Hosts

"Maybe that's the engine driving the Holdstock cult—some sort of shared delusion."

"You may have something there."

"Yeah, well, whether I do or not, it's something for the NIH boys to handle, not me. Did you call Fielding?"

Kate's face clouded as she nodded. "Yes. He said not to worry. He's been in contact with them daily and what seem like interminable delays are simply the normal bureaucratic process."

"Why do I get the feeling you don't believe that?"

"Because he seemed so nervous. I could almost hear him sweating."

"Well, his reputation and his career could be at stake."

"Because of a mutation? I don't see how. I think I'm going to call NIH myself and see what I can find out."

"Good idea. And while you're doing that, I've got to meet the press."

"Sorry?"

"Long story."

Kate smiled at him. "Do you know how many times you've said that over the last few days?"

"Too many, probably. Someday soon we'll sit down together and I'll tell you a few of them if you want." A select few, he thought.

"I'd like that very much," she said.

"Then it's a date. But for now I've got to run. Call you later."

7

"Aw, shit," Joe said. "The kid's going for a walk in the park."

"Maybe he is, maybe he isn't," Stan told his brother in a soothing tone. Joe was as twitchy and fidgety as he'd ever seen him. Like he had roaches crawling all over his skin.

They'd hung around outside The Light offices all morning, watching for this reporter, this Sandy Palmer guy. They didn't even know if he was in the building, so they called inside and got him on the phone. That settled, they waited. He finally came out around 11:30 and ducked into the subway. Guy could have been going home, out for a haircut, or to visit his mama. No way to know. But wherever he was going, Joe insisted on following. The reporter had jumped on the Nine so they did the same. On the outside chance he might be on the lookout for a tail, they'd split up—Joe in the car ahead of him, Stan in the one behind. Stan noticed Joe keeping his left hand in his pocket the whole time. The kid ever saw that, Joe would be tagged; he'd have to back off and let Stan do the tail solo.

When the reporter got off at Seventy-second, Stan thought he might simply be returning to the scene of the crime. But no, he headed straight for the stairs.

Topside, Stan and Joe each took a different side of the street and gave him a block lead as he headed west along Seventy-first. Waste of effort. The kid was in his own world, loping along without a single look back.

Stan had joined up with Joe at the corner of Riverside Drive where they hung back as the reporter ambled into the park.

Stan tried to show Joe the bright side.

"This might be something. If you remember, we set up quite a few meetings in parks in our day."

Joe rubbed his stubbled chin. "Come to think of it, I do. So how do we work this?"

Stan surveyed the landscape. Riverside Drive ran at a higher level, bordered on its west flank by a low wall overlooking the greenery that sloped away below it.

"We split," Stan said. "You take the high road and I'll take the low road—"

"And I'll be in wherever-it-is before ya."

"Scotland. Keep your cell phone on and I'll call you if I think he's made me or I see him heading back up to the street. Then you pick him up and—"

"Shut up!" Joe hissed. He grabbed Stan's arm, his fingers digging in like claws. "There he is!"

"Who? Where?"

"Over there. Two blocks down. See him? In the baseball cap, leaning on the wall, watching the park."

Stan saw an average-looking guy. Nothing striking about him. Looked relaxed as all hell, taking a little fresh air while killing some time.

"You think that's our guy? Could be anybody."

Joe hadn't moved a muscle. His eyes were fixed on the baseball cap like a dog on point.

"It's him, Stan. I see him in my dreams, and I've been dreaming of this moment. You don't know how I've been dreaming of this moment." His breath rasped through his teeth. "The fucker! The fucker!"

"Easy, Joe. We've got to be sure. We—"

"/'m sure. God damn fuck am I sure! Know what he's doing? He's casing the park, watching this reporter make his entrance and checking him for a tail. If you'd gone down there he'd've spotted you and that would've queered it all. He disappears and the meet is off. But he's a dumb fuck. Figures if someone's tailing the reporter, whoever it is doesn't know what he looks like. Thinks he's sittin' safe and pretty up there with his bird's-eye view. But we know what he looks like, don't we, Stan. We know."

The longer Joe talked and the longer Stan looked, the more familiar this guy at the wall became. Stan was almost afraid to believe it was him, afraid he'd fool himself because he so very much wanted it to be him. Not as much as Joe, maybe, but still, some heavy debts cried out for payment—with tons of vig.

"You know, Joe… I think you might be right."

Joe was still staring. A heat-seeking missile that had found its target.

"Course I'm right." He reached into his jacket pocket. "I'm doin' him, Stan. Go

Stan gripped his brother's arm before he could pull his .38. The area was crawling with people.

"Too many witnesses, Joe," he said quickly. "What good's doing him if it's going to land us in the joint? Like you said before, we've got to send a message here. This is the guy that blew up our stash, our cash, and our reps. We got to do him in kind. Blow him to hell. A public blow. And then we can say, remember that guy who got blown to chili con carne back in June? That was the guy who blew our farm and wrecked Joe's hand. We found him and did him. Did him good."

He felt Joe's arm relax as he nodded, still staring at the guy.

"Yeah. All right. And not just him, but him and everything he owns and everyone around him. You don't mess with the K Brothers."

Stan knew it would never be the same. They'd never completely salvage their reps, but at least they'd have evened some of the score. That counted for something.

"How you want to handle this?"

"He's looking for someone tailing the reporter. But we'll be tailing him. We find out where he lives, then we do him. And no waitin' around, Stan. We do him tonight!"

8

Sandy checked his watch: 12:30. He'd been wandering around the park for half an hour now. The message had said same place, noon. The noon was clear enough. And Sandy had assumed "same place" meant same bench. So he'd waited there for a while, but no Savior. He wondered if he should call the Savior "Jack." He didn't know if that was his real name, but it was better than the Savior.

After fifteen minutes on the bench he'd got up and wandered around. Maybe "same place" had meant the park in general. But another fifteen minutes of trudging up and down a ten-block length had yielded no sign of the man.

Looked like he'd been stood up. What now? He'd threatened the Savior with the drawing, told him he hadn't got rid of them. Not true. He'd torn them up and flushed them down a toilet in one of The Light's men's rooms. But he could print out another from the computer in minutes if he wanted to. But did he want to?

He remembered what Beth had said about To Kill a Mockingbird. Did he have a right to drag Boo Radley into the spotlight just for a story?

But the analogy didn't hold. He was here to do the Savior a favor—the biggest favor of his life.

Sandy checked his watch again. He'd give him another fifteen minutes, then—