Milo and Claire lingered as long as they could without arousing the suspicions of the other dancers. They watched as a queue of old men formed, each one apparently shaking Vaughn Wagner’s hand and slipping him a tip.

"I guess square-dance calling is more lucrative than you thought,” Claire commented as they sipped coffee and waited for their dinners at the IHOP later.

Milo shook his head. "That can’t be all that’s going on. I just don’t believe it. There’s got to be more to this than meets the eye.”

"Sometimes a cat is just a cat,” she shrugged.

"And sometimes it’s a tiger,” he parried.

"Are you saying you’ve got a tiger by the tail?” She smirked as he rolled his eyes. "Let’s talk about something else. How’s Sandra?”

"Sondra.”

"Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe.”

He gave her a short laugh. "She’s fine. We broke up, though.”

She frowned. "It wasn’t because of me, was it?”

"Not entirely.”

She pushed back into the bench cushion, biting her lip. The waitress delivered their meals a moment later. When she was gone, Claire said, "I’m not ready for anything serious.”

"I understand that. I broke up with her because of what she did.”

"Her visit to the zoo?”

"Yeah. That wasn’t okay. Like I told her, I spent most of my life married to a woman who thought I was more possession than person. I’m too old now to waste my life in unhappiness.”

"So…this still isn’t a date?”
            "No. We’re friends. That’s it.”

She relaxed and picked up her fork. "Friends.” She smiled and dug into her food.

There was no hesitation this time as the men quickly punched in their account codes, passwords, and dollar amounts, and waited briefly while the transfers were processed. Grabbing only what they could personally carry, their guards seized the remaining canisters and headed for the doors a second time.

Outside, Nick, O’Brien, Canaan and Levi had already found their positions and were scoping the compound. Olexia had continued working her way down towards the buildings, staying low behind the tree lines. Nick’s team, by now, had spotted nearly a dozen men outside running for their weapons or cover, upon hearing the shot.

Having pulled the end caps off of Simon’s rifle, Nick remembered Olexia telling him to gently tap the trigger to test the options of the scope. He pointed the rifle at one of the men in the compound and centered it on the man’s chest. He tapped it once.

The visual changed to a thermal scan and zoomed in so that his entire body was the only object visible in the scope. In addition to the thermal scan, Nick could see the heart beating and outline of the internal organs. The graphics were incredible.

On the second tap, only the organs displayed. As Nick moved his eye from one organ to the next, a small red dot moved with it, pinpointing the exact spot he viewed. As the dot moved, Nick could feel a small vibration in stock as the aiming mechanism self adjusted. “Oh my God,” Nick thought. 

Randy handed him his ticket. “And you’re in Ten-D, where you can keep an eye on the boys.” Then he tapped Perry’s glossy black Florsheims with his sneaker. “Excuse me, Mr. Jahn. I’m on the window. If I could just get through?”

Perry sipped his gin and tonic, then set it on the armrest. “I’m afraid not, hillbilly. This isn’t your seat.” And then he went back to reading his paper.

The boys had been walking purposefully toward their row. At the sound of Perry’s voice, they all stopped, mid-aisle, and turned to face him.

Jonah stood behind Randy, the last to board. Behind him, the flight attendant was hanging up suit jackets for First-Class passengers. Jonah said, “Coach Purcell and I made a trade. I get to see his team play tomorrow, and he gets to sit in First Class.”

Outside, the luggage door came open again, slammed again. More words. Then came the sound of hydraulic latches, drawing the door until the mechanism whined, unable to tighten further. Someone pounded the door with the heel of his hand: All clear.

Perry lowered the newspaper. He blinked slow, lizard eyes at Jonah, then at Randy, then reached up and touched the Call button next to his air vent.

Ahead of Randy, the boys remained still, watching with a grin.

“Stewardess?” Perry called. “I’m afraid this gentleman wishes to be seated where he doesn’t belong. That is to say, he lacks sufficient tickets for First Class.”

