Jack went back to the phone and tried Beth for the tenth time. It was now after midnight. The phone rang interminably. Jack started to worry. He hoped she’d simply fled to a friend’s house for solace after losing her job. Yet not being able to get in touch with her nagged at him along with everything else.

NEW YORK CITY

The first thing Jack did when he woke up was to try calling Beth Holderness. When she’d still not answered he’d tried to be optimistic about her visiting a friend, but in the face of everything that had happened, the inability to get ahold of her was progressively more distressing.

Still without a bike, Jack was forced back into the subway for his commute. But he wasn’t alone. From the moment Jack had emerged from his tenement he’d been trailed by one of the younger members of the local gang. His name was Slam, in deference to his dunking ability with the basketball. Even though he was Jack’s height, he could outjump Jack by at least twelve inches.

Jack and Slam did not talk during the train ride. They sat opposite each other, and although Slam didn’t try to avoid eye contact, his expression never changed from one of total indifference. He was dressed like most of the younger African-Americans in the city, with oversized clothes. His sweatshirt was tentlike, and Jack preferred not to imagine what it concealed. Jack didn’t believe that Warren would have sent the young man out to protect Jack without some significant weaponry.

As Jack crossed First Avenue and mounted the steps in front of the medical examiner’s office, he glanced behind him. Slam had paused on the sidewalk, obviously confused as to what he should do. Jack hesitated as well. The unreasonable thought went through Jack’s mind of inviting the man in so that he could pass the time in the second-floor canteen, but that was clearly out of the question.

Jack shrugged. Although he appreciated Slam’s efforts on his behalf, it was Slam’s problem what he was going to do for the day.

Jack turned back to the building, steeling himself for the possibility of having to face one or more bodies in whose death he somehow felt complicit.

Gathering his courage, Jack pulled open the door and entered.

Even though he was scheduled for a “paper day” and no autopsies, Jack wanted to see what had come in during the night. Not only was he concerned about Reginald and the vagrants, he was also concerned about the possibility of more meningococcus cases.

Jack had the receptionist buzz him into the ID area. Walking into the scheduling room, Jack knew instantly that it was not going to be a normal day. Vinnie was not sitting in his usual location with his morning newspaper.

“Where’s Vinnie?” Jack asked George.

Without looking up, George told Jack that Vinnie was already in the pit with Bingham.

Jack’s pulse quickened. Given his guilt about the previous evening’s events, he had the irrational thought that Bingham could have been called in to do Reginald. At this stage of his career Bingham rarely did autopsies unless they were of particular interest or importance.

“What’s Bingham doing in this early?” Jack asked, trying to sound disinterested.

“It’s been a busy night,” George said. “There was another infectious death over at the General. Apparently it’s got the city all worked up. During the night the city epidemiologist called the Commissioner of Health, who called Bingham.”

“Another meningococcus?” Jack asked.

“Nope,” George said. “They think this one is a viral pneumonia.”

Jack nodded and felt a chill descend his spine. His immediate concern was hantavirus. He knew there had been a case on Long Island the previous year in the early spring. Hantavirus was a scary proposition, although it was still not an illness with much patient-to-patient spread.

Jack could see there were more than the usual number of folders on the desk in front of George. “Anything else interesting last night?” Jack asked. He shuffled through the folders looking for Reginald’s name.

“Hey,” George complained. “I got these things in order.” He looked up, then did a double take. “What the hell happened to you?”

Jack had forgotten how bad his face looked.

“I tripped when I was out jogging last night,” Jack said. Jack didn’t like to lie. What he said was true, but hardly the whole story.

“What did you fall into?” George asked. “A roll of barbed wire?”

“Any gunshot wounds last night?” Jack asked, to change the subject.

“You’d better believe it,” George said. “We got four. Too bad it’s a paper day for you. I’d give you one.”

“Which ones are they?” Jack asked. He glanced around the desk.

George tapped the top of one of his stacks of folders.

Jack reached over and picked up the first one. When he opened the cover, his heart sank. He had to reach out and steady himself against the desk. The name was Beth Holderness.

“Oh, God, no,” Jack murmured.

George’s head shot up again. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Hey, you’re as white as a sheet. You okay?”

Jack sat in a nearby chair and put his head down between his legs. He felt dizzy.

“Is it someone you know?” George asked with concern.

Jack straightened up. The dizziness had passed. He took a deep breath and nodded. “She was an acquaintance,” he said. “But I’d spoken with her just yesterday.” Jack shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

George reached over and took the folder from Jack’s hands. He opened it up. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “This is the lab tech from over at the General. Sad! She was only twenty-eight. Supposedly shot through the forehead for a TV and some cheap jewelry. What a waste.”

“What are the other gunshot wounds?” Jack asked. For the moment he remained seated.

George consulted his master sheet. “I’ve got a Hector Lopez, West Hundred and Sixtieth Street, a Mustafa Aboud, East Nineteenth Street, and Reginald Winthrope, Central Park.”

“Let me see Winthrope,” Jack said.

George handed Jack the folder.

Jack opened it up. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but his sense of involvement made him want to check the case. The strangest thing was that had it not been for Spit, Jack himself would have been represented there on George’s desk with his own folder. Jack shuddered. He handed Reginald’s folder back to George.

“Is Laurie here yet?” Jack asked.

“She came in just before you did,” George said. “She wanted some folders, but I told her that I’d not made out the schedule yet.”

“Where is she?” Jack asked.

“Up in her office, I guess,” George said. “I really don’t know.”

“Assign her the Holderness and the Winthrope cases,” Jack said. Jack stood up. He anticipated feeling dizzy again, but he didn’t.

“How come?” George asked.

“George, just do it,” Jack said.

“All right, don’t get mad,” George said.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I’m not mad. Just preoccupied.”

Jack walked back through communications. He passed Janice’s office, where she was putting in her usual overtime. Jack didn’t bother her. He was too absorbed by his own thoughts. Beth Holderness’s death made him feel unhinged. Feeling guilty about his complicity in her losing her job was bad enough; the idea that she might have lost her life because of his actions was unthinkable.

Jack pressed the button for the elevator and waited. The attempt on his own life the night before had given more weight to his suspicions. Someone had tried to kill him after he refused to heed the warning. The very same night Beth Holderness had been murdered. Could it have been in the course of an unrelated robbery or could it have been because of Jack, and, if so, what did that mean about Martin Cheveau? Jack didn’t know. But what he did know was that he could not involve anyone else in this affair for fear of putting them in jeopardy. From that moment on, Jack knew he had to keep everything to himself.