He glanced back at the building, and the image of Jennifer walking for the door replayed itself. Sam was right; she liked him, didn’t she?

Liked him? How could he know whether she liked him? You see, Kevin. That’s the way first-class losers think. They have no shame. They find themselves pinned down by an assassin’s knife and their mind is drawn to the FBI agent they’ve known for all of three days.Two days if he subtracted the day he ran off with Sam, the stunning CBI agent.

The cell phone vibrated at his fingertips and he jumped.

It went off again. Slater was calling and that was a problem, wasn’t it? Why would Slater call now?

The phone rang a third time before he managed to unfold it. “H . . . hello?”

“H . . . hello? You sound like an imbecile, Kevin. I thought I said no cops.”

Kevin spun to the warehouse. The agents were inside. There was a bomb in there after all, wasn’t there? “Cops? We didn’t call cops. I thought FBI were okay.”

“Cops, Kevin. They’re all pigs. Pigs in the parlor. I’m watching the news and the news says the cops know where you are. Maybe I should count to three and blow their guts to kingdom come.”

“You said no cops!” Kevin shouted. There was a bomb in the warehouse and Jennifer was in there. He had to get her out. He ran for the door. “We didn’t usethe cops.”

“Are you running, Kevin? Quick, quick get them out. But don’t get too close. The bomb might go boom and they’ll find your entrails on the walls with the others’.”

Kevin shoved his head in the door. “Out!” he screamed. “Get out! There’s a bomb!”

He ran for the street.

“You’re right, there is a bomb,” Slater said. “You have thirteen minutes left, Kevin. If I decide not to punish you . What wants to be filled but will always be empty?”

He slid to a stop. “Slater! Come out and face me, you . . .”

But Slater was gone. Kevin snapped the phone shut and whirled to the warehouse just in time to see Jennifer emerge, followed by both agents.

Jennifer saw the look on his face and stopped. “What is it?”

“Slater,” he said dumbly.

“Slater called,” Jennifer said. She rushed up to him. “We’re wrong, aren’t we? This isn’t it!”

Kevin’s head began to spin. He placed his hands on his temples and closed his eyes. “Think, Jennifer. Think! What wants to be filled but will always be empty?He knew we would come here so he waited for us, but this isn’t it! What wants to be filled? What!”

“A library,” the agent named Bill said.

“Did he say how much time?” Jennifer asked.

“Thirteen minutes. He said he may blow it early because the cops talked to the press.”

“Milton,” Jennifer said. “I swear I could wring his neck. God help us.” She yanked a notepad from her hip pocket, stared at the page filled with writing, and began to pace. “36933, what else could have a number associated—”

“A reference number,” Kevin blurted.

“But from which library?” Jennifer asked. “There’s got to be a thousand—”

“The school of divinity,” Kevin said. “Augustine Memorial. He’s going to blow up the Augustine Memorial Library.”

They stared at each other for a moment frozen in time. As one, the three FBI agents ran for the car. “Call Milton!” Bill said. “Evacuate the library.”

“No cops,” Jennifer said. “Call the school.”

“What if we can’t get through to the right people fast enough? We need a squad car over there.”

“That’s why we’re going. What’s the fastest way to the school?”

Kevin ran for his car across the street. “Down Willow. Follow me.”

He slid behind the wheel, fired the engine, and squealed away from the curb. Eleven minutes. Could they reach the library in eleven minutes? Depended on traffic. But could they find a bomb in eleven minutes?

A horrifying thought strung through his mind. Even if they did reach the library, they would have no time to search without risking being caught inside when the bomb blew. There was this matter of seconds again. They could be forty seconds off and not know it.

A car was one thing. A bus was worse. But the library—God forbid that they were wrong. “You sick coward!”

They roared down Willow, horns blaring, ignoring the lights completely. This was becoming a bad habit. He swerved out of the path of a blue Corvette and swung onto a smaller surface street to avoid the sea of traffic. Jennifer followed in the big black car. At each intersection the street dips pounded his suspension. He would make Anaheim Street and cut east.

Seven minutes. They were going to make it. He considered the gun in the trunk. Running into the library waving a gun would accomplish nothing but the confiscation of his hard-earned prize. He only had three bullets left. One for Slater’s gut, one for his heart, and one for his head. Pow, pow, pow. I’m gonna put a slug in your filthy heart, you lying sack of maggot meat. Two can play this game, baby. You picked the wrong kid to tick off. I bloodied your nose once; this time I’m gonna put you down. Six feet under, where the worms live. You make me sick, sick . . .

Kevin saw the white sedan in the intersection ahead at the last possible moment. He threw his weight back into the seat and shoved the brake pedal to the floor. Tires screeching, his car slid sideways, barely missed the taillight of an ancient Chevy, and miraculously straightened. Hands white on the wheel, he punched the accelerator and sped on. Jennifer followed.

Focus! There was nothing he could do about Slater now. He had to get to the library in one piece. Interesting how bitter he’d become toward the man in the space of three days. I’m gonna put a slug in your filthy heart, you lying sack of maggot meat?What was that?

The moment Kevin saw the arched, glass face of Augustine Memorial Library, he knew that Jennifer’s attempts to clear the place had failed. An Asian student ambled by the double doors, lost in thought. They had between three and four minutes. Maybe.

Kevin crammed the gearshift into park while the car was still rolling. The car bucked and stopped. He burst out and tore for the front doors. Jennifer was already on his heels.

“No panic, Kevin! We have time. Just get them out as quickly as possible. You hear?”

He slowed to a jog. She pulled up beside him, then took the lead.

“How many study rooms are there?” she asked.

“A few upstairs. There’s a basement.”

“PA system?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, point the way to the office. I’ll make an announcement; you clear the basement.”

Kevin pointed out the office, ran for the stairs, and took them in twos. How long? Three minutes? “Get out! Everyone out!” He ran down the hall, spun into the first room. “Out! Get out now!”

“What’s up, partner?” a middle-aged man asked lazily.

He couldn’t think of a nonpanicky way to tell the man. “There’s a bomb in the building.”

The man stared for a second, then bolted to his feet.

“Clear the hall!” Kevin shouted, breaking for the next room. “Get everyone out!”

Jennifer’s voice came over the PA, edgy. “This is the FBI. We have reason to suspect that there may be a bomb in the library. Evacuate the building calmly and immediately.” She began to repeat the message, but yells echoed through the basement, drowning out her voice.

Feet pounded; voices cried out; panic set in. Maybe it was just as well. They didn’t have enough time for order.

It took a full minute, at least, for Kevin to satisfy himself that the basement was clear. He was putting himself in danger, he realized, but this was his library, his school, his fault. He gritted his teeth, ran for the stairs, and was halfway up when he remembered the supply room. Unlikely anyone would be in there. Unless . . .

He stopped four paces from the top. Carl. The janitor liked to listen to his Discman while he worked. He liked to joke about how there was more than one way to fill the mind. Books were fine, he said, but music was the higher culture. He took his breaks in the supply room.