"Seven?" he said. That would give him a full three and a half hours.

"Go to sleep, Joe," said Arlene, leading him to the opened bed.

For the second time that night, Kurtz fell face forward. This time he did not rise.

Kurtz drove the Pinto behind Gail DeMarco's little Toyota in the morning and, thanks to her intercession, was in the ICU when Rigby King woke up.

"Joe. What's up?"

"Not much," said Kurtz. "What's new with you?"

"Can't think of anything," said Rigby. "Except I love this Darvocet morphiney stuff they put in the IV drip. And I don't think that I can pretend to be asleep much longer today—Paul Kemper won't buy it And he wants your ass."

"Why?" said Kurtz. "Didn't you tell them you couldn't remember who shot you?"

"Yeah," sighed Rigby. "But the problem with saying that you don't remember who did something is that you can't say that you do remember who didn't do something. If you follow my drift."

"More or less," said Kurtz. He had to sit forward on the upright hospital chair next to her bed, making sure the back of it didn't touch his back. He'd slept on his stomach during the time he did sleep. "Feeling the drugs. Rig?"

"Yeah. Li'l bit I'm going to doze for just a few minutes if you don't mind. You going to be here when I wake up, Joe?"

"Yeah."

Her eyes fluttered and then opened. "The doctor told me that another hour, they would've had to amp… ampa… cut off my leg."

"It's okay," said Kurtz, touching her arm. "We'll talk when you wake up."

With her eyes closed, Rigby said, "You don't know who shot me yet, Joe?"

"Not yet."

"'Kay. Tell me when you do." She started snoring softly.

The blue steel muzzle touched the back of Kurtz's scarred neck. He jerked awake. He'd fallen asleep in the chair, still leaning forward so his back didn't touch.

"Don't move a muscle," said Paul Kemper. "Put your hands behind your head. Slowly."

Kurtz did so slowly because it hurt too much to do it quickly.

"Stand up."

Kurtz did that slowly as well. Kemper patted him down expertly, not noticing when Kurtz drew in his breath sharply when his back and shoulders were touched. He wasn't armed.

Kurtz had run out of luck this morning as far as his streak of being around women who happened to have fresh clothes ready for him; he couldn't wear the sweater and peacoat, but none of the ladies had happened to stock a supply of shirts. In the end, he'd pulled on an oversized sweatshirt of Gail's that said HAMILTON COLLEGE on the front. Since he didn't think it would be a good idea to wear the peacoat with three bullet holes in it, Kurtz had just gone without a jacket this brisk but sunny first-of-November morning. He'd left the Browning with Arlene at Gail's apartment. When Arlene had said, "Can I go home yet, Joe?" he'd answered, "Not yet."

"Sit down," said Kemper. "Keep your hands clasped behind the chair."

Kurtz did as he was told. Kemper walked over to the hospital table by Rigby's bed and set a steaming, Styrofoam cup of coffee on it. He held his Glock on Kurtz as he opened the coffee one-handed and took a careful sip from it.

"You didn't cuff me," said Kurtz. "You haven't read me my rights. You're not arresting me. Yet."

"Shut the fuck up," said Kemper. He lowered the Glock when the nurse bustled in and changed one of Rigby's IV bags, but he kept it in his hand when she left.

They sat there for a while. Kurtz wished he had some coffee.

"I know you're involved in this, Kurtz. I just haven't figured out how."

"I'm just visiting a sick friend, Detective."

"My ass," said Kemper. "Where did you and Detective King go Sunday? She says she can't remember."

"We just took a ride in the country. Talked over old times."

"Uh huh," said Kemper. The black cop looked as if he was trying to decide whether to pistol-whip Kurtz or not. "Where'd you go?"

"Just out in the country," said Kurtz. "Just riding and talking. You know how it is."

"When'd you get back?"

Kurtz shrugged and barely succeeded in not wincing. His shoulders didn't like this posture with his hands clasped behind his back. "Late morning," he said. "I don't know."

"Where'd you drop her off?"

"At her townhouse."

"You want to make this easy, Kurtz? And come down to the station to make a statement?"

"I don't have any statement to make," said Kurtz. He met the cop's glare watt for watt.

"Paul," said Rigby. It was a very weak syllable. She'd just opened one eye.

Kemper slid his dock back into its holster. "Yeah, babe."

"Leave Joe alone. He didn't do anything."

"You sure of that, Rig?"

"He didn't do anything." She closed her eye. "Paul, can you get the nurse. My leg really hurts."

"Yeah, babe," said Kemper. He motioned Kurtz out of the room ahead of him.

Outside the glass wall, Kemper told the nurse on duty at the central station that Detective King needed her eight A.M. pain medication. The nurse said she'd get to it soon. Kemper grabbed Kurtz by the shoulder and pulled him into the short hallway to the lavatories. "I'm going to find out what happened Sunday, Kurtz. You can count on it."

"Good," said Kurtz. "Let me know when you do."

"Oh, yeah," said Kemper. "You can count on that, too."

Kurtz let him have the last word. He turned and walked slowly and stiffly to the elevator.

The goddamned Pinto wouldn't start. Kurtz tried four times—didn't get as much as a click—and then got out of the car and flipped the hood up. It was a simple little engine and a simple little battery, but after checking the leads to the battery and trying the starter again to no avail, Kurtz had used up his complete stock of automotive know-how.

He looked around. The Medical Center parking lot was busy this time of the morning, but no one was paying attention to his little problem. Kurtz fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone, but remembered that he'd left it at Gail DeMarco's place.

"Need some help?"

Kurtz turned and blinked. A huge, orange, and strangely familiar SUV bad stopped. Kurtz didn't recognize the driver or the man in the front passenger seat, nor the one in the far rear seat, but the smiling man leaning out the near window was familiar enough. Brian Kennedy. Peg O'Toole's handsome fiancée. The security service man got out of the… what had he called the armored SUV? Lalapalooza? Laforza… and so did the well-dressed young man in the back with him. Kurtz looked at the two fine suits and realized that he'd have to sell his grandmother to the Arabs to afford clothes like that… and he didn't even have a grandmother.

"Get in," said Brian Kennedy. "Turn it over again, old sport Tom here will fiddle with it."

Tom fiddled, obviously trying to keep his white, starched cuffs from getting greasy. Kurtz turned the key. Nothing happened. Both Kennedy and Tom fiddled some more. People walked by briskly, hardly glancing at the men in the three-thousand-dollar suits fiddling with a clapped-out Pinto.

"There," said Kennedy, brushing off his hands the way manly men did after fixing something.

Kurtz tried again. It didn't even click.

He got out of the car. "To hell with it. I'll go in the hospital and call someone to come get me."

"Can we give you a lift, Mr. Kurtz?" said Brian Kennedy.

"No, that's okay. I'll call."

"At least use my phone to call, old sport," said Kennedy, handing Kurtz a phone so modern that it looked like it could beam a person up to the Enterprise if you wanted it to. "I came to see Peg. Is that why you're here?"

"No," said Kurtz. He flipped the phone open and tried to decide who to call. Arlene, he guessed. He always called Arlene.

"Oh," said Brian Kennedy. "Tom here has a tool that might help."

Kurtz looked at Tom just as the big man smiled, pulled something metallic from his suit pocket, and stuck the ten thousand-volt taser against Kurtz's chest and pressed the button.