He strode forward, hand extended. The guy seemed to fill the room.

    "An honor to meet you, sir," he said in a booming voice

    Remaining seated on the bed, Hank raised his hand and shook. McCabe's grip was like a vise.

    "Don't call me 'sir.' It's Hank."

    "Very well. Calling a man I admire by his first name… that won't be easy."

    "Work on it. Just not so loud. Lower the volume." McCabe's voice was worsening the pounding ache in his head. "So who are you?"

    "I have a law degree and I'm a member of the bar, but my work—my forte, you might say—is public relations. A famous director gets caught DUI, a big-name actor gets caught with an underage fan, a country singer gets caught with his best friend's wife—or worse yet, his best friend—who do they call?" He jabbed a thumb against his chest. "Yours truly. Because my subspecialty in PR is damage control."

    Damage control… Hank had known he'd needed it but hadn't wanted to think about it now, hadn't wanted to think about anything. But somebody had to, and he'd been it.

    Until now.

    "And you want me to hire you?"

    He grinned. "No need. The rest of the world pays an arm, a leg, and rights to all earnings of their firstborn. For you, it's all taken care of."

    "Yeah? Who by?"

    McCabe glanced at Drexler.

    Drexler said, "We have a wealthy sponsor who's willing to do that."

    "Who?"

    "He wishes to remain anonymous for now."

    Hank looked at McCabe. "And how are you going to control all this damage?"

    "Spin, Hank. I'm going to spin it in another direction."

    Spin… yeah, what had happened since midnight was going to need major, major spin. But…

    "I'm not a spin guy. It is what it is—that pretty well sums up my approach."

    "And it's an admirable approach, Hank, but the Kicker Evolution has grown too big for that, and it's growing bigger by the day. 'It is what it is' isn't going to work in this case because everyone can see what it is, and what they see isn't good. I'm going to get them looking the other way."

    "I was thinking of playing dumb," Hank said. "I mean, I can truthfully say that I don't keep track of every Kicker's every move. They're all free men and women who act on their own, and what led them to become involved in this terrible tragedy is anyone's guess. I'll say I'm just praying the perpetrators will be brought to justice."

    "Lack of firsthand knowledge will definitely be part of the game plan, but we need more. We need to play the blame game as well. We must paint your fallen followers as victims. Any idea as to whom we may point to?"

    "Well, the Dormentalists and Scientologists have it in for me." In fact, the three groups were waging an Internet war, crashing each other's sites and all. "They're losing members left and right to the Kicker Evolution and—"

    McCabe jabbed a finger in his direction. "Perfect! Perfect!"

    He started wandering around the room, waving his arms in the air as he riffed about older, more established, more organized belief systems—little more than corporatized cults, really—becoming increasingly jealous and finally desperate as their numbers dwindled…

    As Hank listened he remembered how he'd been feeling the need for a right-hand man, a smart, loyal second in command. Darryl fit the loyal part and, despite appearances, was no dummy, but he'd never cut it. He needed someone who was into spin and details. Hank hated details. He was a big-picture guy.

    And in walks Terrence McCabe, a detail man and spinmeister if he ever saw one. He had a feeling Terry was going to work out just fine. Not just in spin, but in cleaning up the Kicker image, and maybe getting things in order, getting operations organized. Right now everything was helter-skelter.

    Yeah. Terrence McCabe was just what the Kicker Evolution needed.

    He glanced at Drexler and found the man's piercing blue gaze fixed on him.

    "Excuse me, Terry," Hank said, holding up a hand. "But I'd like to ask Drexler here what's his angle in all this?"

    Drexler smiled—sort of. "As I've mentioned in the past, the Order's Council of Seven senses a certain commonality of interests. We wish to explore that further. But to do so we first must remove your organization from the limelight. Once that is done, we shall initiate certain ventures that will be to our mutual benefit."

    "Like what?"

    "We shall discuss them soon. I assure you they will be in line with the tenets of the Kicker movement. And they will happen. I shall see to it."

    He seemed pretty confident. But then his card said he was an "actuator." Wasn't that what an actuator did—made things happen?

    He had awakened with the future looking pretty grim. It had brightened quite a bit in the past few minutes.

    Thanks to Drexler… and his bosses in the Septimus Order.

    Strange how things happened. Almost as if there was a plan. Daddy had had his Plan, but this seemed bigger. Much bigger.

    But who was behind it? The Septimus Order, obviously. But who or what was behind the Order?

    Naka Slater was staying at the Grand Hyatt on 42nd. The taxi took the high road and dropped Jack off at the Park Avenue entrance that admitted him onto one of the mezzanine levels. He looked around, spotted some elevators, and headed that way.

    "Hey, honey," said a sultry voice. "Is that a sword or are you just glad to see me?"

    He stopped and turned to find himself facing a sultry, eye-poppingly proportioned redhead in a scarlet minidress and black stockings. She'd draped a silk scarf over her bare shoulders. The red of her lips matched the scarf and dress. Perfectly.

    Jack waved her off. "No time now."

    But as he started to turn away he spotted the snow-white miniature poodle peeking from her shoulder bag.

    A woman. With a dog.

    "Are you her?"

    She pivoted and lowered the scarf to reveal the crisscrossing lines and open sores on her back. That clinched it.

    He said, "Any particular reason for the Jessica Rabbit look?"

    She smiled and shrugged. "It's Forty-second Street, and I remember the good old days." Her smile faded. "We need to talk."

    He held up the wrapped katana. "About this, I presume."

    A nod. She pointed to the railing overlooking a wide-open space. "Let's go over there."

    She led the way. They leaned on the railing for a moment and watched the comings and goings in the large, bustling lobby one level below. To the right an escalator led down from the lobby to the marble pool-and-fountainlined entrance that opened onto 42nd Street.

    The poodle watched from her bag, pink tongue out, panting.

    "Before we go any further," he said, "who are you?"

    She shook her head. "How many times must I tell you: I am your mother."

    "You're not getting off that easy this time. Who or what are you?"

    Her green eyes fixed on his. "I think you know. You tell me."

    "I…" This sounded so crazy. "I think you're Mother Earth."

    She smiled. "Would it were that simple, but it's much more complicated. Too complicated to go into right now."

    "But—"

    "Some other time." She touched the katana. "This is of more immediate concern."

    Something in her tone convinced Jack that arguing would be futile.

    "Okay. What about it? In five minutes it's going to be in someone else's hot little hands and probably by tomorrow it will be on its way back to Maui."

    "Instead of giving it to this man, it might be better if you took a boat out past the continental ridge and dropped it into the Hudson Canyon."