One of whom might be Jerry.

    No, she wouldn't let herself think like that. No one could snatch her in front of that crowd. She'd done this two days ago. She could do it again today.

    She adjusted her sunglasses, took a breath, and stepped outside. She signaled the doorman, who rushed over. She'd tipped him ten dollars the other day because she wanted him to totally remember her and stay close by.

    "Cab, ma'am?"

    She gave him the address on West 63rd. He signaled for the next taxi waiting in line, opened the door for her, and told the cabbie where she was going. She handed him another ten.

    "Thank you, ma'am." He tipped his hat. "You have a nice day."

    I will, she thought, locking both rear doors as the cab lurched into motion. I'm going to have a great day.

    Sighing, she leaned back. No, she wasn't. She was going to kill the life growing within her. A life that hadn't asked to be conceived. A life that had no control of who had fathered it. An innocent life. How could she…?

    She straightened, crying, "No-no-no-no-NO!" as she pounded on the seat cushion.

    Over his shoulder the driver gave her a concerned look.

    She gave him the okay wave. "Sorry."

    Leaning back again she told herself not to sentimentalize this. She was doing what had to be done and that was that. No cold feet beforehand, and no looking back afterward.

    Like the Nike ads said: Just do it…

    "We are here, miss."

    The cabbie's voice jarred her from a reverie of life regrets, virtually all from just the past year. She looked out the window at the clinic entrance. A man stood by the door with a crude, hand-lettered sign:

    Abortion Kills!

    Well, duh.

    She hesitated getting out, not liking the idea of passing him. But who said she even had to look at him? She paid the driver, gave him a nice tip, then slid out.

    "Are you coming here?" the man said.

    He was clean shaven and neatly dressed in a dark blue golf shirt and jeans. He looked totally harmless. Yet you never knew with these religious nuts. Outside normal, inside a bunch of quotes from the Bible that gave them permission to do just about anything in the name of the Lord.

    Behind her the cab pulled away, leaving her alone on the curb.

    Averting her eyes, she stepped toward the door.

    "You are! You are going in! Please don't! Think of your baby and how it will feel to be torn apart!"

    She heard engine noise behind her and turned to see a gray panel truck pulling up to the curb. If it had been a cab she might have been tempted to take it away from here, from this nut.

    But no, she was seeing this through.

    When she continued forward he stepped between her and the door, blocking her way.

    "Please think of your baby!"

    Behind her she heard a door sliding open as she forced herself to make eye contact with the man.

    "Get out of my—"

    Terror spiked through her gut as she felt a gloved hand clamp over her mouth. As she lifted her hands to pull it off and scream, an arm snaked around her chest and she was yanked off her feet, spun around, and pushed through the side door of the panel truck. Someone within pulled her inside and for an instant her mouth was free but he clamped his hand across her face before she could scream. She bit him but all she got was leather glove. Panicked, she began twisting and kicking and trying to writhe free as the first man leaped in behind her and slid the door closed. He grabbed her legs and steadied them as the van began to move.

    "Easy, Dawn, easy," he said in a tone he probably thought soothing but was not. "No one's gonna hurt you. That's the last thing we want. In fact, you're gonna be safer now than you've ever been in your life."

    He knew her name! And then she saw that weird little stick figure on all their hands.

    Oh, God, these were Jerry's people!

    Jack had dressed in wino casual—ripped dirty jeans, fatigue jacket, stomped-on fedora pulled down to his ears and eyebrows, unlaced sneakers three sizes too big for him, and a grime-smudged face. He'd accessorized with yellow rubber kitchen gloves, a pair of women's sunglasses, and a stuffed black garbage bag that supposedly held his worldly belongings but in reality contained nothing but wadded-up newspaper. He waved his free arm in the air as he conversed with no one.

    A useful getup: No one except maybe god-squad types ever made eye contact with his type.

    When he'd called the number from the voice mail he'd played anxious to get back the katana, but sounded suspicious and wanted a public place. Whoever he spoke to countered by saying surely he'd want to examine the blade and couldn't very well do that in Times Square. Jack insisted on public, specifically Madison Square Park. It had traffic but everyone pretty much minded their own business.

    He arrived a little after three—almost an hour early—and began picking through the trash bins, adding an occasional aluminum can or plastic bottle to his bag. Then he chose an empty bench with a clear view of the Admiral Farragut statue and the meeting spot. He began a muttered but heartfelt conversation with himself interspersed with scatological references to passersby.

    Eventually a slim, nervous-looking black guy in horn-rimmed glasses appeared, carrying an oblong object wrapped in what looked like a drop cloth. As instructed, he found a bench in the northeast corner of the park and took a seat. Jack rose and began to make another round of the trash cans.

    He spotted the heavy yakuza on line at the Shake Shack.

    Jack allowed himself a pat on the back. He'd been right.

    The Shake Shack made a perfect cover for the big guy. He looked like he liked to eat. Jack was tempted to see if he tried to order tempura or sashimi, but needed to keep moving.

    Found one of the others at the park's northwest corner, near Fifth and 26th. Farther along the street he spotted the third loitering outside a sidewalk café on the far side of Madison.

    Where was Mr. Boss Man? Had to be somewhere nearby, most likely in that Lincoln Town Car, idling, watching. His men had the exits covered. They could snatch Slater as he left the park, or the boss could follow him if he made it to a cab.

    Jack wandered to the downtown end of the park and found a bench with a good view of Big Guy. He pretended to doze but kept watch from behind the sunglasses.

    Big Guy hung by the Shake Shack, chomping on a burger, then a hot dog, then an order of fries.

    The meeting time came and went. The yakuza had Slater's voice mail number. Jack had told him not to return any calls. Forty-five minutes after the planned meeting time, a Town Car pulled to the curb on 23rd. A driver and the boss man sat in front. Big Guy joined his two buddies in the rear and they took off.

    Jack rose and hurried deeper into the park, hoping to catch the decoy before he left.

    No worry. The thin black guy was still sitting on the bench with the bundle across his knees. Looked like no one had told him the gig was off. He jumped as Jack plopped down next to him and leaned close.

    "The moon is in the seventh house," he whispered.

    The guy inched away. "What?"

    "The stars are aligning for the End Times. It's all over now."

    "Are-are you the one I'm supposed to meet?"

    "We'll all meet in the afterlife two thousand light-years from home." He pretended to notice the bundle for the first time. "Hey, is that my Christmas present?"

    "Christmas? No—"

    Jack raised his voice. "It is, dammit! Santa left it just for me and you took it!"