

### The Reckoning

THE WATCHMAKER—Book Three

Lee Capp

Smashwords Edition

The Reckoning

Copyright © 2016 Lee Capp

Cover Design and Interior Layout by Laura Shinn Designs

http://laurashinn.yolasite.com

Smashwords License Notes

All rights reserved—this book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

_The Reckoning_ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination solely, or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed in any way as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Connect with Lee online at:

http://larryleecaplin.com

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the loving memory of Dale Edward Caplin—passed from this earthly life February 14, 2015. Love you, big brother. Miss you.

See you soon.

Acknowledgements

I am very grateful to my lovely wife and eternal companion, Bea, and my late brother Dale, for their endless support and encouragement. Thanks to you both for your input, as well as bearing up under countless readings. Also many thanks for all the suggestions for improvement. Most, if not all, of your contributions were better than my own. This book, and indeed the entire series, simply would not exist without both of you. Endless love to you.

Many thanks to author Ruth Rutherford, proof-reader extraordinaire, for keeping the entire manuscript clean, neat, and readable.

And thanks once again, to my good friend, Matt James Schutt—the real-life, and spiritual ancestor of fictional watchmaker Matt McCabe, and as fine a young man as is likely to be found anywhere on the planet. To Matt and his lovely bride, Cassie, I extend my heartfelt thanks, and love to you both as well. As you go forward to new adventures and to a lifetime together, always know—my heart goes with you.

Thanks to you all. You're the best—and it's been such a pleasure to have traveled this road, in the company of those I care about.

Bellevue, Washington, March, 2015

THE RECKONING

Answering a call-to-serve from the American President, detective Johnny O'Brien finds himself embroiled in more mystery, intrigue, and strangeness on steroids than he ever imagines possible.

Journeying to the fallen city of Detroit to thwart a radical-Islamic terror threat, Johnny must up his game considerably. After all, he's now facing spies, gunnies, ghosts, and madmen. Not to mention the self-described, "Greatest criminal mastermind of all-time," the infamous Saal Moradi, and Moradi's companion and deadly cohort, the "Ice-Queen."

Teaming with watchmaker friend and time-traveler extraordinaire, Matt McCabe, along with enigmatic new-guy Jedidiah Wahl, and turn-of-the-century prize-fighter and known cheat, "Kid" McCoy, Johnny is well-outfitted to take them on. Should be a piece-of-cake. Except for the little factoid that Johnny is now "displaced."

May be a problem there.

Join the fun, adventure, and action of **THE RECKONING** , the epic final chapter of _The Watchmaker Trilogy_.
PROLOGUE

Long Island City Athletic Club Arena

Long Island City, Queens, New York

Friday, December 17, 1897

The crowd roared as the blows fell, its bloodlust well worked-up. To a man, those in attendance (and it was mostly men) would likely have said they came for the _art_ of boxing, or perhaps the science of it. Truth was, of course, it was about the blood. It was _always_ about the blood.

. . . And the money. The smart money was on Creedon.

Creedon wasn't having a very good fight though. His blows were well aimed, but this night they could not seem to find his opponent. It was like trying to pin smoke to a wall—futile. And Creedon was wearing out trying.

Fifteen rounds into a twenty-five round match, he was in real trouble. Round sixteen, and he couldn't answer the bell. Bloodied, battered and bruised, it was over. Choynski, his manager, threw in the towel.

All of a sudden, Dan Creedon wasn't middle-weight Champion of the World anymore.

The Kid was.

Detroit, Michigan

Present Day

The woman looked bored—and slightly pained.

"If you scrub it any more, you'll wear it out."

The man smiled as he continued with his ritual. "A gun is like a fine watch—or an automobile. Keep it clean, my dear. Keep it well-oiled and clean. And then it will work for you as it should. When you need it the most. When your life depends on it. But what would a woman know of such things."

"I don't care much for guns."

"Yes, my dear—I know. You prefer to wreak your carnage and take your revenge much more up close and personal."

"And you don't?"

"I do, my dear, I do. I like to look my victim in the eye. I like to see the light go out of them. I like to see the unbelief, the denial, the agonizing _frustration_ of knowing that he has lost everything. Lost all of his tomorrows, all his hopes, all his dreams. Everything."

"You are a death lover."

"Death, is my life, my lovely—paradoxically."

"That is the only gun I have ever seen you with."

"It is all I have ever needed. Short, light of weight. Magnum power. A trigger slick as glass. Ageless stainless steel. The dependability of a revolver. Six high-speed hollow-pointed bullets for sure in the cylinder. Twenty-four more in speed-loaders. Optional silencer. A fine rig. A professional's set-up. It suits me well."

"You love your work—and your gun."

"An artist loves his brush, my dear. A writer his pen. A singer his song. I do the work I was born to do."

"Kill."

" _Level_ , my dear. _Level._ I am the ultimate leveler."

He paused a few seconds.

"I do the work I was born to do," the man repeated. "That I was _sent_ to do. For this I came to this world."

"When do we make our move?"

"Soon, my dear. Very, _very_ soon."
CHAPTER ONE

Bellevue, Washington

St. Patrick's Day,

Present Day

For the first time in nearly a month, it wasn't a rainy day. Not that it was a sunny one either. The sky had been leaden gray all morning, and as late afternoon gloominess settled in, it only became more somber. But it wasn't raining—and that, here in the Pacific Northwest at the tag end of winter, was something worth shouting about.

I was in a great mood, just having come from my annual physical. I need it to keep my professional license. The doc said I'm in great shape—for an old guy, that is. Told me there wasn't much he could do for me, and he'd see me again in a year.

I was good with that diagnosis.

My name is O'Brien. John Albert O'Brien, to be precise. Just Johnny to my friends. It has always been my fortune, throughout my life, to have good friends. Here, in my forty-fourth year, was no exception. I was on my way to see one now. Matt McCabe. Just a kid, so to speak. He was like a son to me. A son that just happened to be almost eighty-five years old.

To those who did not know him well, Matt McCabe might appear to be a callow youth, somewhere in the range of twenty-something. Twenty-two—again, to be absolutely precise. To the day. And he would never get any older. At least that was, until he solved his little "problem." Actually, come to think of it, his really _big_ problem. You see—Matt's a time traveler, and he owns a magic pocket-watch. A pocket-watch with real attitude.

And a taste for blood.

And callow? I've known a lot of men in my life—tough men. Men of action. Men who would make you dead quick if you got in their way very much. Matt McCabe was one of those, make no mistake, his baby-face notwithstanding.

I'm a writer. Don't get me wrong, I'm not bragging. A lot of writers author great works; literary tomes, volumes of great artistry, beauty, pageant, grace, inspiration, and knowledge. Me—I write tawdry detective novels. About a guy named Jack McGuire. He's a lot like me. Worn down. Kind of a loser, and, kind of a hero too—in an offbeat sort of way. He carries a gun, and a badge. Without that, Jack would probably be a one-man crime spree—again, kind of like me. I used to carry a badge too. That was before I took a bullet in the spine and got pensioned off the force.

I still carry a gun.

Guess I forgot to mention. I'm also a private-eye.

And murder is my specialty.

Matt McCabe is my partner. I'm on my way to his house now. He lives in a little western Washington town called Bellevue. In a modest house set back in the pines—near Phantom Lake. A modest house—for a small mansion. Matt's a millionaire, many times over. The man has taste though. It's not that pretentious. He has good taste in women too. Matt is married to one of the best looking, and incredibly nice ladies of all time. Her name is Linh, and she is an Asian beauty. And she's pregnant with their first child.

Linh's a cop too, on the Bellevue force. The Bellevue Chief of Police is a cranky old guy named Howard Carter. He's a friend and former partner, although we kind of have a history. Like we were once both married to the same woman. Although not at the same time of course. Her name was Janis and she left him for me. It put a strain on our relationship for a while, but we're all over it now. She finally left me too, but not by choice. She's buried up in a Bellevue cemetery—a victim of cancer. I miss her every day, but I'm finally getting my life back in order, clean and sober. Jan would have liked that.

She would have liked Maggie Moran too. That's my on-again, off-again girlfriend. Maggie's a keeper all right—but sometimes I think she may be just too smart for me.

I live in hope however.

My office girl (or I guess I should say office lady) is a tough old bird named Emily Hatcher. Late middle-aged. A peach. I know I couldn't take her in a fist-fight. She's recently widowed—but coping a lot better than I did. No sloppy-drunk routine for her. Emily's the "eye" in my private-eye firm, which I lovingly call WE—or, Watchmaker Enterprises. An ex-IRS agent, she's damned near a computer and personal-information gathering genius.

Without her I'm a one-eyed dick—and hey, _nobody_ wants to see that.

Danny Pogobo is another cop-friend from the Mercer Island PD, and part-time investigator for WE. A native of Samoa, he's about the girth of an extra-large palm-tree, and is not the kind of guy you would want to meet in a dark alley. Or even a well-lighted one, for that matter. A guy I know I could trust with my life—and have.

Larry the fish-guy is a sarcastic old SOB. I like that in a confidant and snitch. Reads, _and_ writes detective stories of his own. He thinks they're good. I could argue that. Sixty something. He works in a Bellevue big-box store—selling fish, of all things, and giving away for free, information, inspiration, logic, and good old-fashioned common-sense, which, as it turns out, isn't always all that common anymore. He's a sounding-board, and worth his weight in gold—a couple of times over.

That's pretty much my circle of friends.

Oh yeah—there's a new one now. Joshua McCabe. He's about forty-two or so years old. He's the estranged grandson of Matt McCabe. Joshua blames Matt for letting his father, James McCabe—Matt's son, that is—die. Yeah, I know—but you heard it right. It's like the old baseball saying—you gotta have a scorecard to know the players.

Joshua came back into Matt's life at the first of the year, after a long absence. They're getting along pretty well—so far. He's either here to help Matt with his little problem—or to kill him. Matt and I just haven't quite figured out which one it is yet.

Like I've said so many times—Matt McCabe's life—well . . . it's a lot like mine.

Complicated.

Welcome to my world.
CHAPTER TWO

Deadwood, South Dakota

Tuesday,

September 11, 2001

The day started badly.

And then it got worse.

Like the rest of America, Brick sat transfixed, watching the television set, not believing his eyes. And not trusting them either—ringed with moisture, as they were.

So many dead. So much brutality.

Brick had never killed anyone.

But then, the day wasn't over.

The City of Deadwood began in lawlessness. In the early 1870's the land was in dispute—an official treaty between the United States Government and The Lakota Sioux guaranteeing to the Indians ownership of the Black Hills until the end of time. The Sioux even got it in the white man's writing. Didn't matter in the least of course, when in 1874, famed American hero Colonel George Armstrong Custer led an expedition into the Hills and announced the discovery of gold. This led to the implementation of the golden rule; namely, that he who has the gold, gets to make the rules.

Just two years later Colonel Custer would pay for his sins with his life—his bloody corpse stacked, like so many thousands of others, as cordwood on the pages of history.

The blatant illegality of the settlement of Deadwood soon forgotten (at least by the white-man) more sprung up alongside it, fueling the greedy aspirations of the gold seekers, thousands of which poured into the Hills each month.

The process was endless. The Indians were not—the result a foregone conclusion.

And then there was Hickok.

As in James Butler. Otherwise known as Wild Bill. The Prince of Pistoleers. Another real-life American hero, even in his own day, although more myth than man. He likely would have been long forgotten, along with the town, if it were not for the fact that probably the most notable thing the man did in his life was to die. Oh, not so much that he died, but the _manner_ of it. The story is well known. Sitting in Nuttal & Mann's Saloon on Main Street, with his back to the open door, he played his last hand, trading a pot of gold for a brainpan full of lead as Jack McCall walked up behind and blew old Bill into the next world. It was August 2, 1876. Custer's body, up there on the Little Bighorn River, had hardly begun to rot. It was a tough centennial year for America.

To this very day, the poker cards that Bill held (aces and eights) are known as the "Dead's Man's Hand." But Bill died that the town might live, tourists rushing to the site of the shooting for a century and better. They were still flocking to it this late summer afternoon, September 11, 2001—when the robbery and shooting went down.

Deadwood had not seen anything like it—not since the long ago days of Wild Bill, anyway.

Brick was at home when the call came in.

At the Century Bank Plaza, three people were already dead—and three more were being held inside as hostages. Two women and a three-month-old-child. There were two gunmen—in an attempted bank robbery gone bad. Something so simple as the bank manager and his assistant—the only ones with the combination to the heavy and old-fashioned safe—being out of the building at the same time. And that almost never happened. But this day, of all days, was unlike others.

By the time Brick arrived on the scene, a little more than thirty minutes after the first call went out, the bank building was surrounded by cops, and a makeshift communications center had been set-up just around the corner, at a bakery.

Chief Wiggins had made telephone contact with the robbers. It was directly to him that Brick reported. Wiggins had just hung up the phone as Brick approached.

"Brick—good to see you. We can use all the help we can get today."

"No problem Chief. I think if I had watched my TV any longer today, my head would have exploded."

"I know what you mean. It was on at the station too. What a damned day!"

"What's going on here, Chief?"

"Two dumb as shit robbers walk into the bank and draw down on the two tellers, demanding they open the safe. Two ladies and a baby, plus old man Smith, the security-guard, and a janitor are the only ones there. The manager and assistant manager have left early for the day. They rightly figured, I guess, that the bank wouldn't be getting a hell of a lot of business today anyhow, so they went home to watch the news from New York themselves. Of course, they were the only ones with the combo to the safe.

"Old Smith tries to draw, but he's way too old and slow for that shit, and he takes one in the chest. Dead as he hit the floor. One of the lady tellers starts screaming her lungs our and gets a bullet in the brain for her effort. The second teller the shit-bags drag out from behind the counter and over to the safe. I guess they didn't believe her when she told them she couldn't open the thing, so they pistol whipped her to death—or maybe they just did it for the hell of it.

"At this point the janitor, who has remained unseen at the back of the bank, decides that perhaps that isn't the safest place to be right at the moment, and shags it out the back door at about the speed of light. That's how we know what went down.

"They might have gotten away clean at that point, but for Lt. Evans' squad-car that just happens to pull into the bank at about that moment. He was simply stopping off to cash a check, and almost got dead himself when one of the perps opened up on him from the bank door. He took one in the lower leg, but it's not too bad. He'll be fine. Evans did a good job keeping them inside the building with just his revolver while calling it in on his dashboard radio.

"We got the place surrounded now, and the State Police boys are helping us out, so no one's going anywhere. The big problem now is the two customers and the kid. I've talked to the perps on the phone. Nut-cases. Almost totally out of control. A couple of red-neck bubbas with guns. They're threatening to kill one at a time each hour for the next three hours unless we provide a police helicopter to take them out of here. Say they'll start with the kid. They say they want to go to Mexico. Guess they've seen way too many cowboy movies—the dumb shits don't even know that Mexico would extradite their sorry asses right back across the border as soon as they set down."

"How much time before the first one?" Brick asked.

"About twenty minutes."

Brick let out a low whistle. "Not a lot of time. Got a plan?"

"Yeah," Wiggins said. "I told them we couldn't land a chopper here in the middle of town. Too many buildings, power-lines, etc. Said we'd drive them and the hostages to the chopper in a squad car. The chopper will be sitting in a field just at the north end of town. We're going to make a big deal out of flying it over the bank on the way there. That way it will all sound a lot more legit. State's providing the bird.

"There is only going to be one unarmed cop driving the squad car. He will be in his underwear to show he's not armed. There will be a sixteen shot Beretta 9mm taped under the dash just to the right of the steering wheel column. Once inside, the cop is going to take them out with that."

"Why inside? It'd be easier before they get in."

"Maybe. But they'll be using the hostages as shields. I figure them to put one in the passenger seat. Probably the single woman. Momma and papoose will go in the back. That means the officer will have to draw, turn and shoot behind him and not let the hostage in the passenger seat get in the way. I'd like to see them dead with one shot each to the head."

"Small target."

"Well, we'll need someone that can shoot— _and_ look good in their underwear. Know anybody?"

"I was off duty," Brick smiled.

"You _were_ off duty. I know you're damned good, but ever shot anything but paper?"

"No—but there's a first time for everything."

"Can you handle it?"

"I can handle it. Where's the car?"

"Just around the corner."

"Okay then. Let's get this done."

Chief Wiggins picked-up the phone and punched in the numbers to the bank.

As Brick made his way around the bakery and to the waiting car on the next street, the police helicopter flew in low, passing over the besieged bank and on its way to an open field just north of town.

Brick stood at the trunk of the car stripping to his tee-shirt and white boxers. He kept his shoes on. Getting into the black and white and putting it into gear, he gently made his way around the bakery shop, onto the main road, and then slowly turned into the bank parking lot.

Stopping about thirty feet from the front door and turning off the ignition, Brick sat behind the wheel, and waited patiently for his five passengers to appear.

As he waited, Brick reverted to an old habit, often used to relieve stress. He whistled softly, almost under his breath.

The tune was _Careless Love_.

When the two robbers exited the bank building about two minutes later, the first thing that Brick noticed was that they seemed to be a lot smaller than he would have expected—shielding themselves behind their female hostages as they were.

So much death—from such small men.

Watching them make their way across the lot, a slow and faint smile crossed Brick's face.

With a sigh, Brick pulled the secured pistol from under the dash and carefully removed the tape from the grip, tossing it to the floor in a ball. Then he swung the cruiser door slowly open, and unwinding his large frame from the driver's seat, carefully exited the vehicle, the sixteen-shot Beretta casually dangling by his right side as he stood and faced the slowly advancing men.

The robber on Brick's left, seemingly the older of the two, pulled-up short—his heartrate quickening as he saw the large pistol in the hand of the police officer. His eyes widened in surprise at the sudden turn of events.

His partner took several more steps before he too stopped, pulling his hostage up tight against his body, and pushing the barrel of his pistol hard into the side of the woman's head. The muscles of his forearm bulged as he death-gripped his handgun. His hostage stiffened her body in fear, her eyes wild in fright.

Brick was the first to speak, his tone even and controlled, no hint of a smile crossed his face.

"Put your guns carefully on the ground boys. We don't want them going off accidentally by dropping them. Then let the ladies go, and step back three paces. You do that, and I give you my word that you'll live to see the inside of a prison cell. Disobey me, and you die right here in the parking lot."

"Are you out of your mind, you son-of-a-bitch?" the older of the two asked.

"Most of the time—yes. But not today. Do as I say."

"Why should we do as you say, asshole?"

Brick's own forearm grew slightly larger as his grip tightened on the Beretta.

"Because I don't like to hurt people."

Brick would always recall the next few moments as happening in the slow-motion cadence of a nightmare. Every sound was blocked from his ears, as his vision funneled down to a narrow tunnel—focused solely and directly on the robber just to his right. That man had seemed the more nervous—and the more desperate. He had to be taken out first, as his hostage was the woman holding the baby.

Brick's arm came up quickly, although it seemed to take forever. He could see the robber's mouth form a word as the man shouted to his partner, but he could not hear any sound. It was like watching a movie with the audio turned off, he mused, as his arm continued its upward arc. The robber clutched his victim even harder and closer to his body—only one eye peeked out from behind the woman's head.

Brick focused on that one eye. His sight bore into it. Not for a split second did his vision waver from his target as his pistol attained the apex of its arc. His finger tightened, increasing the pressure on the trigger.

Brick was surprised when the gun went off.

He was less surprised when the robber fell dead on the concrete, his left eye-ball neatly blown out the back of his head, along with several ounces of brain-matter and small bone fragments. The woman hostage screamed once and then fell to the ground next to the dead man—merely fainting. Her child and she were physically unhurt in any way.

Brick had never looked at the pistol's sight, or indeed his own arm as he fired.

He felt a slight tug on his tee-shirt as a bullet passed through the loose material on the left side, just above his waist-line. Robber number two, witnessing the sudden death of his partner, was now in full panic mode, and fired at brick blindly from behind his hostage. He shot his pistol three more times—striking the pavement twice, and Brick only once, the bullet creasing Brick's left thigh about three inches above the knee—barely deeply enough to draw blood.

Brick again calmly raised his pistol and sighted down his arm, aiming his gun exactly between the second hostage's eyes. Then he looked the woman directly in the eyes as he jerked his own head one time toward the right. Nearly instantly the hostage did the same, opening up for a split second a clear shot at the robber. Brick's pistol barked again, and a nano-second later the second robber was also cascading to the pavement as a bullet entered the front of his forehead just below the hairline, and exited the back of his head, making a pinging sound as it continued on its way and struck the side of the brick bank building. Like his partner, he spewed brain matter and blood in a large fan-shape behind. Also like his partner, he was dead as he hit the ground.

The second hostage remained on her feet as the killer's legs twitched out his final attempt at movement—and then he lay still.

