Hosts

"Can I ask you, Jack," Kate said, her face grave as she stared at him, "why you have so many guns?"

"Because I can. Because I want to. Because they expand my comfort zone."

"You're not one of those NRA gun nuts, are you?"

"No." He smiled. "Those are citizens."

"I hate guns. Ron bought one back when we were still together. He said he hated them too but he figured some day he might not be allowed to buy one, so…" She shrugged.

"Smart man. I don't pretend to know the answers, Kate. I'm not in the business of solving society's problems, but trying to control violence by disarming potential victims strikes me as whacked-out insane."

"Is this some sort of Second Amendment thing with you?"

Almost laughed. "Not likely. Amendments, Second or otherwise, don't apply much to me. If it's any sort of 'thing,' Kate, it's a bad-guy/ good-guy thing. As long as there's bad guys out there ready to stab, rape, shoot, bludgeon, and torture to get what they want, then their potential victims need a decisive way to respond. Guns weren't called 'equalizers' for nothing. The frailest woman with a gun in her hand is a match for any rapist."

"So I take it, then," Kate said slowly, "that if all the bad guys went away, magically disappeared, you'd give up your guns?"

"Not a chance."

Kate nodded. Didn't smile, but her eyes said, Gotcha.

Using an arm of the recliner for support, Jack pushed himself to his feet.

"Right now I'm too pooped to argue. Maybe after a nap…" Shuffled back to his bedroom and collapsed on the bed. After resting a moment, he picked up the phone and punched in a number. He'd checked his voicemail before leaving the bedroom and found two messages from Sandy Palmer, boy reporter. Jack would call Gia, let her know he was feeling better and see how she was doing, then it would be time for Superman to call Jimmy Olsen and get him involved in something more productive than amnesty for the Savior…

4

Meet me at noon at the bar where you were told how to find me. I need your help.

The words bounced around the inside of Sandy's head. Especially the last four: I need your help.

He felt light and giddy, ready to laugh aloud as he hurried up Broadway. The Upper West Side was taking advantage of the su

Look at me! he wanted to shout. Last night I was shoulder to shoulder with the ultraglitterati, and this morning I'm answering a call from the mystery man the whole country is talking about, and he wants me to help him out. Don't you wish you were me? You all know you do! Say it!

This was so cool. Who'd ever dream life could be this cool.

The call had been a surprise. After Sandy had all but given up hope of hearing from the Savior, the man phones and he wants to meet. Because he needs help.

Help with what? Amnesty wasn't mentioned. Could he be in some sort of jam?

But back to cool: that was how Sandy was determined to be at this meet. Cool. Ultracool. Don't let the excitement show, don't buy right away into whatever he wants you to do. Think about it… check it out from all angles… weigh all the pluses and minuses…

Then jump in with both feet.

He gri

He'd forgotten the exact location of Julio's and made a couple of wrong turns before he found it. He stepped inside and it was deja vu all over again: the dead plants in the window, the dark interior, the musty smell of stale beer, and at the bar, the same two hard drinkers who'd given him a hard time before. What were their names? Barney and Lou. Right. Everything exactly the same, like he'd stepped back in time: the same shots and drafts on the bar, and Sandy could swear Barney was wearing the same faded T-shirt. Did these two live here?

"Hey, meng."

Sandy glanced right to see the muscular little Hispanic owner strolling his way.

Julio said, "You've come to give me my share of the inheritance, eh?"

"What?" Sandy said, baffled.

Julio held up Sandy's original Identi-Kit printout and waved it in his face.

"The guy you were looking for, meng! I toF you where he was, so now you give me my cut, right?"

What was this—some kind of shakedown?

"Th-that was just a joke."

Julio's expression was grim. "You see me smiling, meng? You hear me laughing?"

"Maybe this was a mistake," Sandy said, turning toward the door. "I think I'd better—"

Julio's sudden grip on his arm was like a steel manacle. "He's waiting for you in the back."

He gave Sandy a push toward the shadowed rear section; nothing rough about it, but firm enough to let him know which way he was going whether he liked it or not.

Behind him Sandy heard Barney and Lou snigger. Joke's on me, I guess. Ha-ha. Everyone's a comedian.

As he wound his way among tables laden with upended chairs, a pale form began to take shape behind a cleared table set with a large bottle of orange Gatorade. The Savior… his back against the rear wall. But he looked terrible. Even in this murky light Sandy could make out his sunken, half-glazed eyes and sallow skin.

"My God, what happened?" Sandy asked.

"Sit down." The voice was a weak rasp.

Sandy pulled out a chair and settled opposite him, as far away as possible while still at the same table. Whatever he had, Sandy didn't want it.

"Are you sick?"

The Savior shook his head. He seemed barely able to stay upright. "I was poisoned."

It took Sandy a few seconds to process the words. Poisoned? Poisoned?

"No shit! Who? Why?"

"Let me start at the begi

Am I good or am I good, Sandy thought with a surge of pride. He suppressed a grin and let a sage nod suffice.

"I make ends meet," the Savior went on, "by doing odd jobs for cash. One of those jobs is bodyguarding. Sort of a freelance thing, you know? Last week a certain Dr. James Fielding was referred to me. You recognize the name?"

Sandy had never heard of the man but didn't want to look dumb. "Sounds familiar but I can't place him."

The Savior sipped from his Gatorade bottle. "You may have heard it on the news this morning: he was murdered last night."

"Oh, man! And you were supposed to protect him!" Sandy put two and two together. "Is that why you were poisoned?"

The Savior nodded. "Fielding wouldn't tell me why, but for some reason he was afraid of a former patient named Terrence Holdstock. He said he didn't have enough to go to the police, but he feared for his life."

"Some sort of malpractice thing?"

"I'm not sure. I did a little investigating—in fact I was on my way back from doing just that when our friend on the Nine started shooting. What I learned is that this Holdstock is the leader of some sort of cult."

"A cult? I helped research a feature we did on local cults a while back but I never heard of him."

"It's a small cult, and relatively new. And get this: all members are former patients of Dr. Fielding."

"Oh, that's weird. That's really weird."

"Wait. It gets weirder. They drew lots and Holdstock won: he got the honor of murdering Fielding. And not by just any means—by strangulation."

Sandy leaned back and stared at this man. Yes, he'd saved Sandy's life, but he'd also lied to him. Was he lying again? Sandy prayed not. Few things on earth were sexier—news-wise, of course—than a murder cult.

"How do you know all this?"

"I can fill you in on the how later. What matters is Holdstock succeeded, and damn near offed me in the process." He lifted his Gatorade bottle. "I tend to drink this like water. But yesterday they spiked it with something that was supposed to kill me."