"Got it and lost it."

    "Does he get it back again?"

    Winslow shrugged. "Haven't dreamed that yet, but no matter how the dream turns out, I guarantee in my book Jake'll get the sword back and use it to cut a swath through the bad guys."

    "Who are?"

    "Don't really know. Some sort of cult. I'll probably make them members of that Aum Shinrikyo cult—you know, the ones who released sarin gas in Tokyo's subway."

    A cult… could the yakuza types he'd run into be part of a cult? Didn't strike him as the type. The Kickers could be considered a cult, but they weren't Japanese. That left Naka Slater—if that was his true name. Was he part of a cult?

    None of this made sense. Maybe the second Naka Slater would have some answers.

    "So you don't know how it ends yet."

    "I just told you: Jake gets the sword and—"

    "I meant the dreams."

    He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I've got my ending."

    Swell. But Jack didn't have his.

    Dawn jumped and let out a little yelp when the phone rang. But unlike the last time, it kept ringing.

    She'd totally hated telling the abortion clinic where she was staying, but didn't have much choice. Mr. Osala had confiscated her cell phone as soon as she'd entered his house. She hadn't dared to stop and get a replacement while she'd been out yesterday.

    The clinic had done blood tests and a black woman doctor with an African accent had done a pelvic exam. They'd said they'd call her today with the results. If everything was okay, they'd set up a time for the actual abortion.

    She picked up on the fourth ring.

    "Y-yes?"

    "Ms. Pickering?" said a woman's voice. "This is Grace from the Sitchin Clinic."

    Relief. She felt her drum-tight muscles relax.

    "Is everything okay?"

    "Everything is fine. You are eight weeks pregnant and in excellent health. You are an excellent candidate for the procedure."

    "When?"

    "How does three o'clock tomorrow sound?"

    "Tomorrow? Can't I get it done today?"

    "I'm sorry. We can schedule only so many a day and today is booked."

    Damn. That meant another night alone in this room. She wanted this done with.

    "Okay, I guess. Yeah. Put me down for three."

    "Excellent. I understand you're paying cash?"

    "Yes. Is that a problem?"

    "You will be expected to pay in full in advance."

    They'd told her this yesterday and she'd agreed. The fee was stiff but she had it, and she couldn't think of anything better to spend it on.

    "That's okay. I've got it."

    "Excellent. Please be here sharply at three. Have a nice day."

    "Yeah. You too."

    As she hung up she thought she should pump a fist or something, but she felt no sense of triumph. She'd be totally free of this baby, yeah, but she wouldn't be free of Jerry Bethlehem. He'd still be out there looking for her. And he'd totally kill her if he found out she'd rid herself of his precious Key to the Future.

    By four o'clock tomorrow the baby would be gone. Then what? Where would she go from there?

    The only place she could think of was Mr. Osala's.

    She'd show up at his door saying how sorry she was for running away, and how she didn't know what had come over her—maybe she'd gone a little crazy from being cooped up—and how she'd totally never ever do it again.

    What she would so not tell him was that she was no longer pregnant. He'd said the baby was her life insurance policy where Jerry was concerned, and he might get mad if he knew she'd totally ignored his advice.

    Well, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. And maybe when he was away on his next trip she'd pretend to have a miscarriage.

    Meanwhile she'd be safe and comfortable.

    Feeling suddenly rotten, she dropped onto the unmade bed.

    Listen to me. I sound like a totally gold-plated conniving bitch.

    She'd never been like this. Never lied, never cheated. Maybe what she'd gone through—was still going through—had changed her. She hoped it was temporary, that when it was over she could get a grip and totally change back. Well, maybe not totally—all this had to leave scars.

    But what if this was the real her—the real Dawn who'd been hiding just below the surface of the other Dawn? What if Mom's murder and the knowledge that she'd been screwing the man who not only had killed her mother but was also—

    She didn't want to think about that. Every time she did, it made her totally want to hurl.

    Maybe that was it. She felt dirty, and totally worthless. So low she wouldn't mind being dead. And when you felt that low, all sorts of things you never thought possible suddenly were easy—like lying and cheating and trading sex for favors.

    She had to climb out of this hole. And the first step up and back to her old self was to be rid of this baby. Because the old Dawn hadn't been pregnant.

    Tomorrow… at three P.M.… she'd take that step.

    Jack waited inside the Ear this time—same table, same back-to-the-wall seat under the perils-of-drink poster. The place was only a quarter full, the kitchen just getting up to speed.

    He'd worn the arm sling on the subway ride down. Didn't like the feel but it did seem to make people give him a slightly wider berth. As he'd seated himself here he glommed on an unconventional use for it. He pulled his Kel-Tec backup from its ankle holster and sneaked it into the sling where it could rest unseen, just inches from his fingers.

    He liked that so much he thought about making a sling a regular accessory, then decided against it. Put ten guys in a crowded room, one with a sling, nine without: Who would people remember?

    No, save it for special occasions.

    He thought about his trip to the hospital earlier this morning, right after his breakfast with Winslow. The guy calling himself Naka Slater had been taken down to Roosevelt on 59th Street. Jack had inquired at the ER about an auto accident victim brought in last night. After much wheedling and cajoling he'd been told that they'd admitted an Asian John Doe who'd refused to give his name.

    Still alive… good.

    Jack said he wondered if the guy could be his good buddy, Ishiro Honda. Could he maybe just go up and see if it was really him?

    She had to check with the higher-ups to see if that would be okay. Ten minutes later she'd returned to say the higher-ups needed to talk to the hospital attorneys—concerns about hippo regulations or something like that.

    He'd told her he'd be back. He wanted to talk to this guy, find out what he was up to, why he'd tried to kill him. But first… the new Naka Slater.

    He snagged a copy of the Post from a neighboring table where one of the help had left it. The Staten Island thing still dominated the front page: an aerial photo of the dead area of woods under a huge headline:

    If the Pulitzer folks awarded a prize for headlines, the Post would win every year.

    He skimmed the page three article. It reported how tests had shown that even bacteria and mold spores had been killed. The consensus was some sort of toxin, but nobody knew what particular toxin. Whatever it was, this stuff killed everything.

    Just then a vaguely Asian guy stepped in and looked around. He wore khaki slacks and a long-sleeve, blue-and-white-striped rugby shirt. As his gaze settled on Jack, he raised his eyebrows and pointed. Jack nodded.