Cops seemed to appear from everywhere, rushing to the aid of the woman and her baby. One hurried to Brick's side and asked him if he were all right.

"I'm fine," Brick answered. "Take care of the woman and her child."

His eyes locked with the remaining hostage as she slowly made her way toward him. She was a young Native-American woman. Slim and beautiful, she wore faded jeans and a white blouse. A nod to her heritage, she sported a turquoise and silver necklace around her neck. Well-worn boot heels clicked on the concrete as she walked toward Brick. Her dark eyes bore into his.

"Nice shooting, cowboy."

"I thought you were never going to get out of the way," Brick replied with a grin.

"Sorry. This was my first hostage situation this week. I kind of had to stop and think about it for a while."

"What were you doing at the bank anyhow? Everybody else in town is home watching the news today."

"Well, silly me. I wanted to buy my best guy a birthday present, so I stopped off to get some money."

"My birthday isn't until next week."

"So I wanted to shop around a little."

"When are you going to move in with me anyhow? Then I'll have a better idea where the heck you are."

"Well, Brick, that's just exactly the reason I haven't. I'm not sure I want anyone keeping tabs on me."

"Rosie, that's not what I meant and you know it. Sometimes I get the feeling you don't completely trust me."

"I don't completely trust any man. They're not honest."

"Honestly woman—you going to kiss me, or what?"

She did.

Wiggins made his way through the crowd.

"Doesn't anyone ever listen to me? What the hell happened to the plan?"

"The best-laid plans of mice and men," Brick misquoted—"are meant to be changed every now and again."

Wiggins glowered at Brick. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"When I saw Rosie was one of the hostages, I knew she'd give me a clear shot."

"You know this person?

"Yeah."

"Yeah? What about the other guy?"

"Lucky shot," Brick replied. "It would have had to been lucky inside the car too."

"You lucked out, is that right? Am I to understand that's your explanation for what I saw here today?"

Brick shook his head affirmatively. "Two head-shots with two rounds, and I threaded the needle with both. It just doesn't get much better than that."

Wiggins took a step back. "I've known you a while Brick. Long enough to speak my mind to you. You're a cocky bastard. I don't much like cocky bastards. People die around cocky bastards. I like my officers to follow my orders. You could have gotten three hostages killed here today. It's only by the grace of God that there isn't an innocent on the ground dead right now. You got away with it today. Maybe you won't tomorrow—or next week."

"You saying you want my resignation, Chief?"

"No. You're too damned good. I'm saying I want you to start following my orders."

"Got it Chief. Anything else?"

"Yeah. Put your pants back on, and get over to the clinic. I want you to have that leg of yours looked at."

"It's just a scratch."

"I'll decide what's a major or minor injury— _if_ you don't mind very much. Now get your ass going." Brick did as he was told and began moving toward the squad car.

"Oh—and Brick . . . "

"Yeah Chief?"

"Thanks."

"Welcome."

As Wiggins turned to head back to the bakery, the wailing sound of a siren came to their ears. Wiggins stopped in mid-stride to listen. Brick joined him. "Guess someone didn't get the message. No one here requiring an ambulance."

"Something's wrong," Wiggins replied. " _No one_ called for an ambulance."

The pitch of the sound changed abruptly as the approaching emergency vehicle made a sharp turn several blocks from the bank, and skidded to a stop just off a side-street.

The siren stopped.

"What's up there?" Brick asked.

"I don't know," Wiggins answered. "But I don't like the looks of this. I don't like the looks of this at all."
CHAPTER THREE

Mercer Island, Washington

Wednesday,

Present Day

I awoke with a start. Not since my boozer days had I experience the disquieting sensation of almost complete and total disorientation in the morning. Trouble was—I hadn't been drinking.

Slowly, memory returned to me as I looked at the bloody knuckles and bruises on my right hand—and felt the stiffness and pain in my fingers.

My contemplation was interrupted by the ringing of the front door-bell. I didn't jump up. I was in no hurry to answer it—pretty sure I knew exactly who was going to be standing on the other side.

As it turned out—I was wrong.

I threw open the door, ready for round two. Instead of facing an adversary however, as I expected, the beautiful young woman on the other side rushed forward and into my arms. There were no tears, and no sobbing either. That would not have been this lady's way. Instead, I had the distinct feeling that the hug was reassurance—for me. The one emotion she couldn't mask however, was the pain on her face.

"Johnny—I am so sorry," she said, as she pressed her head against my chest.

"Me too Linh," I replied, softly patting her on the back. Truth was, I had never been very good at comforting folks. Funerals were always a problem for me for just that reason. I never knew what to say. Fortunately, this time it wasn't a death.

It just seemed so.

She broke off the hug, stepping back a couple of feet. I eyed her for several seconds. She didn't say a word. I could tell that it was going to have to be me to get the conversation going. "Did he send you over here?" I gently asked.

"I think you know better than that, Johnny. No one _sends_ me anywhere I don't want to go. _Especially_ Matt McCabe."

I cocked my head slightly, waiting for her to continue. As I did, the memory of the afternoon before flashed briefly through my mind. My fist smashing into Matt's face. It was a damned good punch too. I was pretty sure he was going to need some hurry-up dental work right after. He staggered back a few feet but didn't go down. The kid always did have a cast-iron jaw. My second punch was an improvement on the first. This time he hit the floor—hard. I gathered up the front of his shirt in my left hand, as I hauled him up off the carpet, readying for another blow to his face. He put up no fight. No resistance. I knew he could have fought me to a standstill if he had wanted to.

It was only the sound of Linh's voice, shouting my name from the doorway of the kitchen that stopped me from turning Matt's nose into a bowl of bloody snot soup. I released my grip on his shirt, letting him slip back to the rug. He remained in a sitting position, discreetly staring at the floor, while I worked on swallowing my rage and getting it back into the pit of my stomach where it belonged.

Linh rushed to his side, shooting me an accusing look as she wrapped her arms around her husband's shoulders.

"What the hell is going on?" she screamed at me. Not answering, I spun on my heels and headed for the door. I needed some fresh air pretty badly at this point. As I did so, I caught a brief flash of another face across the room. The face of the watchmaker's grandson. The face of Joshua McCabe.

And it was smiling.

"He's gone Johnny," Linh continued, snapping me back into the present. "He left last night with Joshua."

"Do you know where?" I asked.

"No. But I know why."

"Don't tell me Linh. Let me guess. To meet his father and grandfather." I didn't state it as a question. I said it as a fact.

"Yeah Johnny. Pretty much. It seems Joshua has been in contact with them for a while. According to Joshua, they are both time-travelers, same as Matt. Only a couple of small differences."

"Which are?" I asked.

"Which are—they age, where Matt doesn't. They can only travel within their own biological lifetimes, and according to Joshua, they are both getting pretty old. That's why they wanted to contact Matt now. They probably rightly figure that soon they're going to be dead."

"And they want a group-hug, kiss-and-make-up session before they go croakers?" I asked sarcastically.

"A little more to it than that Johnny. They want to show Matt how to get back to 1952. They want to show him how to fix the 'accident' that happened to him. They want to set him free."

"And with freedom comes responsibility, right?"

"Right Johnny. And with freedom comes _decisions_ —free agency, and all that jazz."

"You already know then, don't you Linh?"

"Sure Johnny. He didn't exactly tell me, but I think I always knew. You aren't the only one around here that's a detective, you know."

I smiled weakly. "I know Linh."

"It's what you overheard yesterday, isn't it Johnny?"

"Yeah. When I was walking up the driveway, you spotted me from the kitchen window and waved me in. So that's just exactly what I did. Opened the front door and walked in. Just in time to hear Matt talking it over with Joshua. I didn't hear all the details—the ones you just told me, but I heard enough to know what they were planning."

"And you overheard enough to try to punch his lights out."

"Oh, I asked him Linh. I just came right out and asked him."

"How did you put it to him Johnny—if you don't mind my asking? I'd really like to know what went down."

"I said . . . if you could go back to that day at the Carson Mine . . . if you could 'fix' what happened to you . . . would you come back home to the present—to Linh and your unborn child—or would you stay in the past, aging normally, and living a normal life. A life with Cindy Matthews."

"And he said?" Linh asked—a hint of moisture around her eyes, for the first time.

"He said . . . 'I don't know.' And that's when I hit him."

Linh stepped forward into my arms again. She let out a long breath and sigh. "Don't be too hard on him Johnny. He didn't ask for all this to happen to him. Remember—Cindy Matthews was pregnant too, with a son that would later die needlessly. If he stays, he reclaims not only his lost life and lost love, but saves the life of the child as well. Pretty strong stuff. I don't know what I would do either, to tell you the truth. If he doesn't come back, Johnny, I'm good with it. I won't blame him for making that decision. But I don't want him if he doesn't want me. I don't want him if he doesn't want this baby. I won't fight a ghost from the past for him. I'll live my life without him, and I'll raise our child without him too."

She said it like she meant it too. Dear God, how I loved that woman.

I pulled her in even closer to me. An onlooker might have called it a death-grip. "Linh—I will be right here beside you every step of the way. I will never falter, and I will never fail you. I can't promise that I will make every problem go away. But I can promise that you'll never face any of them alone."

She nodded her head yes. "I love you Johnny."

"I love you too, pretty girl."

Then we both just stood there—holding each other, for what seemed a very long time.

"So how do you think they're going to do it Linh? How do you think they're going to get Matt's watch to work? It would never take him back there before."

"That's the other reason I came to see you today Johnny. One, to tell you that he was gone, and the other was to give you something. Something Matt wanted you to have—in case he didn't come back."

I cocked my head slightly again, and raised my eyebrows a bit in anticipation.

"Aedan and Roan don't have watches, Johnny. They have gone way beyond that now. According to Joshua, there was always only one, but they learned to travel without the watch. That's why Aedan and Roan passed it on when they left. They knew that the watch was only one of the pieces of the secret of their abilities. The big piece was their own minds. That's the real time-machine, Johnny—according to them, anyhow. That's what they are going to teach Matt. In other words, he's found a way to go back despite the watch."

"What can I do, Linh?"

"Nothing much, Johnny," she replied with an impish smile. "Stand by me. I know you would do that anyhow. What I'd like you to consider Johnny, is if you would be willing to stand by Matt too, if it comes to that. I don't trust any of the three McCabes—Roan, Aedan, or Joshua. I think Matt may just need a friend more now than at any moment in his life. What I'd like to ask you, Johnny, is to be that friend if it comes to that point. And I want you to be his friend even if his decision _is_ to stay in the past. I know it's asking a lot, Johnny. But that's what I'm asking."

I considered a long time before I answered—probably two, or maybe three seconds. "Yes," was my simple reply.

"He loves you too," she smiled. "It would take a lot more than a Johnny O'Brien beating to change that."

Silently Linh reached into her handbag and pulled out a white business-sized envelope. It was folded over, with a large lump in the middle. I knew what it was. I guess I knew even before she opened the bag. Maybe I knew even when I had opened the door and saw her standing on the stoop.

I took the envelope from her, unfolding it gently and letting the contents spill into my hand. Always heavier than it looked, it gleamed its sullen gold and green menace. A watch. A pocket-watch. A skeleton-watch, with its exposed workings moving with an all too human heart-beat of its own.

The watchmaker's watch.
CHAPTER FOUR

Bellevue, Washington

Present Day

The decent weather had said bye-bye. Now it was a very typical Northwest winter day, with leaden gray cloudy skies and light rain mixed with snow. Spring was still forty-eight hours away, according to the calendar, but I doubted the weatherman knew it.

Perfect, a complete and total match for my mood.

I had received the summons from his royal highness, "pain-in-the-ass" Howard Carter a scant hour and a half ago. He hadn't especially made it sound as though it were an invitation. I would have told him exactly where to put it—that was, if he hadn't hung up on me immediately after informing me that my presence would be required in his downtown office at precisely eleven o'clock. It was a good strategy on his part. He was aware that if he remained on the line for another few seconds, I would have told him to stuff it. As it was, he knew my natural curiosity would take over, and I would simply _have_ to keep the appointment. I tried calling him back several times, to no avail, so now I found myself cooling my heels in front of his massive oak desk.

They don't make them like that anymore, and I had to wonder to how much effort the old boy had gone to find one that big. It didn't really match the rest of the setting. Carter's office was kind of on the small side and very plain. A glass fishbowl. And not on the top floor of the building either, the way his predecessor's had been. Carter had moved his to the ground floor, not too far from the main entrance. Besides the desk, the only other appointment that said "Chief" was the brass name plaque on the door. He said he believed it made him look a lot more open and accessible, and further, he stated, it didn't hurt a bit to have the taxpayers actually see the head honcho at work. Under normal circumstances, I would have agreed with his entire line of reasoning. Today, my mood being a scant tick or two above Attila the Hun, it gave me only more reason to be really teed off at him. I could see the general public eyeing me as they passed in and out of the main entrance. To them, I was sure, I must have looked like one of the Chief's lackeys. The fact that Carter didn't have any lackeys didn't alter my feelings one little bit either. Carter, I had to admit, was from the old school, fetching his own coffee and paperclips. Fact of the matter was, many a time I had seen him bringing coffee to his underlings.

He was a damned good man. Even the blackness surrounding me this morning couldn't really alter that fact. I knew it too. Otherwise, I would never had sat waiting a full forty minutes past my appointment time. I crossed my legs and put my feet up on his desk to lessen the lackey look. Tipped my homburg at a classy angle to boot.

And I stewed.

When Carter finally appeared a couple of minutes later, I was in a real mood to remove his head, and didn't mind for a second assuming the much coveted role of Madame Guillotine.

"Where you been Carter?" I blurted out. "Having a quickie with a staffer in the locker-room broom closet? I guess at your age though, forty minutes _is_ a quickie."

"Funny," he replied, dismissing me with a single word. "Sorry for the delay. Get your damned feet off my desk, by the way, before I break your ankles."

I did.

"For your information, I've been speaking with the President, and I was about two seconds from having someone bring you up to join in," he said. "Then I remembered your mouth, and thought better of it—so you're going to have to take what I'm going to tell you on a second-hand basis."

"President of what?" I asked. "The local Girl Scout troop? Don't tell me. They want you to peddle cookies for them door-to-door this year."

"The President of the United States, you nitwit. Now shut-up and listen."

It wasn't every day that a small town Chief of Police spends forty minutes on the horn with the big-guy. So I did. Shut up, that is. And listen.

"You ever heard of ISIS?" Carter asked.

"Sure—who hasn't?" I paused. "This is serious, isn't it Carter?"

"Yeah Johnny. As damned awful serious as it gets. Why the hell else would I bring your sorry butt in here this morning. Just to further ruin my already totally shitty damned day?"

I knew that if this involved ISIS, or the radical Muslim Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, and Carter was having a long tete-a-tete with the POTUS, something big was up. I got serious in a hurry. ISIS was pretty much running roughshod over the entire middle-east, and turning an area the size of the British Isles into a vast killing field. Their threats against the United States and generally the entire free world were frequent and dire, and getting more so all the time. Seems they were intent on wiping out the human race, beginning with Christians and then working their way to everybody else. Carter was something of an arm-chair expert on the political and military aspect of the ever increasing radical Islamic threat, and I knew that what he was going to tell me was going to be grounded in hard fact, and not fantasy. I intended to listen _very_ carefully.

"Bomb threat?" I asked.

"Nothing so simple," Carter replied.

"What's worse than a bomb?" I asked again.

"A credible threat to kill, at the very least, one hundred Christian children. And behead them. They don't care what nationality, race or skin color the children are either. It is simply a threat to kill that many kids—Christian kids—for no other reason than their religion. They say they will make Sandy Hook Elementary look like a summer picnic by comparison. Worse yet, these are home-grown terrorists, American in every way. No middle-eastern names, looks or mannerisms. They hate America and say we have it coming to us. I guess just for being who we are. They say this is our wake-up call. That this will be our settlement of accounts. What we have coming to us. These are men radicalized sitting in their basements watching ISIS propaganda on the internet. They are going to be tough to stop, because they are going to be so damned difficult to detect—and more difficult yet to find."

"So why are you talking to the President?"

"All the Chiefs of Police in the entire United States with large Christian children's Schools are a part of this operation. That's about two dozen cities by the way. I've just come from a conference of Chiefs concerning the matter in Los Angeles. Wouldn't you know it, but guess what city has the largest Christian children's school in the States?"

"Would you happen to be the Chief of Police of that city?"

"Bingo. The Eastlake Christian Children's Academy has more kids registered than any other facility—making us, in the eyes of the FBI—the prime target. Nearly four hundred students."

"You still didn't answer my question about the President," I noted.

Carter walked around his desk to the front side and sat down on the edge. Even though he was already close, he seemed to want to lessen the distance between us. We were locked up tight in his office, yet he seemed a little concerned about being overheard. He lowered his voice an octave, as he glanced around the room.

"No one is going to attack that school in my jurisdiction successfully. I almost wish they would try. Already there is enough firepower concentrated in that area to take out half the Chinese Army if it came to that. The thing is, Johnny—I'm not all that convinced that Bellevue is the target. I think we may simply be a red-herring. The real threat may be somewhere else. And I don't care where it is—I want it stopped. _Dead_ stopped. I let my feelings be known at that conference. Apparently my very privately and carefully chosen spoken words were not lost on a certain listener who shall and must remain nameless. In a matter of mere hours, a call between myself and the President was arranged."

"We don't want an attack to happen anywhere—period," Carter continued. "We want to locate these men, probably four in total, and take them out before they ever get started. Three white Americans, and one middle-eastern handler. He's the only one we've got a clue on. We do not want to arrest them, and we do not want to try them. We want them dead—period. The President of the United States, as the Commander in Chief, is the one and only person in the entire country that can legally authorize that. He has that authority, just the same as if he were ordering a drone strike in Iraq."

"Except that these are American citizens," I countered.

"Yes, except for that," Carter agreed. "Under the circumstances, that little nicety is a fine point of law I'm willing to overlook. In case no one has noticed it, we _are_ in a state of war."

"The President has the entire US Army at his disposal. Including all the Special Forces. Seals, Green Berets, you name it. Why would he be asking you for help?"

"Because I volunteered it."

"And you know something he doesn't?"

"I _have_ something he doesn't."

"I'm all ears."

"I have you."

"Did your leaking brain aneurysm finally let go?" I asked.

"Maybe."

"If not—you're insane. Simple as that, Carter."

"The President of the United States is asking for your help, Johnny. Hell, America is asking for your help. Are you really willing to say no to that? You're a better man than that."

"Am not."

"Are too. Don't argue with your elders, Johnny."

"Why the hell me, Carter? I'm nearly forty-five years old. I have absolutely no military training or experience whatsoever. I've got a bad back and a balky spine, and legs that work right only whenever the hell they feel like it. I've got a partner that just bailed on me. And you want me to go up against some of the most deadly and sophisticated terrorists in the world?"

"I'll give you a new partner. A good one too. Someone you can trust."

"You're still not answering my question. Why me? There must be—hell, I don't know—a couple of thousand better qualified people out there. I hear these days a lot of them advertise in the yellow-pages."

"You _are_ the most qualified. I talked to the President about it. He agrees. You and your partner will have a complete green light to deal with the problem in any way you see fit—just as long as all the bad-guys end up dead. You will be one-hundred percent legal, regardless of what happens. You literally have a license to kill, from the Commander in Chief of the US military. Collateral damage doesn't count. You are as legally bullet-proof as Agent 007."

I continued to stare at him as though he were a madman. Or perhaps as though he had just stepped off a space-ship and calmly asked me to take him to my leader.

"Listen to me Johnny. I don't take what I'm asking you to do lightly. I realize that being an assassin and a hitman is not exactly work that is right up your alley. But I also know you are one of the smartest detectives on the planet, and that's one of the things that it's going to take to find these guys. You also have more heart, and more courage, and more guts than any other man I've ever known in my life. And I'm not simply blowing smoke up your ass either. It's true—and you damned well know it."

"What else?" I asked. "You've stroked me enough Carter, I almost have a hard-on. Now how about simply telling me the truth."

I waited patiently. I was prepared to wait all day if I had to. For the truth.

"You also have a magic pocket-watch," he replied.

I raised my eyebrows and pursed my lips, stunned into silence.

Howard simply shrugged his shoulders, and in his best _Jesse Stone_ imitation, calmly said, "I'm the Chief of Police. I know everything."
CHAPTER FIVE

Downtown Bellevue

Present Day

The day had gotten better as it wore on. The company had improved as well. Finally leaving Howard's about two, I swung around to the north to pick up Maggie for a late lunch. We were not in one of the many well-known and much vaulted better Bellevue dining establishments, but no matter—it was a good break from Denny's. It was a nice little family run Mexican restaurant, and it served just the type of food both Maggie and I enjoyed. Lots of lovingly prepared high-quality entrees, plus plenty of deep-fried jalapenos on the side, and good strong margaritas served-up with a well salted rim. Maggie was enjoying one now. Me, a much safer diet coke.

