Dawn checked herself in the mirror.

    She'd had a totally terrible night and looked it. Hardly slept at all. Kept hearing people outside her door and worrying they were coming for her. She had the security bar in place and even had wedged the chair against the knob, but still she worried.

    And then the phone had rung. Just one ring and then stopped. She'd stared at it, waiting for another, but none came. Finally she mustered the nerve to pick up the receiver and listen.

    Nothing but a dial tone.

    Probably just some electronic glitch in the system. Under normal circumstances she wouldn't have given it a second thought. But last night she'd stayed on tenterhooks for hours, wondering if it would ring again.

    Paranoia was so not fun.

    The bags under her red eyes made her look like she'd been partying all night. They went right along with the rotten haircut and dye job she'd given herself.

    But at least she looked way different from the girl who'd walked in here yesterday. She'd used the scissors and brown hair-coloring kit she'd bought at the drugstore to give herself a makeover. The shoulder-length blond hair had become short and brown, barely covering her ears.

    She put on her big sunglasses and turned this way and that. She looked nothing like the girl on the flyer. No way anyone would recognize her.

    That made her feel somewhat better. Especially since she was leaving the hotel today on an important errand—a visit to an abortion clinic on West 63rd this afternoon. She'd called first thing this morning and they'd given her a three-thirty appointment.

    She paced the tiny open area near the window. What to do till then? She had no choice but the tube. She turned on the set and found nothing but news. Something had happened last night.

    Please not another terrorist attack, she thought. First the trade towers, then LaGuardia, now what?

    She stopped to watch and listen to a talking head…

    "The news from Staten Island just got worse, I'm afraid. Five bodies have been found in the dead area—an adult male and four teenagers. They have not yet been identified. For those of you who have just awakened, here is the breaking story: A half-mile-wide circle of Staten Island died during the night."

    An aerial view of a wooded area filled the screen, green except for a circle of brown at its center. It looked like a lawn where someone had spilled weed killer. Dawn felt her neck tighten and crawl when she realized how perfectly round it was. The newscaster spoke over the image.

    "People on the island, and even some in Brooklyn, reported a strange meteorological phenomenon—a vertical black cloud by most accounts—that lasted only seconds, but seemed to originate in the area some have begun calling the 'kill zone.' Everything is dead. The floor of the wooded area is littered with the bodies of birds, squirrels, mice, moles, and chipmunks. Every single bit of vegetation is brown and wilted. Nothing was spared."

    Chilled, Dawn switched to the next station where she encountered a talking head described as a "cereologist."

    "… obvious that since their crop circle warnings were at best ignored or at worst ridiculed, they've progressed to the next level. Now, instead of merely knocking down vegetation, they've started killing it…"

    Next she came to someone labeled a "chemical warfare expert."

    "Look, we know it's not an infestation—first off because parasites don't kill overnight, and secondly because too many species of plants died. And a parasite won't explain the dead birds. No, it has to be a toxin—herbicidal, but toxic to birds and mammals as well. Frankly, I've never heard of such an agent, but obviously it exists, because that's the only way to explain the across-the-board lethality and the confined location."

    Another channel showed a man-on-the-street interview with an old codger who looked to be in his eighties.

    "What about you, sir. Are you scared? Could it be terrorists?"

    "Could be. I saw something like this back in the Pacific theater duringwar. We called it a 'wilt' back then, and it was always associated with a black cloud. Atolls and whole islands would get hit, leaving nothing alive—even the fish would be dead. And if any of our guys were there, they'd be dead too, all with these awful looks on their faces. It was a Jap secret weapon then, and it stayed secret from us. But it looks like someone else's got hold of it now."

    Dawn turned off the set. This was creeping her out. She turned her thoughts to her appointment at the clinic.

    She had all her moves planned: Out the front entrance and into one of the waiting cabs, up to the clinic for her interview, examination, and blood work, then call a cab to bring her straight back here. She estimated her maximum exposure on the street at less than two minutes. That sounded totally safe and doable.

    So why then did she feel like she'd be entering a combat zone?

    Jack timed his arrival at Bladeville for a few minutes after ten A.M. Maybe he was wrong, but his gut told him otherwise.

    As he stepped through the door—keeping the beak of his hat between his face and the security cam—the chime sounded and Tom O'Day stepped in from the private area at the rear. He stopped in his tracks with a startled expression.

    "Um… Jack, right?"

    Jack nodded. He'd gone over all the possible approaches and had decided on balls-to-the-wall directness.

    "We've got a problem."

    What little openness there'd been in O'Day's expression shut down like the security shutter on his store.

    "Really?"

    "Yeah. The guy who stole the Gaijin Masamune is dead, his throat slit by the katana in question."

    Jack didn't know that for sure, but figured it was a safe assumption. O'Day's sudden pallor went a long way toward confirming that.

    "Wh-what do you mean? How do you know?"

    "I arrived at his place shortly after it happened."

    O'Day quickly regained his composure. He gave Jack a narrowed-eyed stare.

    "How do I know you didn't do it?"

    "Because you got caught on the lobby camera entering and leaving around the time of death."

    O'Day blanched. "Bullshit!"

    Which was right on the money. Jack hadn't even seen the lobby, and had no idea whether it was fitted with a security cam or not. But he had a feeling O'Day wasn't anywhere near as aware of them as Jack was, so it was a good bet he'd never noticed either way.

    Jack shrugged. "After I found the body I broke into the security office and ran a quick review off the hard drive there." He smiled. "It's not much more than a glorified TiVo, y'know. Watched you walk in empty-handed, then a little later, not so empty-handed—a long, wrapped object under your arm."

    No way would O'Day walk out carrying a sword for all to see. He'd have it wrapped in something—a towel, a sheet, a rug. Jack had no idea which, so he'd kept it vague.

    O'Day looked weak. Sweat beaded his face.

    "Hey," Jack said in his most reassuring tone. "Told you: I'm not a cop. Too bad about Gerrish. Never knew the guy, and there are probably worse ways to die, but that's between you and him. What's between you and me is the matter of the sword. I'm ready to do you a favor and take it off your hands for a nice price."

    O'Day shook his head as if to clear it. "Favor?"

    "Sure. Once the cops see that tape, you'll become what they like to call 'a person of interest.' When they find you—and that's when, not if—they'll learn about your trade and your collection, and when that happens you'll graduate from person of interest to suspect numero uno."