She placed the razor's corner point against her left wrist, just below the base of her thumb, and lowered her arm into the water. Closed her eyes, took a breath, and slashed the blade across.

She cried out with the pain. God, that hurt! Hurt like crazy!

She opened her eyes and looked. All those glasses of rum and Pepsi threatened to come up when she saw the scarlet billows flowing from her wrist.

Scarlet billows… that was in some song Mom used to like…

A blast of panic flashed through her as she watched her blood, her life flowing out of her. What had she done? This was crazy. She—

No. She so deserved this, had it coming for being a total jerk. No way she could live with herself after all the pain and death and misery she'd caused.

She looked at her right wrist. She'd intended to slit that as well but the first cut had hurt too much. And with the way the left was bleeding, she doubted she'd need it.

An odd sort of peace slipped over her like a warm blanket. She'd done it. In a few moments her cares and troubles would be totally over. No more worries, no more guilt, no more heartbreak.

Just… peace.

3

Doc Levy looked like hell in the late afternoon light coming through the Argonaut's window. Off his feed as well. Hadn't ordered anything but a glass of seltzer.

Jack had left voice mail about how they needed to meet—pronto. He'd known something was bothering Levy when he'd called back. Sounded frazzled. Jack had a pretty good idea why.

Levy hadn't been able to get free until now, and so here it was, tour-thirty, and he looked like he hadn't slept in days.

Jack hadn't had much sleep either. He'd hunted for Dawn most of the day and come up empty.

"Something bothering you?" Jack said.

For all he knew, he looked as jumpy as Levy. With good reason, considering what was to come in the next few minutes.

"Bothering me?" Levy chugged some seltzer and gave him a funny look. "Don't you listen to the news?"

Jack shook his head. He let Abe filter much of his news. "Depresses me."

"Obviously you haven't heard then. Remember Doctor Vecca? You met her when—"

"I remember."

"Well, she's dead. Murdered. Head splattered all over her bedroom."

"How awful."

He hoped he sounded sincere.

"But you know what's worse? Maybe I shouldn't say 'worse,' because she's dead and I'm not—no, it is worse: They found the murder weapon—a tire iron coated with her blood—on the street outside my house."

"Bolton?"

He paused, then, "How'd you know?"

"Seems to like tire irons. Came after me with one, or have you forgotten?"

He ran a shaking hand through his dark hair. "To tell you the truth, I had. His prints were all over it. The blood was Julia's and traces were found inside his car—also outside my house."

"No wonder you're upset."

"As if that isn't enough, someone called the Golden and Dalton families and told them that Bolton had escaped and no one had reported it. They're screaming bloody murder. That news should be hitting the airwaves any minute. Not that you'd hear."

"Sounds like you'd better catch up to Bolton. Anybody have any idea where he is?"

"No. And that's what frightens me. The local cops and state police are looking for Jerry Bethlehem, who's listed as the owner of the car. But the agency knows to look for Bolton and has been scouring the area without finding a trace of him. Even sent a couple of agents to comb his girlfriend's house. Nothing."

Jack wanted to know more about their search. Had they found Dawn? He took an oblique approach.

"Well, he either ran off or was given a ride. The only ones 1 can think of who'd give him a ride are Dawn Pickering and Hank Thompson."

"Thompson checks out. The girl's gone missing. House is empty. They think she might be dead too."

Jack shook his head. "Can't see him doing that. It'd mean the end of the baby as well."

"I agree. Which means he hasn't gone far." Levy looked around. "I drove here looking over my shoulder the whole way. I've got a guy from the agency watching my house—my wife, my little girl…"

A twinge of pity prompted a little reassurance from Jack.

"Relax. You've got nothing to worry about."

Levy's eyebrows shot up. "Oh no? He left his car and the murder weapon in front of my house!"

"'Left' is the operant word. He's on the run. He won't be back."

"I wish I could be so sure."

Jack figured it was time to get down to the real reason for this little meeting. His palms began to sweat.

"You bring your little test kit?"

"Hmm?" Levy pulled himself back from somewhere else. "Oh, yes. Here."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box, maybe the size of a bracelet jewelry box. He set it on the table and lifted the lid to reveal a little eyedrop bottle and a square card with what looked like a coffee stain at the center of its glossy surface.

Jack stared at it. "That's it? That's all there is to it?"

"What did you expect—test tubes and a gas chromatography unit? Yes, that's it. And as I told you on the phone, it can't leave my sight. Only Creighton staff and certain screeners for the agency are allowed access to these kits."

"What do I do?"

"All we need is a drop of your blood." He patted his pockets. "I could have sworn I brought a packet of lancets—"

"Never mind." Jack pulled out his Spyderco and flipped it open. "This oughta do."

Levy stared at the blade. "I said a drop of blood, not a whole unit. A finger stick, not surgery."

Jack didn't smile. This wasn't funny.

Levy said, "You sure you want to do this? What are you going to do with the result?"

"They say knowledge is power."

"Not in this case. Whatever the result, there's nothing you can do about it."

Jack knew that. But he had to know.

He wiped the blade with a paper napkin, then made a quick short slice in his fingertip. Barely felt it. As blood welled in the slit he looked up at Levy.

"Now what?"

"Without touching the card, let a drop fall on that beige area."

Jack complied and watched the drop expand on the glossy paper. Levy took some sort of oversized toothpick and began mixing the blood into the beige residue.

"It's a variation on the old latex agglutination method. Basically a yes-or-no test. If we get clumping, it's positive. No clumping—negative."

"No telling the amount?"

He shrugged. "Sure. The more clumping, the more positive, but that's too crude and too subjective to rely on. The gold standard is a full quantitative analysis."

After stirring the blood and the beige, he took the little plastic bottle, removed the cap, and squeezed three drops of clear fluid onto the mix. He picked up the card and started tilting it this way and that. His cell phone rang. He handed the card to Jack.

"Just rock it back and forth to mix it."

Jack took it and looked. His breath caught as he saw little flecks begin to form in the fluid. He heard Levy's voice faintly, as if he were sitting four tables away.

"You what? You found him? Wh—?… Oh, dear God… But how—?… Yes, I see… No, not at all. Thanks for calling. It takes a load off my mind, but dear God. Who could have—? Okay, okay. As soon as I get back."

His gut acrawl, Jack watched the flecks enlarging, sticking to each other, forming clumps.

"Jack? Jack?"

Levy tapped him on the arm and Jack looked up.

"What?"

"Bolton's dead."

Jack almost said, Yeah, I know, but caught himself in time. He returned to watching the clumps expand while Levy prattled on.

"The agency heard about a body found dragging beneath a truck on the Thruway. Most of his skin was gone so they had no fingerprints or even facial features to go on. But since the truck's last stop had been a few miles from Rathburg, they ran a quick DNA and damn if it wasn't a match for Bolton."