Maggie and I had been seeing each other for only a couple of months, our relationship starting just after the New Year. Colonel Bob's short visit to the hospital over the holidays had turned into full-time residency at Sunset Hills Memorial Park—he being the victim of a sudden and massive heart attack while simply in for observation of a chest-cold. So Maggie's career as a care-giver for her father-in-law was over. I was surprised and amazed when I finally called her a week or so after the funeral and asked her out for coffee, just how fast she had said yes.

There's no accounting for taste, I guess.

So far our relationship had been smooth sailing, and we both seemed up for more, although we had not yet made the transition to sleep-overs. Not only beautiful, she was a plenty smart lady, her going out with me notwithstanding. We had a lot in common as it turned out, and enjoyed each other's company immensely. Slowly we were getting used to each other, as we explored each other's past, learning what we liked, and what we didn't like about each other. I was happy that the latter list seemed to be very short indeed.

Maggie knew and liked my friends and associates. Linh had become a personal favorite. She seemed to love Matt, and had latched onto to him like a long-lost son. It made me smile a little—her not knowing that he was actually old enough to be her father. Carter seemed to put her off just a bit, but then he often had that effect on people. I didn't believe that she was particularly enthralled with my line of work, and the associated danger, but she accepted it well enough. Her first husband, a military-man, was not exactly a stranger to gun-play and drama, any more than I was. She did not yet know about the pocket-watch, either when it was in the possession of Matt McCabe, or residing with me, as it presently did.

Now did not seem like a good time to go into it.

"I've got a case, Maggie. An assignment from the Bellevue PD. Looks like it's going to take me out of town for a while."

"Any idea how long?" she inquired.

"Hard to say. A few days, maybe a couple of weeks."

"What kind of a case?"

"Locating a few men."

"Doesn't sound like that will that too hard for a skilled detective like you."

I laughed. "Don't over-estimate the skill set. These are guys that really don't want to be found."

It was her turn to laugh. "With Howard Carter looking for them, I can't imagine they would. What's he want them for?"

"A Bellevue intersection camera caught them J-walking. Carter believes in letting no crime go unpunished."

"Funny. So it's the firing-squad for them?"

It was meant as a joke, but she could hardly have been more spot-on if she'd had the entire story."

"Yeah—kind of."

"Danger level?"

I shrugged. "About medium," I said, fudging just a little.

"Carter doesn't have any detectives on his own force?"

"He does. But not any that can operate in Detroit. For that you need a private-eye."

"The Motor City, huh? Babylon on the Detroit River. Home of Jimmy Hoffa. The Teamsters. The UAW. The Big Three. Not to mention Mo-town. Almost shouts organized-crime."

"You're not too far off. I can't go into any more detail."

"I understand. Is Matt going with you?"

I knew by the comment that she was probably more concerned for his safety than mine—him being just a baby and all. "Not this time Maggie. Matt is going to be on 'sabbatical' for a while. I'm being provided with a new partner for this case. One I've never met before, but he's supposed to be a long-time friend of a long-time friend of Carter's, and very dependable. The name is Jedediah Wahl, and I'm going to be meeting him at a Church in Royal Oak in two days. That's a little town just outside Detroit from what I understand. Never been there myself. Carter's flying me out private."

"Meeting him in a Church? Private jet? Now that's really cloak and dagger. What's his claim to fame anyway?"

"According to Howard, he's an expert on the dark and sordid underbelly of the Detroit crime scene. He's supposed to help keep me from sticking my nose in the wrong places. At least without back-up, that is."

"So how are you supposed to get these guys out of Detroit, and back to Bellevue, if you are out of your jurisdiction and don't have any authority there?"

I was taken aback. In just two or three moves, Maggie had me checkmated, striking at the center of the problem directly—whether intentionally or by accident, unknown. It was time to change the subject—quickly.

I swallowed my last bite of burrito. "What do you say we get the heck out of here?" I said. "We could stop off at Isaac's for some ice cream, before I take you home." Isaac's was a new parlor in town. We had gone there for cones before and liked it. Mexican restaurants generally don't have a lot on the sweets menu. This one was no exception.

"How about you don't take me home. But I really would like dessert."

"Where then?"

"Your place."

I paid the check in a hurry.

Mercer Island

Three o'clock AM

I came awake suddenly, instantly aware and alert—with the sure and certain knowledge that we were no longer alone in the house. It was not something that I had heard. It was something that I felt—that old sixth sense that had saved my life so many times in the past. The nerves in my body tingled slightly as I slipped soundlessly out of bed and gathered up my .38 revolver and shoulder rig and slipped it over my arm. Betsy felt good in my hand. The two fully charged speed-loaders dangling from the strap were also reassuring. I was dressed in boxers and a tee. I didn't stop to add more.

Once out into the hallway, I quickly covered the few steps to the guest-room where Maggie was sleeping. I could see the door ajar and I pushed it open an additional two or three inches—just enough to clearly see her form lying in the bed. Whoever was downstairs, it wasn't her. Maggie was in a good place, I considered as I made my way toward the stairway. If a firefight erupted either on the staircase or the ground floor, she would be very unlikely to catch a stray bullet where she was.

The memory of the evening came back to me. Maggie and I rushing to my house after our lunch date. We were in a hurry, and very intent on thoroughly getting to know each other on a very personal basis. Barely inside the front door, we had more or less fallen into one another, our passions rising as we kissed and embraced in the darkness of the living room.

It was short-lived. Maggie was the first to pull away. I was right behind. We stopped—both of us, and almost at exactly the same time, knowing in our hearts that neither of us really wanted what we were about to do. Oh, it wasn't from lack of attraction, passion or desire. It had a lot more to do with what was right—as in, right for _us._ Neither one of us were virgins, that was for sure. We had both been around the block a few times—each married once before, and each to a person we truly loved, respected, and cherished. Beginning the somewhat inevitably painful process of replacing those two good people with someone else was not something to be taken lightly. It was pretty serious business. And we both just kind of seemed to know, at almost precisely the same moment that we wanted to do it correctly. That it was to be, when it finally occurred, something really special, as they say. Maggie was not a particularly religious person, and I was certainly far from a choir-boy, but we both believed in God, and kind of felt we were on solid ground here with the big-guy.

We spent the rest of the evening cuddled on the sofa, watching old black and white movies on Netflix, of all things, and eating an evening snack of micro-waved popcorn. Oddly enough, it could hardly have been more romantic—or enjoyable.

I offered to drive her home after, but she declined, saying she would sleep on the sofa. I did her one better and made up the spare bed in the guest-room. After seeing her into it and saying goodnight, I treated myself to a nice long, and very cold shower before hitting the sack at about midnight. It seemed I had hardly been asleep before I was back awake again.

I eased myself to the edge of the bannister and looked down into the foyer area. The skies had finally cleared late in the afternoon and stayed that way. Now there was a nice bright moon showing, and it was casting quite a bit of light in through the windows. I could tell at a glance that there was no one in the open area. I could also see that my office/study door, which I had carefully closed before ascending the stairway for bed, now hung halfway open. It was here that my adversary was going to be found. Again, it was a good spot. I was going to have the advantage. I could approach unseen as I worked my way down the stairs. I knew my rather substantial house well. The wood of the stairway would not creak. If someone came out of the room, I would again have the advantage, commanding the higher ground.

Taking a deep breath to control my nerves, I started down. No way to know how many there might be, or the degree of armament they might have. My best chance was going to be the element of surprise. I was pretty sure that whoever was in that room, probably considered me to be still sound asleep on the second floor.

There are seventeen steps between floors in my house. Hugging the wall, I quickly counted off fifteen of them, never taking my eyes from the ever increasingly closer open door. Finally reaching it, I carefully and slowly thumbed back the hammer of my little revolver. It clicked just once, but very softly. I didn't believe that slight sound was going to be any kind of a give-away, as I slowly inched forward and craned my neck and head around the edge of the door.

The window just opposite my desk was open. It hadn't been before. The drapes moved slightly in the faint breeze. I could feel the coolness on my mostly bare skin. Moonlight streamed through the window as well. Moving my head an additional few inches brought the person into view. He was sitting in my desk chair, looking out through the window, facing away from me, head silhouetted in the moon glow. A quick glance confirmed that he was alone.

Whoever it was, and whatever he was doing here, he was mine. My surprise was going to be total and complete. Taking one more calming breath, I completely swung open the office door with my left hand and stepped into the room.

The head swiveled toward me.
CHAPTER SIX

"Feel like a story?" the head said. I might have thrown down on him, except for the fact that I had clearly seen the cowlick as I entered the study.

"Sure, why not? Sleep is over-rated anyhow," I replied as I let the hammer down gently and tossed the little revolver onto my desk. I flopped into an armchair just to the right and stretched out my legs in front of me. "What's the topic, Matt?"

"The topic is me—but the title is " _The Legend of the Watchmaker,"_ and it's a sad story, Johnny. Guaranteed to bring a tug to the heartstrings, and a tear to the eye."

Just a few months before Matt and I had sat in this very same room as he related the facts surrounding the stabbing death of his adult son years before. It seemed as though my study was becoming a focal point for such sorrowful tales.

"Ten to one the tale begins in Ireland," I said. "The land of shadows."

"It does indeed," Matt replied. "Apparently my father Roan was a firebrand in his youth, fighting in one of the many Irish rebellions against the English, when he wasn't even quite eighteen years old. Killed a man too. He was sentenced to death by an English tribunal, and came within inch of being on the wrong side of a firing squad."

"What saved him?"

"His father—Aedan McCabe. A watchmaker as well, and the first watch-master. At least as far as we know, that is. He busted out his son, but paid with his life. He was shot to death by the prison guards—but, as it turned out, that wasn't exactly the end of the story."

"Small surprise there," I opined. "After all, it involved McCabes, right?"

He ignored me and went on. "Roan got on a sailing ship by the skin of his teeth and made way for New York. Once there he found employment as a watchmaker's apprentice. He was good at it too, and had his own shop within a few years. He learned how to use the magic watch, Johnny. He learned to travel with it—returning to repay the favor his father had done for him. He jerked his Da out of that cell and mortal danger. The prison warden, unable to admit he had lost both men, kept Aedan officially dead, and buried a box of rocks in his place. In retaliation, English goons paid a visit to the McCabe home and killed Aedan's wife and daughter. They made a big mistake in raping them first. Aedan stopped his son from going back again for them—much like my son stopped me. He was too afraid of the 'butterfly effect,' and also the 'living dead,' thing—being a good Catholic and all. He considered himself to almost be one of those 'dead' after the events in that bloody cell. He wanted no part of it for the two women he loved most in life. It broke him though. He would never be the same person again."

"I will say this for the man though. The goons that raped and killed those two good women paid dearly for their sins, dying horrible deaths, one by one—including the warden. Aedan might have been Catholic and a follower of The Prince of Peace—but by God, he was an Irishman too and didn't forgive _that_ easily.

Aedan tried to warn his son about messing with the natural order of things too much, but Roan's curiosity was insatiable, and as he was never very religious, he had few constraints. He learned to travel without the watch."

"How so?"

"Because he found out that the watch is only a conduit. The time-machine is the brain. And, as it turns out, we all pretty much have that ability. McCabes, apparently a lot more so. The watch only focuses it. That was the secret the McCabes learned. That was the secret of the watch's green stones—the malachite stones. Without the five missing stones, the watch still worked, but not quite as efficiently as it did with them. It didn't focus quite as sharply. As it turned out, Roan found the five stones at the Carson Mine after the shooting, and had them all the time—keeping me from having a fully functioning time-machine, and waiting for the right time to use them."

"Which is now?" I asked.

"Yes," Matt replied. "Roan is dying—of cancer. Aedan for that matter too. Both are pushing ninety in their own years. They are teaching me to use my own mind to travel without the need of the watch. I'm getting good at it too. I'm almost ready."

"Good enough to get in here tonight," I said.

"Sorry about that," Matt replied. "I needed a place to think. I always did like this room. Comfortable chair. Nice view of the lake. Needed to leave a little something for you as well. Didn't figure to wake you up."

"You were in Howard's office yesterday too, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Mastered invisibility as well now, Matt?"

"Not exactly. I've learned to 'hover' a nano-second before or after an event I'm interested in observing. You and Carter couldn't quite see me, but I could hear you."

"Carter sensed it though, didn't he?"

"Yeah—he was always pretty sensitive around me. For many years, we were virtual brothers."

"How does Joshua figure in all this?"

"He set things up between me, Roan and Aedan. They came to him, and then he came to me, as a sort of intermediary."

"You trust him?"

"Yeah. I guess I have to."

"Why?"

"Because he says he understands what happened with his father. He says he forgave me years ago. He says he holds no grudges. He wants us to have a relationship and be a family again."

_Good luck with that,_ I thought to myself, remembering Joshua's smile as Matt lay bleeding on the floor.

"So why are you here tonight Matt? Besides thinking that is. You never tell me everything. Why should tonight be any different?"

"To say goodbye Johnny—and to compliment you. You still pack a decent punch for an old guy. Not many men have put me on the floor to stay."

"Thanks. It was one of my better ones. We could go outside and finish it now—if you want to."

"No thanks," Matt replied. "Not that I couldn't handle you, but I don't think I'd like that very much."

I smiled and nodded my head just an inch. "Not that I couldn't handle _you_ Matt . . . but, I don't think I'd like that very much either. Why don't you come to Detroit with me? We could say our goodbyes right after we round-up all the bad guys, same as usual. It's what we do, you know."

"Like I said, Johnny—no time. Roan's about finished. He could die almost any minute, and he still has a lot more knowledge to give me. Carter's right, by the way, Johnny. I know what you're going to try to do, and it won't work. Don't try to take these guys in. Just kill them. They are _way_ too dangerous to screw around with. Stop trying to be a white knight all the time. Use the watch and kill them—just like Aedan. I was here for a few minutes before you woke-up. I opened your safe and replaced the five stones. The watch will work better than ever now, Johnny. And we already know it'll work for you. It likes you Johnny— _and_ the blood, guts and gore you always seem to wade through."

"Not a dog's chance in hell, Matt. Unless you want it back right now, it stays locked up in my safe where it can't hurt anyone—especially me. If I've learned anything at all from you and Roan, it's not to fool with Mother Nature. Any more than I already have, that is."

"That watch has saved a few lives in its time. Does the names Missy Spencer and Greg Hanson ring any bells?"

"I know. But it's way too dangerous—especially in my hands. It's the ring of power thing."

"Suit yourself. Just promise me one thing, Johnny. Promise me you'll watch that thumb-drive Howard gave you yesterday before you leave. Promise me you won't go out that door without viewing it."

"Okay—I promise. I intended to watch it anyway before I took off. A cab will be here for me around eleven in the morning. Carter's sending me Russell Air. Should be in Detroit in time for dinner at The Ritz. All expensed. Old Johnny's moving up in life. Private jet. FBI credentials and everything."

"Take that forty-cal pistol he gave you too— _with_ the special ammo."

"Oh, you mean the extra-special, handy-dandy, cyanide-tipped bullets? Don't you think that's just a teeny little bit over the top Matt?"

"No."

"Explain."

"Because you can kill them even if you only graze them."

"Does anyone but me, care, even in the slightest—that these are citizens of the United States?"

"Not really," Matt replied. "These are mad-dog killers, and they need to be put down—just like you would do with any rabid canine—or a skunk."

"Speaking of gunfights, Mattie old boy—you've got one coming up yourself. Just how do you intend to take out the third man?"

He smiled. "VERY carefully. I don't have the faintest idea of where he even shot me from the first time. I'm going to have to pick that location up . . . _real_ fast."

I was ready to plunge into the crux of the matter. "And assuming you manage to get the guy, you have another little problem to work out, right?"

"Right. I can turn around, go back to the Congress Hotel in Tucson, meet up with Cindy, marry her and get on with my life as though nothing had ever happened."

"Except that something did happen, mega-jerk. Linh and little Albert happened."

"Linh hadn't been born yet in 1952."

I started to gather my feet under me. I eyed the slightly bruised area of his left cheek. It was precisely that same spot that I intended to aim for again. Matt sensed it, throwing up his hands, palm forward, in mock alarm. "Whoa, slugger. I've was just having you on a little. I know how serious this whole thing is."

"Pick another subject to joke about," I growled as I settled down into the chair again.

"You know Johnny—I've always thought I should be just a little jealous of you and Linh."

"Damned right you should be, sonny-boy. I'm kind of surprised you don't just keep up two separate lives, and two separate marriages," I said. "Shouldn't be too hard for an accomplished time-traveler like yourself. Zip in, zip out. Easy as pie. You told me yourself you always were a cad."

He looked slightly hurt by the remark.

"I'll stipulate to being a bastard, Johnny. No argument from me on that one." He dropped his voice an octave, and spoke with a slow and very precise cadence. "But I'm not _that_ big a bastard."

His comment hung in the air for several seconds. Finally he spoke again.

"So what would you do, Johnny? Rhetorically speaking, that is?"

"Honor my marriage vows. That's what I'd do."

"The first set, or the second one?"

"The current one."

"In 1952, Cindy was the current one."

"Get the hell out of my house. Take your damned pocket-watch with you. And oh, just by the way—shove it up your ass too for good measure."

"I'm sensing hostility here, Johnny."

I started to get out of the chair again.

"Okay, okay. I was just leaving." He stood up, facing me. For just a couple of seconds, those piercing black eyes locked with mine. The eyes of a bird of prey. Slowly, he stretched out his hand, holding it there for several seconds as I looked at it. Then, just as slowly, I reached out and took it. Our hands locked.

"You've got a good woman upstairs Johnny. Don't screw it up."

"I won't."

"Goodbye Johnny," he said.

"Goodbye . . . watchmaker," I replied. "Take care of yourself, kid."

"You take care of yourself too . . . old timer."

And then he was gone. I was amazed at the suddenness of it. One moment he was there—the next he wasn't. Unlike in days of old, he didn't even have to shove his hand into his pocket. I stood there for several seconds, staring at the empty space. Feeling, for want of a better word—empty. I shook my head a little as I turned, picked up Betsy, left the study and ascended the stairs. Maggie was waiting for me at the top, looking mighty fetching in one of my over-sized tee-shirts. It was a good sight, definitely taking my mind off Matt.

"I awoke and heard voices," she said.

"Yeah," I replied. "I had a late-night visitor."

"Who?" she asked.

"Just an old friend," I said. "Dropped by, for old-time's sake." Maggie looked at me quizzically. "Come over to my room," I said. "We'll sit on the side of the bed. We'll hold hands."

". . . And I'll tell you a story."
CHAPTER SEVEN

The jet streaked through the sky, over—well, heaven only knew. Probably Kansas. Which I definitely didn't think I was in anymore. The yellow-brick road through Oz, so often traveled by me in my career, once again stretched out before me—this time through the wild blue yonder, instead of on land. Other than that, it was pretty much the same old insane journey.

I was plenty tired, but sleep evaded me nonetheless. I never had gotten back to bed the night before. Maggie decided that the kitchen was a safer place for our talk, and on reflection, I had to agree. Besides, the kitchen had ice cream. We talked for hours, and worked our way through several flavors. She mostly listened—posing only a very few well thought out questions. The really incredible thing was that she didn't ask me if I were insane. Matter of fact, she didn't even look at me that way. A truly amazing woman. I silently thanked my lucky stars for the day I had met her.

Finally morning light found its way through the windows, and we knew it was time to part. She asked that I call a taxi for her as she was aware I would barely have enough time to drive her home and then return to pack.

I did.

"Maggie," I started—but she shushed me, holding a finger to my lips.

"Johnny," she replied, "I'm going to need a little time to think about all this. And I'm going to need to get some sleep too. It's all a lot to take in. I'm not a fool, and I know that your assignment in Detroit is no small deal either—and I know it's a dangerous thing too. I've spent a lot of sleepless nights in my first marriage, wondering if Bobby Moran were going to be coming home in one piece from his latest deployment, wherever it was. I'm not altogether sure I'm ready to start worrying all over again about another man that I'm in love with. I'm not quite as young as I used to be, Johnny—and I don't know that I can handle that much heartbreak twice."

"I understand," I said. I meant it too.

"Call me when you get into Detroit, will you Johnny? We'll talk some more then."

"All right."

She went upstairs then, to get ready. By the time she came down, the taxi was just pulling into the drive. I walked her out. Her eyes were dry, but sad. I was sorry I was the one that had made them that way.

"I love you Maggie."

