“My dad would never hurt me. Not physically, at least.”

“So, no spankings when you were a kid?” Hughes said it with a lightness so deft and so false that even Jazz thought for a moment that it was just curious conversation. But it wasn’t. This was a skilled detective, a trained interrogator, digging for information. Jazz was impressed—he was tough to fool, and Hughes had come close.

“Nope. Not once.” It was harmless enough information to give to Hughes. It was also true. Billy had never laid a hand on Jazz as a child.

“So where do you think your dad is these days?”

Now Jazz shot him his best I-don’t-talk-about-my-dad look. Hughes was visibly rocked by it.

“Sorry.” He recovered nicely; they made ’em tough in NYC. He refocused on the road ahead. “Just making conversation.”

“You make conversation like the Inquisition.”

Hughes laughed. “Occupational hazard. Could be worse—I dated an ADA once and she couldn’t ask what you wanted for dinner without it feeling like a cross-examination. You’ve got a hell of a glare, kid. But I guess that’s to be expected.”

Jazz shrugged and looked out the window.

“Look, I’m not pumping you for info or anything. I’m not trying to find your dad. But I’m a homicide cop. It’s like if I had A-Rod’s batting coach in the car; how am I not supposed to ask questions? And I know the fibbies have already bugged you about him. I’m just curious. Not putting together a case or anything.”

Jazz blew out a sigh. “I’ll tell you what I told them: He’s nowhere they expect. He’s not near the Nod, watching over me or Gramma. He’s not in any of the places he used to prospect. He’s got to go somewhere where he can become invisible. A city.”

“New York?”

Jazz shrugged. “Could be. Heck, if the murders hadn’t started before he broke out of jail, I’d say maybe he was even Hat-Dog.”

“Nope. I can guarantee that’s not the case. We have consistent DNA from multiple scenes that doesn’t match Billy’s. Our unsub isn’t Billy Dent.”

Jazz snorted. Unsub. It was short, he knew, for “unknown subject,” the shorthand law enforcement used to describe their quarry. “You guys and your jargon. Makes you think you know something. Makes you think you can catch, define, and calculate the invisible world.”

He expected it to rattle Hughes, but the cop merely drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’ve read The Crucible, too, kid. This isn’t a witch hunt. It’s real.”

On that, they both fell silent for the remainder of the drive. At the airport, Jazz watched closely as Hughes negotiated security so that he could carry his service weapon on the plane. Jazz had never flown before; he’d heard that airport security was stronger than it had once been, but if that was true, then he could only imagine that it had once been possible to carry automatic rifles openly onto planes. He lingered, watching, and made a decision.

Once his belongings were on the conveyor belt to the X-ray machine, Jazz waited until a TSA agent motioned him through the scanner. Jazz hesitated. “I’m not going through that thing,” he said. “My girlfriend told me that those full-body scanners were never fully medically tested.”

Clearly exasperated, the TSA agent said, “I assure you, they’re totally safe.”

“Right. And you’re a doctor and you can guarantee me that I let that thing scan my nads and I don’t end up sterile? Or having kids with six fingers someday?”

“So you’re opting out?”

“Yes.”

“Male opt-out!” the TSA agent called out to the universe in general.

Jazz was shunted aside to another spot. Hughes, already through security, gathered up his own stuff as well as Jazz’s and waited, frowning. Jazz didn’t react. He just lingered until a second TSA agent came over, this one wearing latex gloves.

“You’re opting out?” the agent asked.

“Yes,” Jazz said, his voice nasal and clogged. Part of it was a put-on. Part of it, though, was the little bit of shampoo he’d shot up his nose before getting into line. “Opting out.” And then he coughed—a really convincing, wet-sounding hack that made the TSA agent wince and turn away slightly.

The TSA agent talked Jazz through exactly what he was about to do and where he would be touching him. When he asked, “Do you have anything in your pockets?” Jazz said, “Just a Kleenex,” and then proceeded to produce it and blow his nose noisily into it. He left it open just long enough for the TSA agent to see the disgusting yellowish shampoo goop before folding it up.

“Just, uh, hold on to that,” the agent said, and proceeded to give Jazz the quickest, most perfunctory pat-down in the history of pat-downs. Jazz noted three spots on his body where he could have easily concealed some sort of contraband.

By the time he rejoined Hughes, the cop was shaking his head in amusement. “You are Homeland Security’s worst nightmare,” he said as they made their way to their gate.

“You could have intervened.”

“Yeah, but I know you’re harmless.”

Jazz shrugged. “You know how you said before that you have a black girlfriend, too? That was a lie. You don’t. And you never dated an ADA, either. You’re just trying to keep me out of your head because you know where I come from. You know just enough to know that I’m anything but harmless. So you make jokes and you drop in what seems like personal stuff to keep me off guard.” Jazz grinned the grin he used when he wanted to put people at ease. “You’re pretty good at it. But I’m better.”

Hughes gaped at him.

Jazz let the grin linger for another moment, then said, “I’m gonna hit the bathroom before we board,” leaving Hughes alone with his thoughts.

Later, in the cramped space of the plane, he surprised himself by falling asleep almost immediately. He didn’t even wake up when the plane took off.

He dreamed.

Touch me

says the voice

again

His fingers

Oh, the flesh

So warm

So smooth

Touch me like that

His skin on hers.

Hers.

He knows her flesh.

like that

So warm

like that

it’s all right

it’s not all right

it’s right

no, it’s wrong

but the wrong makes it right

and the right makes it wrong

and

Jazz woke up as the plane landed and groggily grabbed his bag from the overhead. They had an hour-long layover before their next flight; Hughes tried to strike up a conversation, but Jazz withdrew. He was off-kilter, slightly airsick, and definitely dreamsick.

Who was it in his dream? What was he doing? Why did this dream keep recurring? He actually preferred the old dream, the one where he’d cut someone, maybe even killed someone. At least it was familiar. He had become accustomed to its specific nauseating qualities. The new dream kept knocking him down every time he tried to get up.

What did it mean? What was lurking back there in the cold, dark recesses of his memory? What secrets were hidden in his past? Jazz felt as though his own life was a minefield, one he’d lost the map for. One wrong step and he’d lose a foot or a leg.

Or his mind.

When Jazz awoke from the cutting dream, he felt confused. Guilty. A bit sick. When he woke from the sex dream, though, he felt a tiny bit of guilt, sure. But otherwise just… aroused. And he hated himself for it. Other guys his age could have dreams like that, sure. That was okay for them. But not for Jazz.

Because… This is how it starts, he thought. Dreams. Fantasies. Seems harmless at first. But then the dreams and the fantasies aren’t enough. And the next thing you know, you’re Jeffrey Dahmer, drilling holes in the heads of corpses in an attempt to make sex zombies, and the crazy thing isn’t that you’re drilling the heads to make sex zombies—the crazy thing is that doing so seems completely and utterly normal and necessary.