Randy turned to the flight attendant and Jonah watched the man’s broad face come alive with an almost angelic smile. “I’m sorry, but I have a ticket. It says Three-A.”

“It’s not his, stewardess.”

“Flight attendant,” the uniformed woman said. She was built like a cedar chest. She turned back to Randy and returned his smile. “Is it your ticket, dear?”

Jonah said, “No, ma’am. It’s mine. But this is Coach Randy Purcell, and he’s leading his team from New Hibernia, Indiana, to win the Hoops Conference. I thought that any coach who could lead a team from a school of four hundred –“

“Four-hundred-eighty-seven,” Oller countered. “Not counting the sixty-four at continuation school and in juvenile detention.”

“— deserved a little first-class treatment.”

Randy continued to give the flight attendant every ounce of Hoosier charm he’d packed. “I’ve never sat in First Class before, ma’am. It’d be a real treat.”

She nodded. “Of course it would. As long it’s OK with Mister –“

“Jahn. Perry Jahn.” He shoved the Wall Street Journal into the magazine sleeve hard enough to make the man in 2-B jump. “Perhaps you’ve seen my television special on the WB Network. Or my series of prophetic books. Volume Six was –“

“I wasn’t speaking to you.” She turned to Jonah. “Mister?”

“Morgan,” he said. “And yes. It’s quite OK with me.”

“Then if you’d be so kind,” the flight attendant said to Perry, “to allow Coach Purcell to take his seat by the window, we’ll close the door and be on our way.”

Perry glared at Jonah, still not moving. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Jonah smiled. “I’m upgrading.”

Perry stood up to allow Randy through. He towered over Jonah and stared down at him, his face feral. “You’re finished at SkyDance.”

Jonah shrugged. “After this morning? I’d say you’re not far behind.”

The players began moving toward their seats. Jonah started walking. Perry trembled with anger. And then the rage leapt out of Perry: He shoved Jonah hard enough to knock him off balance, spilling the airline ticket and Hoops Conference tickets from his hands onto the blue carpet.

Jonah spun around, half-expecting to see Perry ready to collect milk money, a bully to the end. Instead, he saw Perry leaning toward him, his aquiline nose close enough to peck Jonah’s eyes. He pursed his lips and said, “Oops.”

Jonah imagined it then, just for a moment, saw it streak across his imagination: One good punch. Perry sailing, the sharp lines of his nose turning bumpy and wet. Arrest, assault charges, civil suits. Still, it almost seemed worth losing it all, just to knock the smug out of Perry.

Instead, he raised his hands to simply say Enough. In that moment, he made his peace with Perry and SkyDance, even made peace with the morning shock jocks that had started this ball rolling – because this was where the ball needed to roll. Purcell was right. Today was his lucky day. He turned to go.

But before he could turn, Perry seethed, “And take off those ridiculous gloves.”

Perry’s hands flashed out, quick as cobras. Jonah’s gloves were still loose from when he’d unclasped them while talking to Randy outside the gate. Perry stripped the gloves off his hands decisively and tossed them on the floor next to the tickets.

Jonah stood frozen for a moment, shocked dumb, the stale air crisping the hairs on the back of his hands. “I – I,” he stuttered, but the words wouldn’t come. He stared at the cobwebs of scars on his bare palms, then glanced at all the surfaces and skin surrounding him, all of it pulsing with current.

“Now,” Perry said, “get out of my sight.”

Another shove, this one stronger than the first. Now Jonah was falling, the boys reaching out to prevent him from hitting the ground. Too late. Jonah crashed into the dark-blue carpet, his hands splayed out in front of him, coming down on the Hoops tickets the coach had given him.

A flash roared up, coursing through his veins with the violence of raw electricity, as if he’d grabbed the ceramic coils of a semiconductor. And then Jonah watched the world end.