"I love you too Johnny," she said, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. Take care of yourself. Okay? I want you coming back to me. All safe and sound—if you would. If you and I are going to have any kind of a future together, that's the first step. The first item of business. You get back here safe and whole. Then we'll go from there."

"I will Maggie. I promise I will."

"Don't be too quick to make a promise that you just might not be able to keep," she said, getting into the cab and closing the door behind her.

The taxi pulled out of the drive and onto the street. And then she was gone too. I was left standing in the middle of the drive, feeling more lost and alone than I had in a long, long time. The words of an old song came into my head— _Sometimes . . . love just ain't enough._ The door to my big empty house did not look inviting. I barely knew Maggie, really—but she had just taken the light and the joy with her when she left.

I went inside to pack. I had about two hours before my own cab was due to appear—just time enough for me to throw a few things into a bag, grab a bite or two, and then take a look at the material on Howard's thumb drive. Both he and Matt had told me to watch it before I left. It was my ISIS tutorial. My crash course in madness and insanity 101. It was my wake-up call.

I wasn't ready for what I saw. I don't know how anyone ever could be. Had I guessed what would be on that drive, I would have skipped the breakfast. It kept wanting to leave my body again as the horrid images flashed across my computer screen. I was no rookie—either to law enforcement—or life. I had seen plenty of blood and gore. And as Matt had pointed out, I had also waded through my fair share of it. But nothing like this—nothing. I knew by the time the video was finished, I would never get those pictures out of my head. Not if I lived to be a thousand years old.

Not if I lived to be a _million._

It started out simply enough. A helpless man, soaked in gasoline, burning to death in a cage. A drum-beat strain of Arabic music accompanied it. It was the latest feature from ISIS—The Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. They were quickly becoming the world's largest purveyor of high quality snuff-films.

The poor bastard was a Jordanian pilot, unlucky enough to have ejected in enemy territory and be captured alive. A trail of gasoline led to his cage, thus keeping his cowardly captors from the possibility of being burned themselves as they executed him. As they light it and the flames rush toward the poor helpless man, you can see him take a step or two back, as though there were a way to escape his own personal holocaust. In a moment he is engulfed in flames, and shrieking in his death throes, wildly and hopelessly thrashing and trying to brush the flames away.

The only good news was that it was over quickly—the pilot killed more rapidly by the super-heated and poisonous vapors pouring into his lungs than the flames themselves. In a matter of perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, he falls to his knees and expires. The monsters continue to let his corpse burn for perhaps ten minutes—it literally falling apart, like an overdone roasted chicken. Then a backhoe operator drops several scoops of large rocks and dirt onto the top of the cage, crushing the cage and burying the dead man, and putting out the remaining flames all at the same time.

The spectacle is over. The blood-lust of the crowd is not. The jungle-beat of the Arabic music and the infernal chanting continue for some time, before the final fade to black.

These were certainly not human beings I was watching. They simply couldn't be. I would have liked to have called them animals, but there was no animal on the face of the earth that I would care to insult that badly. I settled for Orcs and Death-Eaters in my mind instead, deciding that Tolkien and Rowling had it very, very correct indeed. I also didn't know what kind of a god they could possibly be claiming to follow—except for Satan himself.

Many of these same videos had been available on the Internet for some time for public viewing—but largely sanitized. Not mine—mine was the full _unedited_ version.

The pilot was only the warm-up act, sick pun unintended, by the way. Next up was scene after scene of total, abject, and complete villainy, misery, and despair. A visual catalog of man's inhumanity to man—in widescreen, high-definition, and full Technicolor horror. Helpless men, their hands tied behind their backs, while ISIS creatures cruelly sawed off their heads with belt knives. It wasn't over for these poor bastards, nearly as quickly as it was for the pilot. The blood gushed from their horrible wounds, and their legs kicked in a hopeless struggle for life for several minutes as the butchery went on.

In most of the cases, it required a twisting of the nearly decapitated head to separate it from the body. Then, proudly, like a hunter displaying his trophy, the head was placed on the chest of the body, as the blood continued to run in rivers through the desert sand.

I had no idea there was so much blood inside a human body.

Another section of the video showed execution after execution by pistol and rifle shot. Usually administered to the back of the head. But sometimes to the face as well. Hands of the victims firmly tied in all cases. These monsters didn't much like the idea of someone who might fight back. Sometimes they were single executions. Others, long lines of kneeling bound men, machine gunned all at once—the bullets kicking up sand, at the same time they spread blood and brain matter.

Women weren't faring too well either, in this part of the world. Rapes, beatings, and mutilations of all sorts and description. Many were murdered as well. Horrid, base, and despicable acts worthy of the worst of Hitler's Third-Reich monsters from the middle of the twentieth century. It brought a scene to my mind from a movie based on a Stephen King novel called _The Dead Zone._

The movie came out in 1983, and starred Christopher Walken as an ordinary guy who has survived a coma and awakened with special psychic abilities. In one of the movie's most telling scene, he asks a Jewish doctor, played by the late great British actor Herbert Lom, if he had a time machine, and could go back to the nursery room of Adolf Hitler—would he kill the child?

The good doctor considers for a long moment, and then answers—saying that it has been his lifelong desire to help people, to do good in the world. To heal the sick and the lame, save lives, and try to relieve pain where ever possible. It is his mission in life, he explains, to build up and not destroy. To look for and find the good and divine in the human race, and not the base, vile and horrible. In short—to bring light to the world, and not darkness.

For all those reasons, he explains, "I could do only one thing if I were faced with the situation you describe. I would strangle the son-of-a-bitch to death in his cradle."

Now I knew how he felt.

The worst of the video was saved for the last. The children. Hundreds of them, all Christian children, and nearly all with brown and black skin. It made no difference. This was not a racial or ethnic thing. This was the universal struggle between good and evil—and in this case, good was losing very badly. In one gut wrenching scene, a screaming father nearly out of his mind, holds his dead son—the boy no older than a year or two. Only a small hole in the forehead of the child, but the entire back of his head blown away. A small cantaloupe could easily have been inserted where the child's brain had been.

Last was the little girl. I would remember it forever—the image burned into my brain and memory until the end of time. She couldn't have been much more than six, or maybe seven years old, at most. Dressed in a pretty blue dress. White leggings. Black little-girl shoes—with buckle straps. She is lying on her back, dead on the concrete. There is little damage to the body itself. Except for the head. Which is missing entirely. All that is left is a bloody stump—and a life that was—and a life that never would be.

That was it—I couldn't take any more. I couldn't watch another second. The sound of a horn blowing in my driveway jerked me out of my stupor and back into the moment. It was my cab—it had arrived, right on time.

Jerking the drive out of the computer and throwing my overnight bag strap over my left shoulder and picking up my suitcase with my right, I made my way to the front door. Opening it up, I held up a single forefinger, signaling that I needed another minute. The cabbie nodded his head affirmatively.

Turning back and walking into my study, I quickly removed the picture covering my safe, and dialed in the combination. In a second, I tossed in the computer thumb-drive. Just as quickly I extracted Howard's forty caliber Glock— _and_ the special ammo. I carefully placed it all into my bag. Then, reaching once more into the safe, I picked up Matthew Mason McCabe's golden magic pocket-watch, and deposited it into my left inside sport-coat breast pocket.

Like the famous monkey's paw—I could have sworn it squirmed in my hand.

I slammed the safe door shut, spun the dial, and replaced the picture. Then I walked out to my cab, dressed at last, to kill—and, as Howard Carter, Matt McCabe, and the President of the United States knew I would, at last be—the _perfect_ killing machine.
CHAPTER EIGHT

The hostess on my flight poured me another drink. If there was ever a time in my life when I needed a good stiff one, this was it. I watched her as she substituted the short glass for a tall one, and shoveled in a double scoop of shaved ice. The Diet Coke went in next, followed by a straw, a twist of lemon, and a little umbrella—just for show. I wasn't about to fall off the wagon over the events of the last few days, and if there was ever anyone that needed a good clear head for the business at hand, it sure as hell was me.

With less than thirty minutes to touchdown, I went over the scant few facts that Howard had been able to relay to me. Additionally, I worked the on-board computer Google machine for info. It wasn't much, but it did give me a starting point. Detroit. Specifically Dearborn, a very near suburb of Detroit, and home to the largest Muslim-American community in the United States. On the order of thirty percent of the total population. It wasn't exactly what Dearborn had been traditionally known for—but hey, what the hell—times change. They had changed a lot in Dearborn, Michigan too. It was a matter of some dispute as to whether those changes had been for the better or not.

I intended to keep an open mind.

It was common knowledge, and common sense as well, that the vast, and I do mean _vast_ , number of Arab immigrants to the United States were both peaceful and hard-working citizens. Many had not immigrated just lately either. More than just a few were descendants of folks that had come to American back in either the late nineteenth century or the middle of the twentieth, looking for work in the then burgeoning auto industry. Even though most of those jobs had long gone south to Mexico, north to Canada, or east—as in _Far East_ —to Japan, Dearborn was still World Headquarters to the Ford Motor Company. And all those Arab immigrants weren't Muslim either. A clear ten percent of Dearborn's Arab-American population were Christians. In total, both Christian and Muslim, we were talking a population of around forty-thousand souls. Like I said—mostly good people. And a few bad apples, some _really_ bad apples. Those were the ones that were going to have to be sorted out, and removed—fast.

I was slated to meet my new partner, the somewhat mysterious Jedediah Wahl, the next morning. And not in Dearborn either. I can't really say I was looking forward to it very much. Partners are very much like a pair of shoes. The older they are, the better they fit, and the more comfortable they become. I know I had picked up a bit of a reputation around the Washington State private-eye community for working with children at Watchmaker Enterprises, but the true facts of my professional relationship with Matt McCabe were comforting. The man, despite his youthful looks, was forty years my senior. I doubted very much that was going to be the case with Mr. Wahl. Wahl was much more likely to be like a very _new_ pair of shoes. As in, stiff, hard and unyielding. Chafing the feet, causing blisters and aches, and taking a hell of a lot of getting used to.

Today was a different matter. An FBI operative would greet my plane upon arrival, and in a very private part of the airport. He was going to have more information for me, beyond even what Carter knew. Like maybe even a name. Seems the FBI had been watching certain home-grown terrorist groups in the southeastern Michigan area for quite some time. Mostly they were dormant, or exhibiting very little activity. Lately however, the agency had been picking up a lot of "chatter" in those groups about an impending attack on US soil, a big, bloody one—chatter that had turned into a full-blown and red-hot alert as it was investigated.

I had met more than a few FBI men back in my police department days. I had never met one that didn't have a _very_ high opinion of himself, whether deserved or not. For the most part, they were pretty damned hard to get along with too. There's an old saying about some people that didn't think their poo-poo had an odor. Bureau agents generally didn't think they had poo-poo at all. I had little doubt that was going to be exactly the case this time too, and I intended to blow this one off as quickly as possible and get to work on my own. I imagined that he thought he would be working with me—but that was one damned thing that wasn't about to happen. One partner at a time was more than enough. Besides, I was sure he probably had a lot of paper on his desk back at headquarters that needed to be re-shuffled and pushed around. I was going to let him get back to doing that as fast as humanly possible.

As I've said so many times in the past, if I'd had to make a living as a fortune teller—I would have starved.

The hostess arrived again to collect my empty glass and let me know that we were beginning our descent into the Detroit Metropolitan Airport.

It was almost show time.

I could see the downtown business section of the once proud city out my window and just to the east. Detroit had been through some rough times in recent decades, and the former center of the industrial might of the mid-west was not quite what it once had been. Large sections now lay in ruins, former vibrant neighborhoods now as empty and vacant as the surface of the moon.

From the air however, it was still impressive, situated as it was along the banks of the mighty Detroit River. Many skyscrapers still dotted the skyline, but there were also a lot of empty spaces where others had been, giving much the same appearance as that of an old woman with missing teeth.

We made a smooth landing, and almost immediately the plane veered off the runway, headed for an obviously little used area of the airport.

As the plane taxied to a full stop, I could already see my waiting contact. Back turned to me while talking on his cell-phone and waiting by the side of a large, dark-blue limousine. It might as well have had large scarlet letters emblazoned on the side: FBI. I shook my head a little in amazement. It didn't seem the agency was ever going to change very much, wedded as they were to both convention, _and_ the stereotype.

Exiting the jet a couple of minutes later, I made my way down the roll-away steps and toward the agent. Only when I approached to close-range, did I realize that this was not exactly my grand-daddies FBI agent. Her dark hair might have been close-cropped, but the figure that filled out the equally dark pant-suit was most definitely not that of a male. She had a set of long legs that went all the way to the ground, and a lot more shape to her backside than a bale of hay in an old pillowcase, as dear old papa used to say. Even before she turned, I knew in the pit of my stomach and with every fiber of my being, that she was going to be a looker.

I was wrong. She was a stunner. It was beginning to become apparent that I might have been a bit rash in deciding that I wanted to ditch this agent immediately. Everyone deserves a chance to show what they're made of—and heaven only knows I'm a fair minded guy.

Time for a test, I thought—two tests to be exact—and no time like the present.

She heard my approach and switched off the cell phone, returning it to her blazer jacket pocket. Smiling, she approached, hand outstretched, in a businesslike manner.

I got rid of her smile in a hurry.

"Hey babe," I opened, ignoring her hand and tipping my homburg back to a cocky angle. "The Bureau out of male agents?"

Her face went white. "Excuse me?" she said.

"If I'd known they were going to send a 'chick-cop', I would have brought my own man with me. Or are you here to take me to the real agent? I guess I'm supposed to be briefed or something." I shoved my hands in my pockets and tried to look bored. The look on her face was almost comical, and in another way, kind of sad. I was almost sorry that I had begun this, but dammit, if I were going to be working with, and depending on this lady in any kind of a life or death situation, I _had_ to know if there were any fire in her belly or not.

There was.

Her eyes flashed an anger I hadn't seen since I had missed my first wedding anniversary with my late wife Jan—and I want to tell you—that was _some_ kind of mad. It had started a life-long good habit with me, as in marking my calendar _really, really_ well.

"Why you sorry little prick," she started, in a clipped tone of voice. "You misogynistic, male-chauvinistic puffed-up little pig-swine. Just who the _hell_ do you think you are, anyway, you mouthy little bastard?"

Her face had gone from white to beet red within a matter of seconds, and it was hard not to smile, obvious as it was that she was just getting started, and to tell the complete truth, I didn't know exactly where it was going to end. She had passed the first test I had put her to—with flying colors. If I didn't stop this soon though, I was pretty sure she was going to go for her gun.

Can't really say I blamed her very much.

It was time to end it, and time to put the second part of the test into action. For just a fleeting moment, I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that if this didn't work, I was going to be in for one hell of a long bumpy ride with this lady. I almost wished I'd thought of that before I started.

And then my hand closed over the pocket-watch in my jacket pocket, and in what I can only describe as a lightning-fast flash, I was in another place and time. About five minutes before, to be exact. Still sitting in my seat, belt still fastened, as the jet taxied close to the terminal. I could just see the lady agent, still standing by the limo, and still talking on her phone.

I was about to get that rarest of gifts in life—a complete and total do-over.

Matt had told me that the watch would work for me. He was right. He had also told me that since the replacing of the five missing stones, it was going to work a lot better. In that, he had completely understated what I had just experienced. I had used the watch before, there in the darkened streets of 1889 Seattle. Oh, it had gotten us where we needed to go. After a fashion. Just like an ancient and rusty old Volkswagen Beetle, it got you where you needed to be. But this new watch, this was something else. This was like a souped-up Lamborghini.

_Deadly_ fast. I had just gotten my first wake up call, as to just what kind of power I now possessed. Again, the image of Bilbo's ring flashed through my mind.

Finally exiting the plane again, a few moments later, I once more made my way toward her, this time taking her offered hand without hesitation, and shaking it warmly.

"Hello," I said. "The name is Johnny O'Brien. Just Johnny to my friends. A real pleasure to meet you . . ." my voice trailed off.

"Faris, Johnny," she said. "Agent Shahida Faris. A pleasure to meet you too. I've heard enough about you from Chief Carter, I almost feel I know you already. I'm here to take you to your hotel, and to brief you on the latest developments."

"Which are, Agent Faris?" I asked.

"Just Shahida. We need to talk. Long story short, Johnny—we don't have nearly as much time we thought we did."

"So what else is new?" I responded. "Or, as my dear old pal Matt McCabe used to say, "If it were easy, it wouldn't be a Johnny O'Brien story, now would it?"

Agent Faris smiled broadly as she nodded affirmatively, and held the limo door open for me.

_Classy_ , I thought. _This gal might just turn out to be a keeper after all_.

We headed out of the airport, and got onto I-94, heading east.

I could have sworn that the many and much repaired pot-holes of that old highway made a sound under the wheels much like bricks, as we headed toward a town that was most definitely made of anything _but_ emeralds.
CHAPTER NINE

Detroit, Michigan

Present Day

Well, it wasn't exactly the Ritz-Carlton, as I had bragged to Matt that it would be. As it turned out, Detroit didn't even have a Ritz-Carlton Hotel, and hadn't in many a long year. A few other things weren't actually going to according to plan either. Agent Faris did not have my FBI credentials, although she did promise me that she would in the next day or so, along with my own set of wheels. The Detroit Police Department had promised a hand delivered State of Michigan concealed weapons permit too. It hadn't materialized either. All of my weapons now rather uncomfortably resided in the hotel safe. I was feeling just a little exposed. And all-expensed? . . . Well, let's just say that at the registration desk, old John-boy was the only one pulling out a credit card.

It was a pretty nice hotel though. The Hilton Garden Inn, on Gratiot Avenue. A darn-sight better than the old Motels Two and a Half, that I was put up in back in my former police department days. Then, the cockroaches were practically paying guests.

Not here—this was a classy joint. Indoor heated pool and all.

It had a good restaurant and bar as well. Shahida and I enjoyed a robust steak dinner together, and then talked for several hours more, over coffee. It didn't worry me that the caffeine might keep me up at night. All my life I had literally been able to take a bath in the stuff, and then pound the percales like a newborn babe. Besides, I had been up for far too long, and was suffering enough jet-lag, that insomnia was to be a very unlikely upcoming event.

It generally surprises someone that doesn't understand, or have experience in the profession, to find out that very few interviews or briefings, take place in solitary and private darkened back-rooms. Generally speaking, public places are much safer locations for secrecy. Never knowing exactly where such a meeting is going to be taking place, it's extremely difficult for the bad-guys to either bug it, or to eavesdrop on it.

Shahida and I spoke conversationally, only being mindful of keeping our voices down a bit. Whispering, as much as shouting, is to be avoided at all costs. You might as well hang out a sign that says "we're talking secret stuff here," in big bold red letters, in either case.

As I had hoped, she did have a name for me, and it was one that I was going to learn in extremely short order to take very seriously indeed. It was the name of the Arab trainer, Saudi in fact, and the coordinator of the tragic events that were about to unfold. I had known a lot of stone-cold killers in my life, but Mr. Saal Moradi was to prove not only that, but perhaps the most intelligent, clever, and fiendishly depraved and diabolical opponent of my long career. He was not only a master of firearms, but explosives as well. And, as he was a trained pilot—that's a pretty deadly combination. He was known to carry a short-barreled .357 Magnum revolver, and he knew how to use it—killing at least three known individuals with it. Doubtless, the actual tally was higher than that.

I did not intend to underestimate him—and Agent Faris wasn't about to let me do so, even if I had been so inclined. She had a thick dossier with her. It contained an impressive amount of information about Mr. Moradi. What it didn't contain however, was a single, solitary photograph of the mysterious person that had become known to the agency simply as, "the man of disguises."

He could have been sitting at the table next to us, and in point of fact, Agent Faris would not have had the slightest idea of it—anymore than I would. Fortunately for us, I guess, there was no one sitting at _any_ of the tables near us.

Our meeting finally broke up around eleven, and Shahida said her goodbyes and headed out to her home in nearby Bloomfield Hills. From her description of it, it sounded like a pretty nice place, and certainly not one that she would have been able to afford on a Bureau salary. Fortunately, she didn't have to depend much on that. Recently divorced from a two-timing Detroit area television weather personality, she had done all right—winning not only the rather grand digs in the legal proceedings, but a substantial monthly alimony to boot. At a ripe old age of only twenty-six, she was already pretty well set for life. Good for her, I say. I hate cheaters. I might not be an altar-boy, but cheating was one thing I never did on Jan—and it damned sure wasn't something I was going to be doing on Maggie either, and I didn't much care if our relationship was serious yet or not. We were going together, and to me, that was as good as gold.

I was showered and in bed at 11:59 that night—and asleep by midnight.

And I would stay that way for the next ten hours.

