"Uh-huh."

Jack felt a vague disappointment. He'd wanted Bolton to go unidentified for a while, preferably forever. That way Vecca's agency would concentrate on finding the escapee and forget about Christy Pickering's investigator.

Levy ran a hand across his face. "This is incredible. He'd been tied there, but God knows by whom."

"Uh-huh."

Levy craned his neck. "What's going on?" He reached for the card. "Let me see that."

Jack pulled it back. He didn't want Levy to see it—didn't want anyone to see it.

"Come on. Give it over."

What the hell. Jack laid it on the table and slid it toward him. Then watched Levy's eyes widen.

"Dear God!" He looked up at Jack, then back to the card, then at Jack again. "You're playing tricks on me, right? What did you do—sprinkle something on this while I wasn't looking? That's it, right?"

"I wish."

Levy did the up-and-down look again.

"Dear God, this can't be true! I've never seen agglutination like this! It puts you right up there with—" His phone rang again. He checked it, then pointed at Jack. "I've got to take this, but do not leave, understand?"

Jack felt boneless—he wasn't going anywhere.

"Yes?" Levy said, jamming the phone to his ear. "What? What sort of letter? Read it to me."

As Levy listened, Jack stared at the clumps—the agglutination, as Levy put it.

Last night, after following the line of Bolton's blood until it petered out, he hadn't felt a shred of guilt or regret or remorse. Why not? Easy: Because Bolton had suffered a fate he'd have had no hesitation inflicting on someone else.

Then an ugly thought had bobbed to the surface: Didn't that make him just like Bolton?

No. Of course not. He hadn't wanted to do it, had planned a hands-off solution that would force the agency to take out Bolton for killing Vecca…

… which Jack had put him up to.

But Bolton's arrival at Levy's, bloody tire iron in hand, had left Jack no choice.

Could have simply shot him and buried him.

Bad option. Too many chances to leave trace evidence.

But to tie him under a truck? That was something one of Levy's heavy oDNA carriers would do.

Right.

The possibility had sickened him, but he needed to know. So he'd asked Levy to bring one of his screening kits.

"Dear God!"

If he says that once more…

"Not her signature? Then who—?" He looked at Jack and paled. "I'll follow up on this later." Without taking his eyes off Jack he folded the phone and placed it on the table. "They found a letter in Julia's bedroom, the room where she was murdered. It's signed but the signature isn't even remotely like hers. It tells all about Bolton's paternity to Dawn and…" He shook his head. "Only two people knew about that: You and I. And I didn't write that letter, so that leaves…"

"Why are you looking at me?"

"Because you—"

"Forget this letter jive. What about my test?"

Levy glanced at it again.

"What's to tell? You're in the Jeremy Bolton league of the oDNA tournament. I'll bet you even top him."

Jack leaned back. Just what he'd been afraid of, what he hadn't wanted to hear but sensed he would.

Levy was pointing—no, jabbing a finger in his direction, his face even paler, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"You! It was you! You tied Bolton beneath that… you wrote that letter to set him off… you knew he'd come looking for Julia and—"

"How can you know whether the therapy's working if you don't provoke him? Wasn't that the gist of her approach?"

"Yes, but—oh, dear God—"

"Would you please come up with another expletive or exhortation or whatever? Please?"

He wasn't listening. "Bolton came to my house after killing Julia! It wasn't the Pickering girl or Thompson who gave him a ride, it was you. Oh dear God!"

"Didn't I ask—?"

"You tied him to that—oh dear God." He shrank back against the booth's rear cushion. "What kind of a man does something like that?"

Jack didn't offer an answer. They both knew: One carrying a load of oDNA.

Levy gathered himself. "But then again, you probably saved my life."

"Probably?"

Levy glanced away. "Okay. Definitely."

"Let's say all of what you say is true. That leaves me with a problem, doesn't it."

"What?"

"You."

Levy flinched. "M-me?"

"You know an awful lot about me. Maybe too much. What am I going to do about that?"

Levy's face was alabaster white now. Even his lips.

"Look, I'm in this as deeply as you. The agency will want to know who wrote that letter and I'll be the first one they come to."

"And you'll tell them…?"

"Nothing. What can I say about you without incriminating myself?"

Just what Jack wanted to hear.

"Good. Because if they come looking for me, I'll flip you in a New York second—as the source of the letterhead, all the DNA information, etcetera. I suggest you get back to your lab and start deleting certain results. I go down, you go down. Remember that." He waved at the test card between them. "And remember this."

Levy swallowed. "Will do."

"Good." Figuring he'd made his point, he pointed to the agglutinations. "Does this mean I'm one of them?"

"Them?"

"Someone in the Jonah Stevens's line?"

"In his direct bloodline? I doubt it. But somewhere in the distant past you might have shared an ancestor."

Jack sighed. "Swell."

"This test is qualitative and only crudely quantitative. Come by my office someday after this all settles out and I'll run a full analysis."

"That's okay."

"I'm serious.

"I'm sure you are."

"But—but don't you want to know if you carry the trigger gene?"

Jack gave him what he figured was a bleak look. "You really think that's necessary?"

Levy looked uncomfortable and averted his eyes.

"No, I guess not."

"Neither do I."

4

Dawn awoke choking and gagging.

"Wha—?"

She was wet—totally soaked—up to her chin in water—pinkish water—

She bolted upright and raised her arm. The cut on her wrist hadn't like healed or anything, but it had stopped bleeding. Maybe a little oozy trickle, but nothing of any consequence.

A while ago she'd felt herself weakening, so when she'd closed her eyes she'd thought she was slipping away. But she guessed all she'd done was doze off.

She looked around. She was alone, but somehow she didn't feel alone. Like someone was here—or had just been here.

Come to think of it, she'd had a vague sense of someone standing beside the tub looking down at her just before she'd come fully awake. She straightened in the tub. And the feeling of a hand on her head, pushing her down…

But that was crazy. No one was here, and no one besides herself was trying to hurt her. In fact, when her lips sank beneath the surface it had awakened her and—

Then she realized the truth and screamed and slammed her hands against the bloody water.

Failed again. What a total loser! Might as well paint a big red L on her forehead. God, she hated herself more than ever now.

She looked around for the razor blade. Where was it? She'd show them.

When she couldn't find it, she tried to pull herself to standing but fell back in the tub, sloshing water all over the place. So weak. She must have gotten like halfway to dead. Just a little ways to go. If she could find the blade she could finish the job.

Then she saw it, lying on the bottom of the tub. She reached for it, but stopped.

Who was she kidding? No way she was going to cut herself again. It hurt too much.

She began to cry—huge racking sobs that rippled the water around her. She had to end this. She had to find a way. And then she knew.