When she got back to the truck, Carol jumped in the back of the truck to help Kate wrangle her suitcase into the bed. Then they were on their way to the cemetery. "I'm sorry to put you through this, but it's my boy's birthday today."

"It's fine, really," she said. "How old is he?"

"He would'a been ten this year, right, Carol?"

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It's been five years now. Chuck and I tried to stay together after, but it was just too hard. Now the whole town thinks I'm some kind of trashy woman tryin' to steal every husband I meet."

"Daddy kilt `im," Carol said.

"Now, Carol, don't say it like that," Frieda said. "It was an accident. He took Joey out hunting with him, and somehow Joey got in front of him in the bushes. Chuck, well, he thought Joey was behind him, so when he saw the bush moving, he took aim and fired. Trying to flush out the prey, you know?"

Kate didn't know, and she blanched at the thought of gunfire. She felt faint for a moment.

Frieda didn't notice. "Poor Chuck. He couldn't forgive himself. Of course, I had quite a bit of trouble forgiving him, too. Since we've been apart, though, I've had time to reflect on it. For a while there, I was having a heap of trouble reconciling my boy's death with my belief in a just God."

"You were able to?"

"No, not really. I just stopped believing in Him instead."

It took Kate's breath away to even think of that - choosing not to believe.

Frieda glanced over at her. "Oh, don't get me wrong. I believe that God exists. I just don't think he gives a good {goshdarn} what happens here. I imagine He's just sitting back and watching the show - not writing it."

They were silent the rest of the way to the cemetery. When they parked near Joey's grave, Kate gave Frieda and Carol plenty of space and wandered among some of the older graves.

As she walked along, Kate read the headstones. There was one for a little boy named James Metzger, 1924-1927. Another for a baby named Samuel Smith, 1920. A whole section of graves had death dates around 1917. Then, right in front of her was Katherine Brown, born February 22, 1919, died December 20, 1921. A photograph of the little girl was attached to the stone. She was fair-skinned with what looked like brown hair. The parents must have been well-off, judging by the clothing the child wore and the size of the monument. She would have been 29 years old if she had lived - just four years older than Kate was.

She knew she couldn't use her real name. Kathleen DeLucia needed to disappear if she were going to stay free. If Bud had been right about the ease with which one could assume a name, she could be Katherine Brown. She pulled the newspaper article and a pen out of her purse and jotted down the name and the birthdate. Katherine Brown. She could still be Kate.

"Kate!" called Frieda. "We're ready when you are!"

He hesitated, knowing the call would re-establish his personal number, but decided the risk was worth it. Placing the call, he heard the phone ringing, then the answering machine pick up. Listening to Manny's voice instruct the caller to leave a message at the `beep', he hung up and turned the phone off. Closing the computer and gathering his personal belongings, he left the hotel room and headed towards his car. He would need to drive the forty minutes back to Manny's house and talk with her personally.

As he pulled out into traffic, a black Jag slid in behind his Porsche. Up ahead a Range Rover diverted itself into the same lane and began to slow, keeping pace with the other morning drivers. For the next several miles they continued until the traffic began to thin and the exits began to spread out further and further. The Jag contacted the Range Rover that it was time. The driver of the Range Rover hit his brakes as Marks accelerated, coming up behind the Porsche and ramming it only hard enough to buckle the fender and hopefully cause the driver to pull over. The person in the Range Rover watched in the mirror as the two vehicles exited the roadway and came to a stop. He did the same and began to carefully back his way in reverse down the breakdown lane.

Nick was already out of his car, looking at the damage when Marks opened his door and got out. Pretending to be in deep shock, he approached, waving his hands and shouting that it was entirely his fault and asking Nick if he was all right. Both stood assessing the severity to their own vehicles and then one anothers'. The fender on the Porsche was bent slightly downward, but otherwise looked good. There was no damage to the lights and Nick knelt down to peer at the frame and exhaust.