Royal Oak, Michigan

The hotel desk woke me at ten the next morning with a phone call. Parting the curtain, I could see a cloudy but dry late morning. No snow—either in the air, or on the ground. Detroit is a pretty chilly locale in the month of March, so I dressed hurriedly and grabbed an overcoat to go along with my black homburg and dark suit. At least I was going to be looking the part of a private investigator. I swore quietly to myself when I checked at the front desk to see if the Detroit PD had dropped off my concealed weapon permit, and of course the answer to that was no. As anything even close to a "well-oiled machine," this operation was off to a pretty rocky start. Not much of a surprise, I suppose. After all, the Feds _were_ involved.

With a sigh, I headed out the front door. Although irritating, I guessed it didn't matter much. I was pretty sure that not a soul knew I was in town, or what I might be doing here, so the decided lack of armament was small disadvantage, although once again I was feeling barely dressed.

As always, I was to prove to be a lousy clairvoyant.

I had better luck with the valet. Shahida had come through with flying colors in getting me a car, although not exactly the sleek and deadly fast bullet I had been secretly hoping for. It was nice enough though—a very late model limited edition Lincoln Town Car. From the deep-throated rumble under the hood, I knew it to be one of the larger muscle engines. She'd be able to get out of her own way, but would never win a drag race. Black of course. I was pretty sure that was the only color the Bureau was aware even existed.

With a little help from the friendly valet kid, I was able to get it onto the street and pointed in the right direction. As in north on Woodward Avenue and heading toward Twelve Mile Road. Specifically a Catholic Church of some fame and repute in a suburb called Royal Oak. It was the National Shrine of the Little Flower. It was here that I was slated to meet my new companion, the somewhat enigmatic Jedediah Wahl, at around eleven o'clock.

Traffic was pretty light as I headed up Woodward, and as it was plain that I was going to be early, I pulled into a doughnut shop for a large carry-out coffee and apple-fritter. If it turned out that I couldn't ever say a good word about the city of Detroit, at least that wouldn't be true of the brew—it was wonderful.

Fortified by caffeine and warmed by the liquid, I was at last ready for the meeting, as the Town Car pulled into the parking lot of the Church about thirty minutes later.

As a first real impression of the city of Detroit, I had to admit that the Shrine of the Little Flower wasn't a bad one. Not a bad one at all. The building was magnificent, ornate—and beautiful. A massive stone tower easily commanded the view from anywhere on the grounds. The Church building itself seem to be round, solidly built, and just a tad bit longer than six months ago too. The grounds surrounding it were green, trimmed, and well kept. Massive bare trees, evergreens, and shrubs were everywhere, and it seemed, to my eye at least, that not so much as a pine-needle was out of place. I could say one thing for the Catholics anyhow. They sure knew how to do Churches.

I parked the car and hot-footed it toward the building, just in time to keep my appointment.

Entering the nave was an experience. It was octagonal, services being performed from the center, rather than one end, as in most Churches. Surrounding the stand were dark wooden pews. I imagined them to be either oak or rosewood. My eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness of the interior fully, but even at that, I could easily pick out the shape of the back of a man's head sitting in one of the pews. He didn't turn as he spoke, and I vaguely wondered how he knew I was there, having made virtually zero noise as I entered.

"Mr. O'Brien?" the head asked.

"Yes," I replied. "Please just call me Johnny. All my friends do."

He arose, turned and started toward me. A well-built man. Probably late forties. Not a bad-looking guy. Around six-feet, maybe one-eighty. Rugged face—kind of used up and worn down look to it. I liked that. Mustached, with a hint of goatee—liberally sprinkled with gray. I liked that too. Reminded me a bit of Tom Selleck, back in his Jesse Stone days. Wearing a dark pea-jacket and a black watch-cap. Black hair poked out from under it. Common man look. Earthy—or more exactly perhaps, nautical. It gave him a sort of sea-bearing appearance; again, a plus. It all put me at ease—something I had definitely _not_ been expecting.

He was off to a good start.

"Mr. Wahl, I presume?" I asked as he reached me, doing my best Henry Morton Stanley greeting.

"Yes," he replied, reaching out for a handshake. "Jedediah Wahl. Good to meet you. Please just call me Brick, Johnny. All _my_ friends do."

Our hands clasped, and we each held our shake for an extra moment or two, carefully eyeing each other and sizing up just what we were seeing. It was an old routine, and an ancient kind of mental dance between new team members. Pretty much, according to the theory, fresh partners can tell in just the first few seconds if the new "marriage" was going to have a chance or not. I had engaged in this dance myself a time or two over the years, and I could tell that Mr. Wahl was no stranger to it either.

I wondered if I were passing the test, as a thin smile finally came to his face, and a moment later, one to mine as well.

Basically, we were to the altar, metaphorically speaking, as well as almost literally. It remained to be seen if we were going to be able to get to the "I do" part anytime soon.

It was shaping up to be an interesting day.

We broke off the handshake as Brick motioned me into a nearby pew.

"Your first time to the Shrine?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied. "First time ever to the Detroit area in general."

"Well, I was born here," Brick said. "Or a little more exactly, in a suburb called Walled Lake. It's about twenty-five miles to the Northwest. It was a sweet little town back when I was a kid—barely a wide spot in the road. Grown up big now though. Driving down Woodward Avenue, and past this Church, well that was something we did all the time. We never thought much about it, one way or the other. Dad wasn't really a religious guy. Me either—at least when I was young that is."

"Dad was born in 1949, a little too late to be very familiar with the history of this building, but grampa lived right around here in its heyday. Which was back in the 1930's."

"What was the history?" I asked. All of this was very interesting to me, but still, I did want to get to the crux of the matter that had brought me here. Little did I realize at the moment, that Brick _was_ talking about just exactly that.

"Father Charles Edward Coughlin. A Roman Catholic priest and an Irishman to boot. A lot of clout, and that was even before he grabbed a microphone and became one of the biggest radio stars of the 1930's. Always a lot more political in nature than religious, he was one of the first politicos to reach a huge audience in what was _the_ mass-media of the day. Up to thirty million listeners per weekly broadcast. He did his thing from the Charity Crucifixion Tower—the large stone structure you saw as you entered this building. It once had a rather impressively tall radio transmitting tower attached to the top of it. The Catholic Church built the Charity tower in response to the Ku Klux Klan rampages in the south. It has a crucifix on the side. Made of stone. One cross, the Church said, that the Klan couldn't burn."

I lifted my eyebrows a bit in impatience. I hadn't known Mr. Wahl very long at this point, but I was already pretty sure that I was not going to be able to reel him in very much, at least before he had imparted _all_ of the information that he wanted me to have.

"He broadcast from the tower for nearly a decade before the Vatican finally pulled the plug on him and jerked him off the air in 1939. But in that period of time, the man spewed out a lot of hate."

"And now you're getting to the point of your story—correct?"

"I am," Brick replied.

"Which is?" I prodded.

"Which is," Brick continued, "that the man was a virulent anti-Semite, although he always denied it. He was also a Hitler supporter and booster. Remember, at the time, Hitler was not yet recognized as a madman. The Jewish holocaust hadn't yet started. Hitler had not yet invaded anyone, nor had he yet tried to conquer the world. But Father Coughlin recognized a kindred spirit. Coughlin blamed the Jews, and Jewish bankers in particular, for most of the ills of the world and of the United States—just as Hitler blamed them in Germany. Coughlin was the first to advocate violence toward Jewish businessmen, in thinly veiled form, of course. Hitler just took a page from the good Father's playbook and removed the veil."

"So?"

"So— _this_ is where it started, Johnny. In this very spot. Nearly a century ago, an Irish Catholic priest became one of the first men on the planet to package and market hate and broadcast it out into the thin air. It's still going on today. Now it's the Internet, and before that it was television—but it's all the same thing. Now days it's not just the Jews that are hated. Now it's the Christians, right along with them. And it's not the Nazi's either, doing the hating—and the killing. Now it's ISIS, and dozens of other crazy radical Muslim organizations like them, that hate us. That want to kill us. And if they could, to put us into concentration and extermination camps, just like old Adolph back in his day. Radical Muslim 'Clerics' speak such hate often. 'Good' ideas never grow old Johnny. They just get re-cycled. _Radical_ Islam is very much like German nationalism. It's a whole lot more political movement and death-cult, than it is a religion. And don't bother to take me to task either, Johnny. I know most devote Muslims are peaceful. I'm not talking about them and you know it."

Brick paused to take a breath, and for dramatic effect, letting his words settle onto me. I waited patiently, making no reply.

"But this is where it all began. This hallowed ground, Johnny—is where Satan first went high-tech. That's why I wanted to meet you here. To begin at the beginning. It's no wonder that this city, this place, this area, is the epicenter of the hate and violence we came here to stop. Father Coughlin's chickens have come home to roost," he concluded.

"Do you believe in Satan, Brick? I mean _really_ believe in him? As a living, breathing, walking, talking, humanoid entity—not as a symbol."

"I do," he nodded, and without hesitation—not the hint of a smile on his face. His eyes bore into mine. Do you, Johnny?"

I paused to consider my reply. I remembered Kylie Blakely's headless corpse-littered horse barn, and blood-soaked torture chamber. I thought of Ingrida Barbaraslovas's slowly draining life-fluid pooling at my feet in blood-alley, and her guts spilling out onto the cobblestones. As I did, the slash-wound that Jack-the-Ripper's knife left on my forearm throbbed slightly. I remembered the sight of his dreadful blood-flecked face, and insane eyes burning out of his head. I paused a long time, before I answered. Probably three full seconds.

"I do," I replied.

Silence hung in the stale air like a palpable presence for several seconds before either of us spoke. Finally, Brick broke the silence.

"What do you say Johnny, that we get out of here for a while and go for a ride? I'd like to show you something else."

"Sounds good to me partner. Where we going?"

"Into the city. A little stretch of pavement on what is now the surface of the moon. It's called Nevada Street."

"Sounds to me like a good place to get into trouble," I replied. "Hope you're packing. My guns are still back at the hotel—in the safe, of all places."

"That's another thing I need to tell you Johnny. You might want to hold off on that officially making me a partner business just yet. I come with some baggage. Some baggage that might just have an effect on you."

I raised my eyebrows again—question like.

"I don't carry a gun, Johnny. I haven't touched one in years. And I never will again. I'm telling you this Johnny, because it has the potential to sort of become a big thing between us, somewhere along the line."

I was beginning to see that Mr. Wahl might just be a master of under-statement.

"Sounds like an interesting story," I observed.

"It is. Maybe I'll tell it to you—one of these days—if I decide I like you."

_Good luck on that one_ , I thought to myself. "Your car or mine?"

"Yours," he said. "I don't drive either."

"How the hell did you get here?" I asked.

"Bus," he said, heading for the door.

I shook my head a bit as I followed him out. Why, I wondered, can't anything ever just be easy? The words of my old best friend echoed in my head. "Because then it wouldn't be a Johnny O'Brien story."

I half smiled to myself as we got into the Town Car and headed back down Woodward Avenue. Toward Nevada Street. Toward the surface of the moon. Toward some new revelations. And toward one really old, old ghost. A gentleman of a ghost, and one that I would carry with me in my heart and mind for the rest of my natural life.

The slate-gray sky had turned to snow, as flakes began to accumulate on the hood of the car. It was a good day for Satan to come a calling.

A very good day indeed.
CHAPTER TEN

After a late lunch and more hot coffee, we hit Nevada Street just as the feeble sun dipped beneath the horizon, and the snow flurries stopped. On this gray day, it would only be a few more short minutes until full-dark. It was not a good time. It was the time of day when the rough guys come out to play. It was the time of day when bad stuff happens. I could see a couple of rough guys just down the street and on the other side. Skulking next to an abandoned car up on cinder blocks. A couple of "gangstas." Complete with hoodies. Bulges in the pockets too.

I didn't think they were sacks of candy.

I figured we probably had five good minutes before the shit would start.

Trouble was—Brick wanted ten.

We stood on the sidewalk in front of the old house, leaning on an ancient and rickety picket fence. I could see that Brick was lost in thought and memory. He didn't seem to notice or care that we might just be a couple of sitting ducks. Jedediah 'Brick' Wahl didn't carry weapons of any sort. Not even a pocket-knife, as it turned out, and wise-guy Johnny O'Brien had left Old Betsy back at the hotel, thinking there would be no use for it this day. I wanted to do things right. I wanted to be legal. Being legal might just turn out to get me killed, I thought.

I felt just a little naked and vulnerable. My hand almost reflexively closed around the watch. I transferred it to my outside jacket pocket—ready for instant use. It was probably the best weapon I owned, although at this point, I had not begun to routinely think of it that way. Little did I know I had a better weapon yet, just waiting to be put into action.

"My father was born here," Brick began. "The man who created me. Well, not actually in the house. In a hospital over on Seven Mile and Meyers. It was called Grace Hospital. Long since gone now. Torn down years ago to make way for a Home Depot."

"Progress, I guess," I replied.

"This was a beautiful house then Johnny, back in '49. And a lovely street as well. Tree lined. It was like a tunnel driving through them in the summer. Dutch elm disease killed them all. There was one here in the front yard that arched over the house. The leaves rustling in the summer breezes was the most soothing sound I ever remember hearing in my life. The windows stayed open all night in that pre-air conditioning times. The music of that tree would lull you to sleep sometimes."

"This was what we used to call a 'neighborhood', my friend. Everybody knew each other. All kinds of businesses and stores and shops within just a block or two. All gone now, of course. Empty, burned-out, or bulldozed away. Everyone that's left—well, they all stay inside. Afraid of the night."

He had been right. The "neighborhood" had turned into what closer resembled the surface of the moon. Looked to me that the daytime here was little less scary than the dark. It was hard to see the near ruin of the building in front of me as having ever been a livable residence, much less a nice house. I couldn't quite squint my eyes that much.

Death and destruction had long ago come to Nevada Street. As in _The_ _Never-ending Story_ , the nothing was everywhere.

"The Detroit riots were in '67, but it was even pretty decent back when I was a kid in the seventies," Brick continued. "But then something happened. Something went bad. Something moved into the city. For the want of a better word, I guess I'd have to call it 'Evil'. Sure, you can blame the economy, blame the Democrats, the Republicans, General Motors, the post-industrial revolution period, or whatever else you like. But you just can't get around the fact that the goodness here took a hike, and Evil moved in. Most of these empty houses are used now for doing drug deals, and for the dumping of bodies after the deals go bad."

"The houses here used to be close together. Most of them are gone now. Long ago burned down for the insurance money. I'm surprised, Johnny, that dad's old house survived. He worked for a while right next door at an appliance store, garage and gas station. It was called Ned's. It burned down a long time ago too."

I looked around. Where Ned's used to be was an empty and weed-infested parking lot. On the other side of the house was a vacant space. A brief outline of what was once a basement was the only evidence that a structure had ever existed there.

Brick went on. "Right across the street, was the Detroit Bank and Trust." Now it was a tenement liquor store, complete with flea-bag apartment on the second floor. "Around the corner I used to run to Perry's Butcher Shop to pick up stuff for mom to make for dinner. Next to that was The Rainbow Bar. Gutted now. A gang-banger hangout. A guy with no legs used to sit right over there on the corner of Nevada and John R. and sell pencils. He did a good business too. Everyone liked him. Johnson's Milk was a few blocks up on John R. It came in glass bottles, Johnny. _Glass bottles._ The house was heated with a coal furnace. The coal was delivered by the quarter-ton, from a company called Blue Diamond. Dad shoveled the coal into the furnace all day long in the winter. At night he would bank it up so it would last longer."

Brick was in memory lane. I could see that I was going to have a tough time getting him out of it. I could also see that the two goons down the street had decided to make their move. Brick and I must have looked like easy pickings for them–a quick payday.

They had pulled their guns. A couple of rather pricey and nice looking high-capacity semi-automatics. The two gangstas held them down low, next to their sides, with their fingers on the triggers, as they hot-footed it toward us. From the way they went about it, it looked to me that this was probably not their first attempted robbery.

"Time to go Brick," I said. "We're about to have company."

Brick continued to stare at the house for a few seconds more. "Are they definitely coming at us?" he asked.

"Definitely," I said, again wondering how the man was seemingly able to see out the back of his head.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Brick replied, as he slowly turned to face the two rapidly approaching men.

"Why is that?" I asked.

Brick sighed. "Because I really don't like to hurt people."

The two goons reached us. I guess so as not to be stereotypical, one was an African-American. The other was a white-guy. Neither looked like they had recently graduated Princeton. The guy on Brick's right, the black-guy, was the first to throw down, turning his pistol ninety degrees, to a much more cool-looking "gangsta" horizontal plane, and pointed the muzzle about twelve inches from Brick's forehead. I'll call him "Bandana Head." The other genius, the white-guy, kept his gun at his side, but idiotically advanced to within three feet of us. Him I named "Hat on Backwards." Bandana started to speak, but for some odd reason, the words never left his mouth.

My hand tightened around the watch as I began to reach for Brick. It was time for us to say bye-bye. This what not exactly what I had intended, and was certainly not the best way to illuminate Mr. Wahl vis-à-vis the watch, but circumstances being what they were, I figured I had to do what I had to do. Mr. Brick was going to be in for a fun-house ride in a moment or two—sans the funhouse.

My hand never reached him.

I swear by all that is holy, I never saw the man move. Just as suddenly as he had appeared before us, Bandana Head was crumpled on the ground, and clutching wildly at his throat, trying his best to breathe and get some air into his lungs. Magically, Brick was holding Bandana's pistol in his left hand, and just as magically, used it as a very effective pair of brass knuckles to smash directly into the face of Hat on Backwards. As Hat cascaded to the concrete, unconscious long before his face plowed into it, Brick deftly snatched his pistol from his hand as well. He now had a firearm in each hand—not bad for a guy that had just stated he would never touch one again.

He didn't keep them for long.

Brick jacked back the slide on each pistol, ejecting the round from the gun's chamber and then popped both of the magazines. Then, holding each pistol by the butt, he smashed first one and then the other hard down onto the cement sidewalk, severely deforming the end of both barrels. They weren't round anymore, and damned sure no bullets were going to be shot out of either one of them anytime soon. Not at least without blowing the gun to smithereens in the process.

Having completed that maneuver, Brick casually tossed what was left of each of their heat onto the chests of each man, and said to me, "You ready to go, Johnny?"

"Jesus H. Christ," I stammered. Under normal circumstances, I don't really like to invoke the name of Deity, and certainly not in vain, but this seemed like a pretty good time to make an exception to that rule. I looked at old Bandana still choking on the ground, and asked if Brick thought he was going to be all right. I could see that Hat had pissed his way too loose and sagging pants. They didn't look all that stylish anymore.

"He'll be fine, Johnny. For about the next ten days though, he's going to be eating only ice cream, and probably through a straw."

"How did you do that?" I stammered again. " _What_ did you do?"

Brick smiled. "An old trick my mother's father taught me when I was a kid. It's always held me in good stead."

"What do you call it?" I asked.

"Move fast and hit hard," he replied.

"Bet you didn't have too much trouble with bullies when you were a youngster."

"Never more than once, I have to admit," he said, again with a grin. "Come on, Johnny. Let's get out of here before the reinforcements arrive. I'll treat you to a beer on the way back."

"After that little display, my friend—I might just take it. And by the way, Brick—I've thought it over. You're my partner."

"Cool."

In another few moments, we were back in the Town Car, turning off Nevada Street and onto Woodward Avenue, heading back downtown toward the Hilton. I had been right. It had turned into quite a day after all. And it wasn't over yet, either.

Not by a long shot.
CHAPTER ELEVEN

I pulled into the Nineties Bar on Woodward Avenue. It had a newish and very gaudy neon-lighted sign over the front door. There was an older one painted on the side of the building. Apparently the paint hadn't been all that high a quality, and it had faded with time. The word that the paint was attempting to cover up was—"Gay." Yup, the old drinking establishment had been around a whole lot longer than the newer meaning of the word. The Gay Nineties Bar was now shortened to only two words, so as to not be mistaken for one of the many area saloons that catered to a very different crowd.

Times change, I guess.

The bar was a pretty good one. Soft lighting and soft music. Plenty of room in the back. Brick and I were in one of the booths. He was enjoying a Coors. Me, I was sticking with my Diet Coke. I had to admit in the past several months I had become quite an addict to the drink. Seems I have a pretty dependent personality. Still though, a measurable improvement over the hard stuff.

At least I hadn't wanted to put a bullet through my brain lately.

Brick was on number two. I was nursing mine a little more slowly. Sitting across from the man at close range, I noticed for the first time his absolutely penetrating and piercing blue eyes. When the man spoke, he had the somewhat disconcerting habit of looking directly into your eyes, and nowhere else—not even a glance. Yet for some reason I was absolutely convinced that he was probably well aware of everything that was going on around, and behind him.

