Hosts

"Find a way to kill the mutation!"

"I've already begun testing various virucidal agents against it. I'm confident we can find an effective cure."

"But in the meantime," Kate said, "what about other complications?" She envisioned the viral particles invading Jeanette's neurons, multiplying inside, then rupturing the cell membranes and moving onto other cells, their numbers growing exponentially. "What about meningitis? Encephalitis? What about an abscess eroding into an artery and hemorrhaging? She could die, Dr. Fielding!"

"I'm working as fast as I can," he said. "But even if I had a cure in my pocket right now, it might not help us."

"What are you talking about?"

"Consider: why am I here instead of home? Because Jeanette refused to come in to be checked. How do we cure a patient who refuses treatment?"

Kate's stomach knotted as she remembered Jeanette's words this morning: Why would I want to see Dr. Fielding? I'm fine. Never felt better . . .

"It's a gray zone," Fielding was saying. "If the patients aren't complaining, if they deny anything's wrong and don't want treatment… you can see the problem, can't you."

Yes, she could.

A wave of fatigue swept over her, leaving her chilled and achy.

Fielding said, "I'll keep testing the mutation while we wait to hear from NIH. I'm sure a call from them will convince Jeanette and the others how serious this is and that they all need help."

But as far as Kate was concerned, Jeanette already did want help—she'd told Kate so this morning. Pleaded with her for help. And Kate was darn well going to see that she got it.

THURSDAY

1

"Easy, Joe."

Stan Kozlowski had watched his brother becoming more and more agitated as he tore though the morning papers at their tiny kitchen table. By unspoken agreement they'd decided to eat breakfast at their pad this morning. Joe's outburst at Moishe's yesterday had drawn too much attention. They'd been just two of the regulars, Stan and Joe, no last names. Now Joe had no doubt become the regular with the scarred hand who'd gone into a screaming rage about blowing somebody off the face of the earth. With outstanding federal and state arrest warrants on each of them, discretion said to lay low.

"Nothing!" Joe said, tossing the News onto the floor where it landed in a heap next to the similarly discarded Post and Newsday. "You'd think one of the assholes on that subway car would have gotten a good enough look at their fucking Savior to give some kind of description. What about your Times there? Anything?"

"Lots of psychobabble about the personality types of the two shooters." With one man dead and the other missing, Stan was amazed at the bull these "experts" could sling without speaking word one to either man. "But if you mean anything like a police artist sketch, no."

"Shit!" He leaped up from his chair and gave the papers on the floor a vicious kick, sending them into fluttering flight against the far wall. Which wasn't very far at all. "It's him, I tell you. This Savior is our guy!"

Stan wasn't going to say, Easy, Joe, again. He'd already said it too often since yesterday morning.

"I know you want it to be him, Joe, but—"

"Oh, it's not just want, Stan. I can taste him. I can smell his stinkl My palm started to itch the minute I read about that tiny .45. He's our guy, Stan. He's the reason we're living in this shit hole. He's our fuckin' guy!"

Shit hole is right, Stan thought as he surveyed their crummy one-bedroom apartment.

How the mighty had fallen: from Upper East Side condo owners to fugitive Alphabet City renters—literally overnight.

All because of "our guy."

Whoever he was he'd come out of nowhere. And he came smart and tough. Whether he had a personal grudge or was hired for the job, who knew? Stan figured he was hired. A pro. Just like the two of them.

Fires and explosions—the Kozlowski brothers' specialties. All thanks to the U.S. Army and a tour in Nam.

Stan hadn't wanted to go to Nam, and if he'd stayed in college the war would have been over by graduation day. But when he'd flunked out in year one the draft board wasted no time scooping him up. Over in the provinces Stan learned all about C-4, became a gonzo expert at blowing up Charlie's booby-traps with the white clay-like substance. And he brought all that training home with him. He finished college after the war but the economy sucked then, so he'd gone into a business of his own, taking in Joe in as a partner, teaching him all he knew.

Together they'd made a good living. It was never personal. Somebody not making payments, somebody skimming too much, somebody talking too much, somebody at a point where he figured he'd been paying into his fire insurance policy long enough and decided it was time to make a withdrawal, they called Stan and Joe Koz.

They'd been a perfect team: Stan pla

Then "our guy" came along, interfered with their latest job—which turned out to be their last—causing a major botch that made them look worse than no-talent amateurs.

But that hadn't been the worst. Somehow he'd followed them back to their farm up in Ulster County and torched the house and the barn where they stored their C-4 and accelerants. And most of their cash.

Joe had ruined his hand and almost got killed trying to save that. And he'd failed.

But things got even worse. An investigation showed that the barn had housed a bomb-making operation; BATF was brought in and that was when the warrants started. Stan and joe had owned the place in another guy's name but he'd rolled over in a heartbeat when the feds came knocking. RICO statutes got invoked and everything they'd owned wound up impounded.

Plus Joe couldn't get his hand fixed because that kind of plastic surgery wasn't exactly done in back rooms, and hospitals asked too many questions.

Finally, now, no one would hire them. Like they were dead. Worse than dead. Like they'd never existed. Like, the Kozlowski brothers? Who they? Never heard of them.

All because of one guy. Our guy.

But Stan was not convinced that he and this so-called Savior were the same.

"I want him too, Joe. And if this Savior guy turns out to be him, fine. We'll get him. Together. But not in a way that's going to point a finger at us. We'll do him the way he did us: mess him up and then disappear without a trace."

"You're worried about attention? I want attention. I want everyone to know who did him and why. Because he took everything from us, Stan. Remember how we used to be? We was hot. We was Tiffany. We wore Armani to the fucking gym! We used to watch our ankles through our socks. Remember that?"

Stan remembered, but why dwell on it. "At least we're not doing time."

"Time? We are doing time! A jolt in the joint would be better'n this. This isn't living, it's fucking hell. No, wait. If hell was a shit-filled toilet with a broken flusher in the dysentery capital of India, I'd take it over this. You got that?"

"Joe—"

"A guy with a combo of AIDS, brain cancer, and a colostomy's got it better'n us. No, Stan. I call the shots on this one. This gives me first dibs."

He held up his maimed left hand, thumb extended, the scar-fused fingers forming a shiny pink V. Someone seeing him do that on the street once had called out, "Live long and prosper," and Stan had had to pull Joe off the guy before he killed him.

"When I find the fucker I'm go