and, putting his arms, shoulders, and a good deal of his body behind it, swung—

And missed.

At the last second the guy spun and ducked to his right. Jeremy had been set to connect with something hard and solid. Instead the iron whipped through empty air, leaving him stagger-stepping ahead.

There—to his left.

He half turned and saw something flashing toward his face—the palm of a hand. Jeremy tried to react but he was off-balance, tilting forward as the heel of that palm caught him square on the nose. He heard a sickening crunch as pain detonated in his face—a July Fourth finale of brightly flashing lights that left him blinded and disoriented. He quit his two-handed grip as he raised his left to fend off another blow while the right tried a feeble backhand swing with the iron. But almost immediately a fist that seemed aimed at his spine or maybe at a place somewhere behind him rammed into his gut, doubling him over. He grunted with the pain, blinked, turned away defensively as he tried to clear his vision for a swing at this guy, wherever he was. That was when something hard slammed against the outside of his left knee, bending it a way it wasn't supposed to go. The leg gave out and he went down, dropping the iron to put his hands out to break his fall. As he landed on hands and knees some-thing heavy rammed his back, knocking him flat. Then a shoe against the back of his neck, pressing his face into the pavement.