Brick was an intense conversationalist. He could really nail you with those peepers. I suspected that in his time, he probably hadn't been too shabby as an interrogator. I also suspected that was just exactly what he was trying to do with me right at the moment.

"I have to admit, Johnny, that I did a little research on you before accepting this job. I started out on Google. I didn't think there would be that much to find, but then, I hadn't ever heard of Jack McGuire. Seems he has a pretty good-sized fan club."

"Please don't tell me you read one of the books," I laughed.

"Tried to. But to tell you the truth, I couldn't get that interested. No cop on Earth would do half the things McGuire does."

"Well, Brick—to tell _you_ the truth, all my cases haven't exactly been fictitious. I've solved one or two with some pretty unconventional methods."

"Like what?" Brick deadpanned.

"Like with psychics."

"Psychics like Matt McCabe?"

I was startled. I thought Brick and I were starting off with a brand-new clean sheet of paper. It was turning out to not be the case.

"How do you know about Matt McCabe?" I demanded.

"I know more than just about McCabe," he deadpanned again, taking a slow swallow of beer. "I know about the watch too."

Now my surprise was total and turning into a full-blown panic. "That son-of-a-bitch!" I nearly shouted. Several heads at the bar across the room turned to look at me.

"Who's a son-of-a-bitch?" Brick calmly asked.

"Howard Carter—that's who. He never could keep his damned mouth shut."

"Howard Carter hell, Johnny. Do you think you're living in a vacuum, carrying around a thing like that? You seriously think that's going to stay a secret for long?"

"How then?"

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny," Brick intoned condescendingly. "You're playing in the big-leagues now. You need to up your game—or you're going to get your pink little ass killed real quick."

"Someone's been trying to kill my pink little ass for most of my life. So far I'm still doing fine."

"So far you haven't met Saal Moradi."

"He's that good?"

"He's better than me—and please don't bother to tell me that you don't know that I could kill you right here where you sit in this booth, take that damned watch out of your left-side jacket pocket, and walk free and clear out the front door in the next thirty seconds."

"Or, I could just hand it over to you and save you the trouble," I said, screwing my face into what I hoped was my best-ever, number one, first-place snarl. "That is, if you're really as bad-assed as you seem to think you are."

Brick just faintly smiled. "Keep it. I don't want the damned thing. And I'm telling you this right now, buddy— _you_ don't know what the hell you're playing with. You've got a stick of dynamite in your pocket, pal—and the fuse is already lit."

"Who the hell are you anyhow?" I asked.

"Just a small-town cop—that's all."

"My pink little ass, you are. I've never known a small-town cop in my life that wasn't armed to the teeth, just to make a routine traffic-stop."

"I tried the gun thing, Johnny. It didn't work out so well for me. Sometimes with guns the wrong people get dead."

"And that's why you don't want the watch, isn't it? You're afraid you'd go back in time to fix whatever the hell happened to you way back when—and that's just too much for your sweet little goody two-shoe heart to bear—right? Besides, that would ruin what is undoubtedly a _terrific_ sob-story."

Brick had been starting to take a sip of beer, but the mug never made it to his mouth. He slammed it down loudly and hard on the table-top, slopping beer out onto his hand. This time more faces turned toward us, and the bartender stopped what he was doing to eye us warily. I could see the muscles in Brick's face bulge and strain as he fought to regain control. In short, I could tell I had hit a nerve, and I could also tell, with absolute one-hundred percent certainty, that he could have killed me right at that moment if he had wanted to. I had just seen him in action, and as close as I was to him, it would have been no contest. Wasn't the first time I looked death in the eye, so I did what I usually do under the same circumstances—I laughed in his face.

It could have gone either way for a few seconds, but I guess I was slated to live long, prosper, and fight another day, as Brick's features relaxed, and a slow smile came to his face.

"You're a ballsy little bastard—aren't you Johnny?"

"Thanks. I like to think so. Now _you_ start talking, Mr. Brick. Just who the hell are you—and why are you here?"

"Eleven years ago I _was_ a small-town cop, Johnny. Deadwood, South Dakota. I worked for a man by the name of Harold Wiggins. Chief Wiggins was my friend, my boss, confidant, advisor, and father-confessor—all rolled into one. He was the best man I ever knew, and he's the reason I'm alive and sitting here talking to you right now. He was also friends with your Mr. Carter. They went back a long way—like they were in the Police Academy together since the beginning of time. That's how I got this gig. Harold recommended me."

"Still doesn't explain how you know about the watch," I observed.

"That I can't tell you, Johnny. But it didn't come from Carter. Carter's just another little fish in a great big pond. A pond big enough to contain a Great-White Shark or three. You've got to learn to think a lot bigger, Johnny. You're not in po-dunk, Washington anymore."

"That's pretty cryptic, Brick."

"Well, that's as damned good as it gets—for a while anyway. What's important for you to know, Johnny, is that if I know about the watch—Moradi knows about it too. And trust me when I tell you, that's _real_ bad news. You think he's gonna give you a chance to reach into your little pocket, go back a second or two and blow him away—well if you do, that would make you just about as crazy as a double order of steroid-laced bat-shit."

"What I'm pretty sure you're trying to tell me, Brick, in your uniquely poetic way, is that he's going to be hunting me—right?"

"Wrong, Johnny. What I'm trying to say, is that he's going to be hunting _us._ We be partners now—remember?"

"How long we got?"

"Twenty-four to seventy-two hours—tops. Detroit and Dearborn are really small towns, Johnny. At least at the heart of it they are. In the Arab-American communities, everybody knows everybody."

"You still didn't answer my question, Brick. Why you?"

Brick paused a few seconds, then began. "When you faced down the eight-ball killer, Johnny, you took a bullet for your efforts. They had to dig it out of your spine. And yes, I know about your bad legs too. But you gave it back to him Johnny. You killed his sorry ass. Well, I've got a bullet in me too, Johnny. One they could never take out. Right up next to my main heart-valve. Removing it was a fifty-fifty shot at life or death, Johnny. I told the docs to leave it the hell where it was. A damned good reminder. A real nice semi-jacketed hollow-pointed bullet. Fired out of a real sweet short-barreled stainless steel .357 magnum revolver.

"Moradi?"

"Yeah, Johnny. Moradi. I've been looking for him for a long time now. I want to give him back his bullet. Figuratively speaking of course. I'll be real happy to see his ass swinging from a rope—after I walk him up the gallows steps, that is."

"Nobody executes by hanging anymore, Brick. You must still think you're in the Wild West."

"Some places still do, Johnny. Some places still do."

I thought he was probably speaking metaphorically, but I made a note of the comment for further research.

"What's _your_ edge, Brick?"

"Thought you'd get around to asking that pretty soon, Johnny."

"And?"

"You're here because you have the watch, Johnny—that's your edge. And that's the _only_ reason you're here. I'm here for one reason too—because I am the one man on Earth to have seen Moradi's face—and lived. I can pick him out of a crowd."

"When do we start?"

"Tomorrow morning. Bright and early. You, me, and Shahida Faris."

"She up for this?"

"She'll have to be. She has an edge too. One you and I can't begin to match."

"And that is?"

"She speaks six different languages—fluently. Arabic is one of those," Brick responded, as he rose from the booth and tossed some money on the table.

"Where to?"

"Drop me off at my motel, Johnny. Pick me up at nine in the morning. We'll go get Faris at her house. Then we starting combing streets and asking questions. Apt to get pretty damned hot—right after that."

"Moradi's the trainer. What about the two doers?"

"Don't sweat them too much, Johnny. They're just a couple of candy-asses compared to Moradi. Once he's out of the picture, we'll put them down easy enough. And by the way, Johnny—you got some bad information. Moradi's not the trainer. That's a woman—generally known as 'the Ice-Queen'. She's a stone bitch, but not that big a deal. Moradi's the guard. The sentinel. He's the one we need to get to first."

"Why don't we bait him and let him come to us?"

"Don't know how you city-boys hunt bears, Johnny—but out in the country, where I come from, we don't generally do it by smearing ourselves with bacon grease, honey, and blue-berries and sitting naked out in the woods."

"Point well taken. Where you staying, Brick?"

"Well, it's not the Hilton—that's for damned sure. It's the Motel 6. Right on your way."

We left the Nineties Bar together, still partners and friends—but not all that gaily either.

I pulled the Town Car into the Hilton parking lot at about eight o'clock. The valet kid was long gone, replaced by a middle-aged man. He took the ten-spot I pressed into his hand and mumbled a thank-you. Once inside, I stopped off at the front desk and was gratified to find that at long last my Michigan State Concealed Weapons Permit had been delivered by the police. The desk-guy handed me my two weapons from the safe—both discreetly wrapped in brown paper—I stuffed one in each pocket of my overcoat. Thanking him, I turned and started up the stairs to my second-floor room. I guess I could have taken the elevator, but it was only a short climb, and I rather liked the ornate stairway.

Barely reaching the top, I was about to turn down the hallway to my right when I heard the voice of the check-in guy calling my name. He had come out from behind the desk and was standing nearly at the bottom of the stairs. I retraced my steps back down.

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. O'Brien, but I've just taken a call for you at the front desk. The caller said it was extremely urgent and told me to go and get you and not transfer it to your room. He's on the line now.

I had to admit that I was a little disappointed in hearing that the caller was a man. I had spoken to Maggie only once since I arrived, and intended to call her again as soon as I got to my room. I had hoped it might be her—but as it was, the call was only likely to delay me a minute or two. More than likely it was either Brick, having forgotten to tell me something, or Howard with some news from the home front.

I made my way to the desk where the clerk handed me the phone. "O'Brien here," I said, and waited for a reply. Nothing. Absolutely nothing, and nobody was on the other end of the line. At least no one that would identify themselves. Listening carefully, however, I was pretty sure I could make out breathing. I spoke into the receiver a couple of more times, and getting no response, handed it back to the clerk.

"Guess they had the wrong number," I explained. "If the same person calls back, please just transfer the call to my room, regardless of what he says, okay?"

The clerk nodded his head affirmatively as I turned once more toward the stairs, but not yet reaching them. That's when my world was ripped apart—as a giant blast tore through the entire second floor of the hotel, and I was thrown a good fifteen to twenty feet through the air. I landed hard against a wall as all of the wind went out of me.

The sound of screaming came slowly to my ears. I must have been out for a few seconds, as I finally became fully aware of my surroundings.

It was like a nightmare. I had been in two explosions before—both propane. That stuff was bad enough. But this—this I had never encountered before. The destruction was nearly complete. I could actually see moonlight and clouds through what had once been a solid wall of the building. This had to be the work of high-powered plastic explosives. This was destructive efficiency—on steroids. A lady was slowly getting to her feet just a short distance from me. She had been thrown down the stairs. Her body was blackened and burned, and _smoldered_ as she staggered forward in a daze. I tried to rise to help her, but my legs were temporarily useless—gone out from under me, same as so many other times in the past. Another man, thrown over the balcony railing, sat on the floor maybe thirty feet away—holding a bleeding stump of his arm and crying. I realized there was nothing I could do for them. Ambulances would certainly soon be on their way. I had been lucky, at the bottom of the stairs, and had escaped the worst of it.

Somehow, I needed to get away from the spot I was in and get to my car. This was no accident, and I was certain that there was going to be more to come—and very soon. I needed to get out of here and get to Brick and Shahida. They could be next. Our plan was obviously going to need to be reworked. Our twenty-four hours or so no longer existed. Brick had been one-hundred percent correct in his assessment of the situation. As it turned out, even he had badly under-estimated Moradi.

Brick was right. I very much needed a different mind-set.

Finally, I got my legs under me again, and I headed for the front door, shaking my head as I went and trying to get some hearing back into my blast damaged and ringing ears. Smoke was beginning to billow down what was left of the staircase and fill the lobby. I could hear sirens rapidly approaching—firemen, no doubt, that would be able to quickly quell the smoke and flames.

At last I cleared the doors and was slightly revived by the cold night air. I pulled my overcoat around me. I was happy to note the pleasant weight of my two pistols still safely in the right-hand pocket, as well as the watch in the inside pocket of my suitcoat.

I could see the Town Car parked a short distance away. The second set of keys were also still safely in my pocket, so I avoided the valet shack completely and headed straight for the car.

I was approximately a hundred feet or so away from it when the second blast again took me completely off my feet and slammed me down hard onto the concrete. Vaguely, I remember rising up on one elbow and trying to understand what had just happened. That's when I noticed the Town Car—now a virtual ball of flame and almost totally destroyed. The gas in the tank was contributing to the inferno. Another bomb had gone off underneath the car. A car that I would have been sitting inside of if my bad legs had only worked a little faster. For once, my bum-spine had saved my life—instead of making it more miserable, as usual.

I lowered myself onto my back. The last thing I remembered seeing was the moon in the sky—on a surprising clear night, after a day of clouds and snow. And then I went unconscious.

I would stay that way for the next several hours.
CHAPTER TWELVE

Bellevue, Washington

Present Day

Linh awoke with a start, her senses immediately on alert. The house was quiet and sullen; vast, deep and empty—much like a cave. Then, the sound that woke her repeated. The doorbell. Arising from the bed, donning a robe and slippers, Linh made her way down the stairs as the bell chimed for the third time.

Swinging open the door a moment later, Linh was pleased to find a friendly face waiting on the other side. Their eyes met for a second as Linh quickly moved aside to allow Maggie Moran to enter.

"Sorry to barge in like this without warning," Maggie began, "but I couldn't sleep last night and needed to talk to someone. Colonel Bob used to be my sounding board. Sometimes I miss him so much my teeth ache."

"No problem, Maggie. I'm glad you're here. I've been thinking of giving you a call myself. You're right. We do need to talk. We both have men we love. And they're both in trouble."

"I know it Linh. I've know it since Johnny had that late-night visitor."

"Who was it, Maggie?"

"It was Matt, Linh. Oh, Johnny didn't actually come right out and say it—but I knew."

"What did he say?"

"I don't know for sure, but I have a feeling he came to say goodbye."

"How much has Johnny told you, Maggie?"

"Pretty much everything, Linh. I know about Matt, and I know about the watch."

Linh let out a sigh. "I'm glad. I've hated keeping that secret. But I had to wait for Johnny to tell you. It just wasn't my place."

"That's okay, Linh. I understand. And now I understand quite a lot about what you've been living with too."

"Well, it was never easy, Maggie. And it's extra hard now too, with little Albert on the way. You know about Roan and Aedan?"

"Yes. And Joshua too. I don't think I'd trust him very much."

"Well, that makes two of us. Matt certainly has some interesting choices to make in the not too distant future. Trouble is, I don't know for sure if I'm going to be one of those choices or not."

"And if you're not, Linh?"

"Then I'm not—and that's the end of that. I go on, by myself. Well, not exactly alone. Albert and I go on alone, together."

"You'll _never_ be alone Linh. You have family and a wonderful group of friends. I'm one of them."

"You sure are, Maggie. And I didn't mean to exclude anyone. I love all you guys—one and all. But my future, Albert's and my future, that will belong to me and no one else."

"So what are we going to do, sister?" Maggie asked with conviction.

"I don't exactly know. But one thing I sure do know is this. We aren't going to sit around here moping. I don't have an idea in the world where Matt is right now. Do you know where Johnny is?"

"Yes. He's in Detroit. At a downtown hotel. I tried calling this morning, but can't seem to get through. You want to try him again on your phone?"

"Has he called you?"

"Yes. On the night he arrived. He was supposed to call again last night, but he never did."

"That's not much like Johnny."

"I know. And that's what worries me. It's the main reason I was awake for most of the night, and the reason I'm here today. I'm scared."

"You should be. It's not at all like that man to not keep his word, or to forget anything. Tell you what Maggie—here's my phone. Try his number right now, while I go in the office and fire-up the computer. I'm starting to get a feeling we might be needing it for some airline tickets."

"Okay."

Linh turned to go, but the Maggie's voice stopped her short.

"I'm in love with Johnny, Linh. I think I actually fell in love with him the day I met him. They say that love at first sight is a fool's dream—a myth. But I don't know. I would have married him if he'd called me the very next day. I know that."

"Have you and Johnny . . . you know?" Linh asked lamely.

"No. We came close, but we didn't do it. And I don't regret it either. Sometimes Linh, even most usually, the ways of the world just aren't the best way. We didn't want to do things the way everybody else seems to want to do them these days. Johnny and I wanted to wait. We wanted to do things right. My first husband, Bobby Moran—well, we didn't wait. I loved Bobby to distraction, but I've always kind of regretted that one thing."

Linh closed the distance between them in three steps, throwing her arms around Maggie and pulling her in tight. Lightly, she kissed the top of the older woman's head. "That's just fine, Maggie. As a matter of fact, that is absolutely perfect. I loved you and Johnny before. But now I just love you two even more. You both are one in a million."

Maggie looked up and smiled. "Thanks, Linh. These days a lot of folks wouldn't understand."

"This one would, Maggie. Just for the record, Matt and I waited too. Matt's like Johnny—he's been around. And I didn't exactly come to the marriage bed a virgin either. But I want to tell you, there's nothing like a wedding night, and a first time—with a man you love—and are married to."

There was a knock at the door. Both women jumped a little with the unexpectedness of it. Whoever was there had not used the doorbell. Linh made her way to the door. Tucking her right hand into the pocket of her robe, she gripped the small .380 automatic hidden inside, as she swung the door open with her left.

"I might have guessed," she said with a smile, again standing aside and allowing Howard Carter to enter. "You don't like electronics very much."

"God invented knuckles before new-fangled doorbells, I always say," Carter said smiling as he made his way into the living room. Seeing Maggie, he crossed the room to her and hugged her. Maggie grinned with the additional attention.

"I'm glad to find you here, Maggie. I need to talk to both of you, and I'm glad you two are together."

"What's going on, Howard?" Linh asked.

"Lots. Have either one of you heard anything from either Johnny or Matt?" Both women shook their heads negatively.

"Johnny was going to call Maggie last night, but he didn't. Do you know anything, Howard?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid I do."

"What?"

"Detroit is on lock-down. There are very few calls going in or out. No flights into or out of Detroit Metro either. In other words, most communications are impossible."

"Why? What's going on?"

"Because they had a major terror-attack last night. Two downtown Hotels were bombed. And I mean bombed. As in blown-up. Totally destroyed. A one story Motel 6 on Woodward Avenue, and the Hilton Garden Inn on Gratiot, along with a private residence out in the burbs. The Hilton is, or rather was, a nine-story hotel. About half an hour after the bomb went off on the second floor, the top seven floors on one entire side of the hotel pancaked down onto the others, just like in the World Trade Towers years ago. Between that and the Motel 6, there are twenty-eight known dead, and probably sixty or so injured. That count is going to go up, they say. They're still digging out the dead this morning. It's all over the news, and internationally as well."

"Muslims?" Linh said.

"Likely—but not confirmed at this time. No one is claiming credit."

Howard and Linh turned toward Maggie, and were surprised to see that she had sat down on the sofa and was staring at the floor.

"Maggie—are you all right?"

"Did you know where Johnny was staying, Howard?"

"No."

"The Hilton Garden Inn. On the second floor. He's dead, Howard."

Howard's face turned ashen as he sat down beside her and grabbed her roughly by both shoulders. "Bullshit, Maggie. Don't you dare think that. Now even for a second. I've seen that man come though some mighty tough scrapes in his life. The bastard has more Irish luck in him than a full brigade of marching buck-naked transgendered leprechauns at a Pat Roberts rally—and that's a hellofa lot."

Maggie smiled weakly and nodded her head. "All right. He's alive then, Howard—until we find out different—okay?"

"Damned right Maggie. Listen girl, I know we haven't really gotten off on the right foot, you and I. But I want you to know that I think Johnny is one lucky son-of-a-bitch to have found you. And there's no way in Hell he isn't coming back for you."

"Thanks Howard."

"What was Johnny doing in Detroit anyhow, Howard?" Linh asked.

"I sent him there. Me, and the President of the United States."

"The President? Why?"

"To kill three men."

"Because?"

"Because they're mad-dog terrorists and they needed to be killed. That's why."

"Why Johnny, Howard? What's so special about a middle-aged private-detective with a bad back? What makes him so damned lethal over—oh, I don't know, any number of other hit men you might have found on Craig's List?"

"You bloody well know the answer to that one. Because he has the watch. And the watch likes him. It'll work for him."

"And that makes him a killing machine in your book—doesn't it Howard?"

"Yeah—pretty much."

"Well, Howard—was it worth it? Maybe your best friend is dead. Was it worth it? Apparently you and the Prez sent him straight into a trap."