Concealed with his back to oncoming traffic and the Jag blocking any view from the cars coming the other way, Marks placed the end of his gun to the base of Nick's skull and pulled back the hammer. "Mr. West, if you wish to see Laura alive again, please do not do anything other than stand and face me. I don't intend to hurt either one of you unless you give me no other option. Coming towards us is one of my associates and as soon as he stops, I will pull the gun away and you can stand, but I assure you, he will not hesitate to shoot you if you do not cooperate." Nick turned his head slightly, looking through the windshields to see the Range Rover come to a stop. Inside a man turned in his seat, aiming a pistol directly at him.

Nick could feel the gun being taken away and stood as instructed. "This apparently wasn't an accident was it? If you don't intend to hurt us, why did you threaten to kill my wife?"

"It's not me who's going to kill her, rather someone else who will be landing on American soil in less than twelve hours. You have something he is coming after and he will eliminate whoever gets in his way, using whatever method is required to collect it. If that means killing everyone who has come into contact with you or you care about, he will and he will do it swiftly."

"What does he want from me that could possibly make him want to do that?"

"The same thing that I was sent after, Mr. West, the car."

`Traugott's car?"

"Precisely" said Marks. "Now please, we need to get off the road before we bring unwanted attention to ourselves. There is a house about a mile and a half to your right off of this exit. I need your help if you want to keep your friends and wife alive. Please."

Kendra had always considered herself pretty enlightened about the goings on in the dawning of the twenty first century, but what she saw taking place on that stage made her gasp out loud. It was impossible that her brother might be in a place like this...

Her editorial response caught the attention of a man at the bar, the only man in the entire establishment whose eyes weren't fixed glassily on the couple under the red flickering lights. She felt more than saw the insolently curious eyes drop over her, from her blue black hair, which fell almost waist length, over her tan, cinch-waist trench coat which was woefully inappropriate for the weather, her long slim legs, left bare in the ninety three degree heat of an early summer evening in los Angeles, to the two inch heels on which she tottered (she hated these shoes but there were the closest things to sandals that she owned and, in this heat, she couldn't bear to wear her more comfortable shoes.)

She turned and gave the shaggy haired blond in the black tank top and too tight jeans a withering stare. He looked at her a beat longer, as he took a drink from his beer, then turned his attention back to the transfixed crowd, and finally to the raised platform with the bare mattress which served as a stage.

The bartender, looking like a typical gangster movie bartender in Kendra's opinion, leaned against the bar, his big belly bulging over the wooden counter. He never turned his head in her direction, but experience must have told him that a stranger lingered in the curtained foyer of the dark, effluent smelling bar. "Help you, lady?" he said in a high, thin voice that should have come from a primary school piano teacher.

Kendra hesitated, glanced around, and took a wobbly step to the grimy counter, stopping just short of actually touching it. "I'm looking for a man," she said in a low voice. She had to speak quietly, lest anyone else on Keith's trail might overhear. After she spoke, she glanced around to see if anyone, aside from the blond at the bar, had shown any interest in her remark.

The bartender giggled. "Help yourself, honey," he suggested, waving a soiled towel toward the crowd, "the place is lousy with them."

The blond, who had turned at her comment, smiled at the bartender, and shifted back on his stool, lifting his half empty glass to his lips.

Kendra drew a deep breath for patience, and of course regretted it immediately. "No, I'm looking for a particular man."

"Nah," the bartender shook his head, "none of these guys is particular."

The blond's shoulders jerked up and down; he was laughing.

Kendra pulled away from the bar, her cheeks as red as the flickering lights. She sent her eyes over the group of men gathered around the circular stage, chanting in anticipation. There were all sorts of men there, from young to old, black to white, blond, brunette, brown haired, fat, short, tall, thin, even men in uniform, but none of them came close to the right combination. No, she didn't see Keith anywhere, but the cabdriver had been most insistent that the young sailor had gone in here - the Play-toe Bar and Girl.

Kendra looked back at the bartender almost helplessly. She had to find Keith, and this was her only lead.