"It looks that way. And I intend to find out why. And yeah Linh. It was worth it. You bet. I'd do it again in a second too. And I'll even tell you why. Because Johnny wanted to do it. And because even if he _has_ given his life to protect what, a hundred, a hundred and fifty or so children—then yeah—it was worth it. Because he's a man Linh, a real damned straight-shooting man with a set of balls like nobody else I ever knew. Right out of a frickin' Zane Grey novel. And you've gotta know there aren't that many of them around anymore. Once he knew what the stakes were—I couldn't have _stopped_ him."

Linh dropped her eyes to the floor resignedly.

"What do we do?" Maggie quietly asked. "Forget about blame. What are we going to do?"

"We're going to go find him—that's what the hell we're gonna do." Howard answered. "Dead, alive, or anywhere in between. We form a posse, saddle up and go find him. We do for him what he'd do for us. We get him back. Then we get the sons-of-bitches that did this."

"The three of us?" Linh asked.

"Yeah—the three of us. That's what we've got, so that's what we use. I sure could use Matt too, right about now—but he's checked out. Any idea at all where he is, Linh?"

"No. None."

"Then we go it alone."

"How are we going to get there?"

"Easy. The private jet that took Johnny to Detroit is back and sitting out at the Sea-Tac right now. I'll call the pilot and tell him to get his ass out of bed and get down there and fly us. There are plenty of airports just outside the city where we can land, if I can't sweet-talk clearance into Metro."

"And if you can't find him?"

"Then I'll fly the damned thing myself. I didn't spend eight years in the Air Force for nothing. I've had a pilot's license for years."

"Jets?"

"Single engine Cessna—but close enough. They all work about the same."

Linh smiled weakly. "Howard, you constantly amaze me."

"Yeah, you and everybody else, little-sister. Go pack a bag."

"Do they have stores in Detroit, Howard?"

"I expect they do."

"Then I don't need to pack. I'll change into clothes and be ready in five minutes."

"Sweet, Linh. One more thing."

"What's that Howard?"

"Pack your hardware. And bring a second set for Maggie. I've got a real strong feeling we're going to be needing them. You know how to use a gun, Maggie?"

"Sure. Couldn't be married to Bobby Moran and not know that."

"Then stand up, raise your right hand, and repeat after me."

"Repeat what?"

"The oath. You've just joined the Police Department.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was without a reasonable doubt the strangest night of my life. Not unconscious, yet not awake either—I existed in a sort of vacuum or void. Near total darkness, with all of darkness's attendant fears—demons, devils and shades. I didn't know what they wanted from me—and they weren't talking either. The darkness was interrupted from time to time with brilliant flashes of pure white light, along with beautiful settings in woods and glen. From the light came voices, with occasional faces to go along with them, flashing before my eyes. Faces of friends and family long gone. Some entreated me to enter and stay. Others warned to go back.

Thing was—I had no idea how to get back.

Another man might have thought that he was near death. I knew better. Another man might have wondered if he were seriously injured and suspended between Heaven and Hell. I knew I was not injured at all. This was something else. I was in no danger of crossing over to the other side—I was only a visitor to this land of the dead.

I could feel my body, alive and well, laying on a gurney in a hospital hallway. I was still fully dressed in my suit, although my tie had been removed. My overcoat had been rolled up and placed under my head. I could feel hands, those of living, breathing beings upon me in the night. Turning me, examining me, placing an oxygen tube over my ears and into my nose. I would briefly awaken, but unable to rise, quickly drift back to sleep to continue my tour of the netherworld. Finally, at last, toward morning I believe, I could feel two strong orderlies helping me off the gurney and into a wheelchair. A pinprick in my shoulder. Flashes of hallway entered under the slits of my eyelids as I was wheeled out of the hospital and into a waiting vehicle.

Then drug induced total blackness.

I didn't know how many more hours passed before I regained my senses again. This time I was fully awake and aware, the stupor of the night passed. Trouble was, I still couldn't move—both of my hands shackled behind my back. I was sitting upright in my underwear, in a solid-backed wooden desk chair. One of the old-fashioned heavy oak monsters. My ankles were also bound. There was no blindfold. Shaking my head to clear the last remaining cobwebs from my brain, I looked around at my surroundings. A rather large warehouse or factory of some type—long unused. The dust of the ages lay on the floor. Wreckage of an industry long-since dead and passed. A little light permeated the dirty and grungy windows. The hum of a motor of some kind nearby. My outer clothes and overcoat lay in a heap a few feet away. Two bearded young men stood grinning before me.

I didn't think they were hospital staff anymore.

The first spoke. Carter was right. There was no hint of an accent. These were American boys, through and through. Mom, Chevy, and apple pie. The works, plus murder, mayhem, and stone cold-blooded infanticide on a grand scale.

"So this is the great American detective John O'Brien. The man sent to kill us. Doesn't look like that that's working out so well for you Mr. O'Brien."

"The day's not over yet," I replied.

"The day will be over for you pretty soon, O'Brien. Matter of fact, all of your days will soon be over. Today though, _this_ day—well, that's apt to be a long one for you. Long, bloody, and painful."

"So what else is new? Comes with the job. Mom always wanted me to be a dentist. Nice safe job, she always said. She may have had a good point."

"We have heard about your smart mouth. Want to bet we can close it?

"Oh, what the hell," I responded. "What the _hell_ do I care? All you can do is kill me. Must not be that big a deal. Like falling off a log. Must be really easy—most all of my friends have done it."

"Not so easy for you, John O'Brien. You die like a dog. But we won't do it. We won't hurt a hair on your head. That's for someone else. Not us."

Now they had my interest up.

"What's the problem, Sparky?" I taunted. "Ain't man enough to get your hands a little dirty? Or do you prefer to do your killing long distance? Like a couple of blocks away—setting off car bombs?"

A female voice behind me spoke. "These bozos don't set off bombs. They're way too dumb to be trusted with the high-tech stuff. That's my job."

She walked around to face me. From the build-up, I was more than a little surprised. The Ice-Queen didn't look very much like I expected.

She was a bit older than I would have thought. I had imagined thirty-something. She was maybe pushing fifty—hard. Once beautiful, age had dimmed it a bit. But still, I could tell she had once been a looker. Now there were Crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes, and a few wrinkles at the lips. Her hair was reddish-blond, close cropped, yet still fashionable. She reminded me a bit of the late actress Lynn Redgrave—but without Lynn's smiling eyes. These were the flat, dead eyes of the Orcs—one of the undead. No Arab dress for this lady. She wore simple jeans, form-fitting. A red shirt and black leather jacket completed the ensemble. From her right hand dangled her only fashion accessory—a cattle-prod. A rather large one from the look of it. One with a lot of amperage.

Like the men, she was American through and through. She was even up on her movie references.

"I hate to sound like Olivier in _Marathon Man_ ," she began. "But still, I feel the need to ask you. Is it safe?"

Unlike Dustin Hoffman in the film, at least I knew to what she was referring. "How the hell do I know?" I said. You're the one with about half my clothes. You tell me."

"It wasn't in your clothes."

Now this was news to me. When the blast from the car-bomb had plowed me down into the parking lot asphalt, it had been in the inside pocket of my sport-coat. I supposed it might have got rattled out, but still—it was in there pretty damned deep. Seemed unlikely.

I decided to play for time. God only knew where Brick might be. That was if he were alive at all. Still, it was a chance. I didn't seem to have a hell of a lot going for me otherwise.

"If you don't mind my saying so, Icy—you don't much seem like a jihadist zealot. Don't dress like one either."

"I'm no Muslim. And not a Muslim-lover either. But they pay damned well. And as for America—I like nothing more than seeing its face rubbed it the dirt. America never did a damned thing for me."

"Where you from?"

"Chicago. Born and bred . . . is it _safe_ , Mr. O'Brien?"

So we were back to that again. "I dunno," I answered.

"Mr. O'Brien, I'm going to be honest with you. No matter what happens here today, you don't walk away. You're a dead man, sitting in his underwear in a chair. Your only choice is in how you die. A nice clean knife through your throat, or a corpse unrecognizable as a human being."

"Torturing me to death will take you some time. After all, I can't tell you what I don't know. Seems a better deal to me than making a large pool of blood on the floor in the next five minutes."

"Trust me, Mr. O'Brien. You will not enjoy the extra time."

"Still though," I said, "that's my choice."

"A bad one. Perhaps you will have second thoughts when I show you what awaits you." Turning to the two men, she said simply, "Gentlemen." They grinned again and started toward a large metal door nearby. A door that went into a metal box. A box about the size of a small house. An overhead track ran into it. I hadn't recognized the hum that I had been hearing for what it was. Now I knew. The large metal box was a working walk-in freezer.

I was soon to learn how the Ice-Queen had gotten her nickname.

"You are in the old Packard manufacturing plant, Mr. O'Brien. It opened in the early nineteen hundreds, and closed in 1958. Completely abandoned in the nineties, it fell into ruins—fit only for drug deals and rodents—both the four, and two-legged kind."

"This particular building was the transmission plant. It's held up a little better than the rest of the complex. A few years ago an enterprising individual tried opening a meat-packing plant on these premises. Didn't last any longer than any of the previous businesses though. Just the same, the walk-in freezer still works just fine. All it needed was the addition of a portable generator. I was happy enough to provide one of those."

"I like ice, Mr. O'Brien. The cold doesn't affect me at all. The same can't be said though of mere mortals. Like the unfortunate one you are about to meet. He's been chilling in there for quite a long time now, while we waited for you to wake up. I really have no idea if he is alive or dead at this moment. Either way, I'm sure you will get the point. Like the Borg say, Mr. O'Brien—resistance _is_ futile."

The two men swung open the door. There was not a light inside. One of them flipped a switch to get the overhead conveyer moving. It was meant to move sides of beef from the cutting floor into the freezer and vice-versa. A partly frozen carcass was easier by far to cut and slice than one at room temperature. It was never meant to work for humans though.

But then the Ice-Queen had made some modifications.

At first I thought it must be a corpse hanging so grotesquely from the meat-hook. The rusted hook was meant to take the weight of half a cow. Even at that, it was slightly bent under the weight of the poor unfortunate soul that was hanging at the end of it. He had either been lifted up and unto the hook or it had been rammed cruelly into his back while he lay on the floor. It protruded from out the front of his chest, but far enough into the shoulder area to not cause death.

No, that would have been far too quick and merciful for the mistress of the ice.

He was a young man, maybe thirty or so. My worst fears—that this was my partner Brick, were quickly put to rest when I saw the full beard covering the lower half of his face. He was probably a poor homeless guy, lured with the promise of a meal or booze. I thought the beard might be red at first, but as he approached closer on the conveyor, I was able to see that it was simply drenched in blood. The source of all that blood was readily apparent when I saw his eyes. All that was left were two empty sockets. Both of his eyes had been gouged out. His mouth was taped over.

His body was deep blue at this point. Fingers and toes were turning black as they began to freeze solid. The rivers of blood running down his naked body were partly frozen. They had almost ceased to drip—but not completely. It looked like my two friends had been busy—slicing long strips of flesh from his body. Several long jagged slices opened and closed in rhythm with his breaths.

The poor bastard was still very much alive.

The conveyor stopped in front of my chair.

"So what do you think of my little exhibition, Mr. O'Brien?"

"Very impressive, Icy. For a psychopathic monster, that is."

She nodded and smiled slightly. "High praise."

"Why don't you put that poor bastard out of his misery, Icy? Then we'll talk business," I said.

"Maybe," she replied. "Maybe that's just exactly what I'll do, Mr. O'Brien. A shame to let him go to his grave all cold like that though. Maybe he needs to be warmed up a little first."

She smiled again as she nodded her head again toward the two men. One of them picked an object up off the floor and walked toward the impaled man. As he approached, he struck a match to it and the propane torch sprang to life. Opening up the value to its full force, it produced a jagged blue flame that sprang out about twelve inches.

He thrust it into the groin of the helpless hanging man, concentrating it on his genitals. And he left it there. The poor miserable hanging slob began to jerk and convulse as his reproductive organs turned black and began to crack open and pop. A long high-pitched and choking wail escaped his lips despite the duct tape. His legs sawmilled even though they were bound together at the ankles. A clear liquid ran from his nose as the partial incineration continued. The liquid slowly turned crimson. The stench of burning pubic hair joined that of the roasting flesh.

It was not a pleasant odor.

Nor was the crackling of his flesh a pleasant sound.

I had never seen such a horrible death in all my years as a cop. It seemed to go on forever, but in truth was probably a minute or a minute and a half as the poor slob slowly went into hemorrhagic shock, his system simply overwhelmed by the amount, severity and savagery of the lacerations and burns he had received. Finally, his jerking and flopping stopped and he hung still—smoldering.

"You are one sick bitch," I said simply. "Guess it's my turn next."

"Guess so, big-boy," she said with a savage smile. "And no time like the present."

With that she pressed the on button on the cattle-prod, and jammed it into my chest. My world exploded into pain and white light as the electrical current ran through my body. She held it to me for several seconds, and then switched it off. I fought for consciousness and tried not to pee myself.

"Untie him boys," Icy said. "And cut _that_ down. We're going to need the hook again."

I tried to fight back. Honestly I did. The thing was though, I just didn't have any strength after that blast to my chest. And my legs were useless. No point anyhow, I figured. I only wondered how badly that rusty giant hook was going to hurt as it was rammed into my back. A man on each side of me, they dragged me toward my impending doom.

Only vaguely was I aware from out of the corner of my eye, of the door on the other side of the room opening. I was heartened. Perhaps the Calvary had arrived at last. Perhaps help was here. Perhaps I was saved. And then he walked in. A little old chubby man. All by himself. Alone. Dressed in an old-fashioned three-piece gray flannel suit, and fedora hat.

I was about to meet the oddest human being I had ever known in my life.

Or ever would.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The old man paused for a few seconds just inside the door, and then, pulling a dainty white gentleman's handkerchief from his front suit jacket pocket and mopping his brow, slowly advanced toward us. He had a way to come across the rather large building—perhaps a hundred feet or so. It gave me a good opportunity to size the guy up.

If this was what the angels were sending to me as a rescue party—I was in some pretty tough luck.

The guy was a dandy. His dress harkened back to an earlier time. I vaguely wondered if it might have been something he had purchased in a costume shop, or was perhaps an original. He certainly looked old enough. As he advanced with his small mincing, and somewhat painful looking steps though, I made him to be perhaps still in his sixties, although pushing the big seven-o, mighty awful hard. Again, he doffed his fedora to mop at his brow and top of head. The haberdashery was sweet—off white, with a wide dark band. The man's suit and vest were a conservative gray, but his wide old-fashioned neck tie more than made up for it. It was a bright Kelly-green, and looked like it had been fashioned from some pretty pricey silk. Had a nice silver and pearl stick-pin in it too. My eyes frantically searched for an outline of a pocket watch, or a chain handing from somewhere.

Trouble was—I could plainly see there wasn't one. Just the faint imprint of what I thought was probably an old-fashioned skeleton key in his trouser pocket.

Physically, the old-timer didn't impress very much. He looked overweight by a good thirty pounds. His sallow skin color and wispy silver hair did little to inspire confidence. The eyes were bright though, almost sparkly—and looked about thirty years younger than the rest of his sad countenance.

Finally, he reached us. He seemed to pay no attention to the bloody and smoldering corpse still hanging only a few feet away. I kind of wondered how he could not be noticing it. The entire area still smelled like a slaughter-house. Metallic blood and roasted human flesh—pretty damned hard aromas to miss.

The two bozos that had been dragging me to my death turned me loose at almost the same instant, and my body crashed hard to the floor. This, I realized immediately, was a vast improvement over my condition of only a few seconds before. Maybe now, if I could get my legs to cooperate, I could do something about mounting a counterattack. Trouble was, Icy realized it too, as she once again jammed the cattle-prod into my left kidney area and gave me another blast. I can honestly say I had never experience a pain like that before in my life. Even the sensation of being shot did not begin to match it. Again, white light exploded before my eyes, as I writhed and thrashed on the floor. It had been way too close to the old spinal cord injury for comfort. This time my legs were completely gone—useless stumps of numb flesh protruding out from my torso.

My bladder let go and I wet myself. The bowels were threatening to do the same, as I wildly tried to control them. I was too deeply hurt and stunned to even scream out. I simply lay in my own urine and fought to regain some control of my breathing.

There was no fight left in me. Whatever happened now was completely in the lap of the Gods. I struggled to keep my eyelids open, resolved at least to witness how it all turned out. I wondered just how they were going to kill the old man—fast and painlessly, or meat-hook agonizingly slow.

The old man was the first to speak.

"Oh dear," he said softly, as he looked at me on the floor. "That's going to leave a mark for sure." Then he turned his attention to bozo number one. "I'm sorry," he calmly stated. "I'm afraid I've lost my way this morning. Can either of you two gentleman direct me to the Tuller Hotel?" He spoke with a soft and gentle voice. Cultured. No hint of an accent in it. He kind of reminded me of that wonderful old actor of so many late night black and white movies—Cecil Kellaway.

Classy guy. I was kind of sorry he had wandered into the middle of something he could never begin to understand. Too bad he only had a few more seconds or perhaps at best minutes to live. I really wished I could have helped him. I really wished I could have helped me too—come to think of it.

Bozo number one just sort of stared at him for a few seconds, kind of taken aback by the sudden appearance of what was probably the last possible thing on earth that he would have expected to see.

"Just who the hell are you?!" he shouted at the old guy.

Ignoring the outburst, the old-timer simply smiled and stuck out his right hand for a friendly shake, and said, "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I don't know what I've done with my manners this morning. "My name is Selby. Norman Selby. I'm a visitor to this fair city and I fear I've lost my way. I have an important appointment at the Tuller Hotel, and I afraid I'm going to be late. I wonder if you would be so kind as to point me in the right direction."

The two bozos looked at each other in consternation and amazement—momentarily speechless. Finally, they began to softly laugh. Even Icy, standing slightly behind them, broke into an odd smile.

It was practically a Hallmark moment.

After a few seconds, Icy was the one to break the mood. "Kill him," she said simply, as her two goons drew their weapons. Bozo on the right pulled a rather nice looking nine-mil pistol, while the other flicked open a switchblade. I was happy to see it.

At least it was going to be over quickly for grandpa.

At the very same time, and from my rather unique perspective on the floor, I saw something else too. I saw the expression on grandpa's face change—ever so slightly. The three baddies missed it completely, as goon number one changed his knife to his left hand and reached out to the old-timer to take his offered handshake.

Mr. Selby had smiled. A very slight smile, that included an equally small, but entirely discernable—flash of rather, surprisingly white and straight teeth.

Looking back, I don't really understand why the bozo took his hand. I guess he probably figured the old guy was harmless, and simply meant to pull him forward into the knife. I guess that's what he probably thought—but it sure as hell wasn't what happened.

The knife flashed all right, but the thing was—it flashed in the old man's hand. I didn't have an idea in the world on how he might have gotten hold of it. Maybe I had blacked-out for a few seconds, but if I had, I sure didn't know it.

Selby simply tossed the knife away. It skittered across the concrete floor and ended up in a pile of junk several yards away, rendered completely harmless. It would have taken at least several minutes to have even found the thing. The goon tried to swing on Selby, but missed by a country mile. Norman didn't. He came around with a jab to the goon's face that I think must have knocked him into the next week. I could hear an audible snap as the thug's face snapped back under the power of the blow. He sank to the floor—stunned.

Goon number two leveled his pistol at Selby's chest and pulled the trigger. The resulting blast and echo filled the vast and mostly empty old factory. Thing was though—his bullet didn't hit anything. Selby was gone from where he had been, and was now standing just to the side of the thug. I had never even seen him move. Once again his fist came up, and once again another bad guy was cascading down to the floor, nearly unconscious on his feet.

My mind flashed to that venerable old fictional karate master, Mr. Myagi. Thing was—there was no karate involved here. And no fiction either. This was just good old fashioned power punching. I was beginning to wonder if the old prizefighter Mohammed Ali in his prime would have lasted very long with Mr. Norman Selby.

The Ice-Queen took one quick look at her two henchmen down on the floor, and bolted. As in turned, and made a mad dash for the exit. She was damned fast too. One of the thugs was trying to get to his feet, so Selby didn't go after her. Instead, he calmly waited for the bozo to get himself upright, and then delivered the meanest, nastiest, roundhouse upper-cut I had ever seen in my life. It actually lifted the poor schmuck's feet a good six inches off the floor before he slammed back down into it—out cold, and no more fight in him.

Bozo number one regained his feet too, but taking a look at his partner on the floor, decided not to make a stand, and hotfooted it out the door that Icy had just exited. I noticed that he wobbled considerably as he did so—but he made it out.

The silence was deafening as Selby walked over to me and offered his hand. Slowly, I was able to get my feet untangled and the legs working enough again to be able to make it to my feet. I stood, swaying for a few moments. Selby kept hold of me, steadying me on my feet while I got my wind back into me, and regained my bearings.

I looked a long time into his face. I didn't recognize what I was seeing. No, the face wasn't familiar, but the act I had just seen was.

"Brick?" I asked tentatively. "Is that you?"

Selby smiled widely and said, "Now, if you're going to insult me Mr. O'Brien—I'm afraid we're not going to be able to be friends."

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Selby, Mr. O'Brien. Norman Selby. Just like I said."

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"What I just saw!" I nearly shouted. "How the hell did you just handle those two men like they were bales of hay?"

He shrugged his shoulders and simply answered, "Moved fast and hit hard—that's all. Nothing to it really."

I staggered back a couple of feet again and almost lost my balance. Once more Selby reached out to steady me. "You going to be all right, Mr. O'Brien?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Been worse than this. My friends call me Johnny."

"Okay Johnny. My friends just call me Kid."

"Kid it is then." I looked him over again from closer range. Only now did I notice the rather large nose that sat on his face, and the several odd angles that went along with it. It was plain that it had been broken a time or three before, and it was obvious too that this was not the Kid's first rodeo.

"You must have one hell of a back-story," I offered.

"I do. Perhaps I'll tell it to you one day, Johnny."

"How did you know I was here?"

"A mutual acquaintance. That and the locating device in your phone."

"The GPS. Clever."

The kid walked over to check out the hanging corpse while I limped to my pile of clothes and quickly removed my sodden undershorts, replacing them with just the outer slacks. Not quite as warm, but a whole lot dryer. Smelled better too. I was just finishing up with my shirt and tie, when the outside door opened again, and in walked Brick Wahl.

"Where the hell have you been?" I loudly demanded.

In answer, Brick underhand tossed me an object. Even flying through the air, I could see that it was the pocket watch. I caught it easily.

"You need to do a better job of hanging on to your toys, Johnny. Can't just let a little thing like this be passed around all over the city."

"Where was it?"

"At the nurse's station. They took it off you last night at the hospital for safekeeping. I guess the two dodo-birds that smuggled you out of there never thought to even ask for it there. Brilliant."

"Good thing they were stupid, Brick. I was really out of it. What happened anyway?"

"Long story short, Johnny—you pretty much had the air sucked out of you in the explosion. Your oxygen depleted brain had a hard time getting back up to speed, so to speak. It's a common enough condition in bombing survivors. You'll be fine."

"Wouldn't have been if Mr. Selby hadn't gotten here in time. He saved my life. You would have been just a little late, Brick—stopping off like you did for the watch."

"I went after what was important," Brick said with mild irritation. "I knew the Kid could get you out of here by himself."

"You sent him?"

"Yeah, we're sorta . . . old friends."

"How many are dead at the Hotel, Brick?"

"Too damned many—that's how many. And I've got more bad news."

"What?"

"They hit the motel I was staying at too. Missed me because I walked across the street for a nightcap. But they also bombed a house in Bloomfield Hills. Shahida's dead, Johnny."

"Jesus," was all I could say.

"Yeah."

"I should have known, Brick. I met him. I saw Moradi. The middle-aged valet guy. I gave him the keys to my car. I even tipped him. God almighty, Brick. I should have known."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Johnny. He's a slick son-of-a-bitch. You saw his face good and clear?"

"Yeah— _real_ good."

"Well, he wouldn't have let you see it if he had thought you were going to survive the encounter. Fact of the matter is—you've survived _two_ encounters now. Moradi's going to be coming after you real damned hard, partner."

"Story of my life, Brick. What the hell else is new?"

The Kid joined us.

"How you doing, Pops?"

"Okay, Brick. No problem here. But two out of the three got away, I'm afraid."

"That's okay, Kid. We don't have to look for them—they're going to be coming after us—and they're going to be coming in force. We need to lay low for a while. We need to regroup."

"I know a good place," the Kid said.

"Yeah, I'll just bet you do," I said. "What's the deal with this guy anyhow, Brick?"

"Long story, Johnny. No time for it now. How is it that you didn't get killed back at the hotel?"

"Dumb luck. Someone called at the front desk. I took the call, but there was no one there. Right after that the place blew up."

"So without that call, you're in your room and dead right now?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Dumb luck my ass, Johnny."

The Kid chimed in. "I was afraid of that, Brick."

"Yeah—me too, Kid."

"What's the hell's going on here, Brick?"

"Something's all wrong here, Johnny. We're being played for fools. I'm starting to doubt big-time, that a children's school was ever the real target. I think that was the bait."

"For what?"

"Bigger fish, Johnny."

"That's pretty cryptic, Brick."

"Well, It's the best I got right now. But I sure as hell know these guys are way ahead of us at the moment, and I'm pretty sure that's because someone is feeding them information. That's why we need to split for a while."

"Where?"

"Someplace where they can't get to us. They've got a hell of a network around here."

"Ideas?" I said.

"My place," the Kid said. Brick nodded his head yes.

"Where's your place, Kid?"

"Right here. Right downtown."

I looked doubtful.

Brick spoke up. "Downtown Detroit, all right, Johnny. Detroit—1940, that is."

"Sounds good to me," I said. "I take it Mr. Selby knows all about the watch then, doesn't he?"

"Damned straight he does," Brick replied.

"What about our unconscious friend here on the floor?" I enquired.

"Kill him, Johnny—just like you would a mad-dog."

"Why me, Brick? You above getting a little blood on your hands?"

He looked a little pained. "You're the gun guy, Johnny. Besides, it should be personal for you—he was just about to string you up like a set of Christmas-tree lights."

He had a point. I looked at the hanging corpse—butchered like a pig. I thought of beautiful Shahida. I thought about all the dead and maimed at the two hotels. Then I walked over to my discarded overcoat and extracted my little Smith from the paper it had been wrapped in. I checked the cylinder to make sure it was still loaded. It was.

Standing over the prone form of a terrorist, madman, and a monster, it should have been easy to pump two .38 Special hollow-points into his head. Trouble was—I had been a cop. A protector of life. A defender of truth, justice and the American way. A believer in the system. This went against everything I thought I had ever stood for.

It should have been hard—but in the end, it really wasn't.

He had awoken. Rising to his elbows, he glared at me as I cocked the little pistol and aimed it at his head. He grinned. And then it turned into a snarl. Brick was right. He _was_ a mad-dog. The hatred in his eyes burned out of his head.

"I told you the day wasn't over yet," I said. Then I pulled the trigger. Twice. The man's brains and blood splattered over a much larger area than I would have imagined. The shots rang out through the stark and empty hallways of Hell. And a little bit of Johnny O'Brien died in that moment too. A little piece I knew I'd never get back again. Not for as long as I lived.

Damned hard to not get fleas, when you've been rolling around with the dogs.

We left the building then, the three of us—Brick, the Kid, and I. Heading for a Detroit of the past. A Detroit of dreams. A city set by a river. And a city in the glory of its youth. Running, we were. Running for our lives. With the Devil at our backs.

And we didn't use the door either . . .

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Detroit, Michigan

April, 1940

" _Hush, little baby, don't say a word,_

Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird . . .

And if that mockingbird don't sing,

Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring . . .

And if that diamond ring turns brass,

Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass . . .

And if that looking glass gets broke,

Mama's gonna buy you a billy-goat . . ."

The woman's voice was soft and gentle. Almost otherworldly. It floated on the night. It came from a distance, making the words hard to understand. But Johnny knew them all by heart. His own mother had sang them to him herself in his infancy.

Johnny strained to tell where the sound that had awakened him came from. It seemed to have no direction.

It seemed to be everywhere—and _nowhere_ —all at once.

The bed was large, and well covered. But even at that, Johnny shivered a bit in the cold. Detroit, on this fifteenth day of April, in the year of the Lord, nineteen hundred and forty, was wet, foggy, and near freezing. The dampness seemed to settle in the bones—indeed, even into the very _cells_ of the body. The old Victorian house on Virginia Park Street was large. One could even say rambling. Much too much space, for way too little coal-furnace.

Johnny pulled the covers up higher, and buried his head in the old-fashioned feather-pillow, trying to settle in again and return to sleep. He could just see the faintly illuminated hands of his wrist-watch on the night-stand.

Three-thirty in the morning.

In a few moments, the song began again. A bit softer—a little farther off.

" _And if that billy-goat won't pull,_

Mama's gonna buy you a cart and bull . . .

And if that cart and bull turn over,

Mama's gonna buy you a dog named Rover . . ."

Hesitation, as though the baby were finally drifting off to sleep. Then, a few moments later—the conclusion.

" _And if that dog named Rover won't bark,_

Mama's gonna buy you a horse and cart . . .

And if that horse and cart fall down,

You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town . . .

Hush, little baby, don't you cry,

Your Daddy loves you and so do I . . ."

Johnny listened intently, as it faded away to silence at the close.

In the end, there was nothing but the creaking of the old house, a gentle April breeze softly rattling the window shutters, and Johnny's shallow breathing, to be heard.

With a slight involuntary shudder—he returned to a fitful sleep.

* * *

Detroit

Present Day

At Detroit Metro airport, Howard Carter, Linh Zhou, and Maggie Moran made their way into the mostly deserted main airport concourse, as the pilot turned the small jet around and taxied once more out onto the runway, for the return trip home. He was not anxious to remain for long in the city of blood, as Detroit was being called on the news.

The terminal was cavernous, dark and cold. There were of course, no waiting curb-side taxis, as the terror-stricken city remained on full lock-down.

Howard went off to try to find a rental-car, while Maggie and Linh settled into a pair of hard, cold and unwelcoming waiting-room chairs.

"How you doing, pregnant girl?" Maggie asked with a thin smile.

"Had better days, to tell you the truth, Maggie. How 'bout you?"

"Had better days too, Linh. Had better days too."

Linh shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"How is little Matthew Albert doing?"

"Quiet. Just moving around enough to let me know he's all right."

"Sweet."

"What's on your mind, Maggie?"

"Just wondering what it would take to talk you into sitting this one out."

"Not a chance."

"You're pregnant, Linh."

"Yeah—I know. And the child I have inside me is part of this. Just as surely as you, or me, or Howard."

"I don't want you to be angry with me Linh, but do you have the right to risk his life?"

"I'm not angry with you Maggie, and I'm not about to be either. Everything you say to me is said out of love and concern. But the answer is yes. I _do_ think I have the right to risk his life—and I have every intention of doing it."

"I know you have strong feelings for Johnny, Linh—but he isn't your husband."

"Again, Maggie—and with all due respect. I'm sitting in a dark, empty, and cold airport terminal well over a thousand miles from home, in the middle of a Michigan wintery night. I've got two of my three best friends with me and the third one needs our help. The child I'm carrying has his name as well as Matt's. As a fine point, and as a matter-of-fact, Johnny actually means a lot more to me right now than Matt does. In case you haven't noticed it Maggie—I don't have a husband right now. And I'm not real sure I'm going to ever have one again, either."

"Johnny is almost certainly dead." Maggie said softly, her eyes cast on the tile floor.

"I'm sorry Maggie, but you don't know Johnny O'Brien like I do. You haven't seen the hell on earth that man can wade through. I have. I've waded through some of it with him. I'll believe he's dead when I look into his cold, sightless eyes, and not one micro-second before. And Albert and I are going to go look for him—if it kills us both. End of story."

"It's what he would do for you—isn't it?"

"Yeah, Maggie—it's what he'd do for me. Or you. Or Howard. Or even Matt, although I believe he's not proving himself to be really worthy of that kind of loyalty, sad to say."

"I'm sorry, Linh."

"Don't be, Maggie. We all sleep in the beds we make. I'm just sleeping in mine now, that's all. I knew I wasn't his first love. I knew every bit of it because he told me every bit—every single word—himself. This blame I take on _me_ —no one else."

Carter appeared in a few minutes, carrying a set of keys, and what appeared to be a rolled-up jacket.

"We're in luck. Not a rental to be had in Detroit, but the head of airport security is an ex-cop, and he's loaning us his own personal car. He says there is a makeshift city morgue set-up in a Church just across the street from the Hilton. He knows the Sergeant on duty and is calling ahead for us. We can be there in an hour or less. There's about forty or so dead in there, and if Johnny's not among them, we'll go over to the Harper Hospital on Woodward, just up the street from the Hilton. Most all of the wounded are there, and quite a few minor injuries have already been released. Even if he's one of those, they'll still have his name on file. Then we'll go from there."

Linh started to arise. "Let's get going then, and get this part over with."

"Linh," Howard began.

"Forget it Howard. You're not my boss tonight. You're my friend. And I'm going along."

Howard smiled his patented crooked smile. "Never doubted it for a second, Officer McCabe, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Just wanted you to take a minute and put this on. Let's give little Matthew Albert every chance we can—all right?" Howard unfolded the smallish Kevlar vest he had been carrying and tossed it to Linh. "One of the security ladies on duty here tonight volunteered it. Said she had a spare in her locker. It's a lightweight, but it'll stop handgun bullets."

It was Linh's turn to smile. "Good old Howard Carter. Have I told you lately just how much you mean to me?"

"Knock it off, Sergeant. You're going to have me crying."

"Will do, Sir. Horses tied-up out front?"

"Close. Light green Ford mini-van—just out the back door."

They walked out the terminal then, the three of them, Linh putting on the vest as they went, and pulling her winter jacket over it—enshrouding in protective fiber the unborn infant in her body, and doing her best to keep him safe from harm.

Detroit,

Present Day

The muffled shriek rose in pitch and intensity—sending goosebumps down the arms and legs of the woman as she sat in a chair watching the unholy butchery slowly unfolding before her eyes. The two men had been busy with their knives and scalpels for a while. There was little life left inside their victim. Still he tried to cry out, despite the crude gag that had been stuffed into his mouth, hoping somehow for mercy where there was none to be had. Strapped solidly to the embalming table, the naked man made little attempt to move. He was far beyond that now. Most of his intestines were outside his body, and laying off slightly to the side. Among them were his two eyes, tongue, ears, nose, penis and testicles.

The bleeding was largely staunched with a small butane torch and surgical sutures—and consciousness maintained with a large supply of ammonia soaked cloths. The blood that could not be stopped ran from the grooves in the sides of the table and into a floor drain. Outside of splatter, there was surprisingly little mess. The two men, fastidious about their appearance, wore plastic aprons.

The Ice-Queen was surprised that he hadn't died by now. He was turning out to be a lot tougher than she would have thought. A shame. He wasn't a bad guy really. Mostly just a stupid little bullshit indoctrinated bastard. He was paying for that stupidity now, with his life—and a long, slow, and hideously ugly death.

The men were moving on to the fingers now. The fingernails were already long-gone. She heard the dry-branch snapping sound as the left thumb detached. Again the bound man shrieked as the pruning shears were placed on his next digit, and it was severed as well.

The woman's stomach heaved slightly. She was no stranger to the sight and smell of blood—but still.

Just then the door to the embalming room opened and Saal Moradi entered. The two men stopped what they were doing as Moradi surveyed their work. His flat eyes seemed well pleased and he nodded his approval. The two men began to pack away their tools. They hung their aprons on a pegboard.

"Do you want us to finish him?"

"No," Moradi replied. "Let him die slow."

With that, the two men were gone, and Moradi and the Ice-Queen remained together in the room.

"What do you think of my little set-up here?" he asked.

"Where is this?"

"An abandoned funeral home on Woodward Avenue. A palace of the dead, in its day. The rich, the famous, and the powerful have all passed through this room." Glancing at the near-corpse on the table, he added, "And others. There are many such places in this city. Very convenient for me. I can get any information I want from a person in this room. Or—I can rest assured that they didn't have any."

The near corpse on the table moaned loudly.

"He didn't have any," the Queen said.

"He _failed_ me."

"So did I."

"So you did. What, I ask you, Sandra Buckles—should I do about that?"

"You know my name."

"I know everything about you, Sandra Buckles of Chicago, Illinois. From your childhood to now. I know about your father too. Not a very nice man—was he, Sandy dear? No—not a very nice man at all. Made you what you are today, didn't he? A man-hater. That's _your_ thing, isn't it? Oh, you like the money all right. You made yourself a promise that you would never be poor again, didn't you? No—no more government housing or tenement apartments for little Sandy. And no more dark of night visits from daddy dearest either. He was the only person you ever actually killed yourself, with your own hands—wasn't he, Sandra?"

"Yes."

"Stand up."

The Queen obeyed. Grabbing her hard by the back of the neck Moradi walked her to the table. He forced her head down, and her nose nearly into the gut-pile oozing out over the edge of the table. Thick bile began to gather and rise in her throat.

"DO NOT VOMIT, my dear. Do _not_. If you do, you will join him."

Somehow, she did not, trying her best to not breath.

Moradi released her. "Sit back down, Sandra."

She did.

"Why do you think I do what I do, Sandra?"

"Money—or power." she replied.

"Money means _nothing_ to me," Moradi said, his voice rising to a near shout. "And power I already have—power over life and death. Nor do the foolish religions of men, or their empty, meaningless, and pathetic politics. I couldn't care _less_. I have my virgins right here on this earth—anytime I want. I give life when I choose to—and I deal death when I feel like it—and _no one_ stops me."

"Why then?"

"Why? Why, you ask? The _game_ my dear. The _game_. The game of life and death. The eternal struggle between so-called good and so-called evil. The stuff of devils—and of gods. The stuff of myths—and legends."

The near-corpse moaned again—weaker this time.

"Do you believe in God, Sandra?"

"No."

"Me either. That's because I've never seen God. I believe in Satan though. Him—him I've seen. Do you know where I've seen him Sandra Buckles?"

"No."

"When I look in the mirror."

"You believe you're Satan?"

"Don't be a foolish girl, Sandra. I believe the personage of Satan is useful to me. I leave the twisted opiate of religion to the stupid teeming masses. They would worship a turnip if it promised them material gain, and they would kill for it if it offered them salvation."

The near-corpse began to thrash weakly on the table.

"Still pretty energetic for a dead man, wouldn't you say, Sandra?"

The Queen said nothing.

"Tonight, I have dealt death. I shall deal more, and more slowly yet, when I place Mr. O'Brien on this very same table. He has escaped me twice, and Mr. Wahl one time too. I am vexed by O'Brien and tired of them both. Wahl I will simply kill. O'Brien—I will annihilate, eradicate, and obliterate—simply because I can—and because I feel like it. I went to a great deal of trouble to bring them both together, here, in my lair—and now they belong to me. O'Brien thinks I care about his precious Christian children, or his watch. They can bury him with that watch for all I care."

"O'Brien's tough."

"So he is. And that's a part of the game as well. But I shall best him easily, Sandra Buckles. I will best him because I know what he will do."

"How?"

"Because I have studied him. I know him inside and out. Every strength, and every weakness. I know him because I have read every single word of his Jack McGuire. That is one of his weaknesses my dear. He likes to brag. Oh, not about himself. He is much more _modest_ than that. He brags through his Mr. McGuire. I guarantee you, Sandra Buckles—that bragging will be the death of him. A death that will make the one you just witnessed, look like that of a man who passed peacefully in his sleep. Mr. O'Brien is a white-knight—tilting at windmills. _That_ is his real weakness."

"What about the partner in his agency?"

"Yes. The very absent Mr. McCabe. The time-traveler. Well, McCabe is lost in time right now my dear. Lost in the fifties, tonight—his attention focused entirely and solely on the brightly-colored baubles and trinkets I have placed before his eyes. That is _his_ weakness. He is being dealt with even as we speak. Do you think that I would have forgotten such a detail as that?"

"No, I don't suppose you would have."

"After I finish with all of them, I will move on to the bigger game—the _true_ game. A very, very foolish man, Sandra, has made a deal with the devil. A man that _believes_ he has power. He has made a deal with Satan himself—foolish man. He thinks he is powerful. He thinks he is clever. He thinks he cannot be touched. He thinks he is immortal. Satan knows better. Satan intends to break that deal, and commit a crime that will live on _forever_ in myth and legend. The crime of the century. Maybe of _all_ the centuries."

"Men before me have become such legends—but they paid with their own lives. Not me, Sandra. Not Satan. Satan shall walk away—unscathed—simply to show mere mortals that he _can_."

"I am becometh death, sayeth the worm. But tonight, Sandra dear, I give life. Unto thee I give life. It's a lot like the idiotic American game of baseball. Only one difference. Here, you get only one strike. Strike number two—and you're out— _way_ out. Do you understand what I am saying to you, Sandra dear?"

"Yes."

"Yes. I believe you do. Do _not_ fail me again."

The near-corpse moaned.

"I will send you four men tomorrow, Sandra. They are killers of the highest quality. Experts every one. The best assassins on the planet. They will have their own team. You will be in command of them. I will be in command of you. You will hunt down Wahl and O'Brien. Wahl you will kill. O'Brien you will bring to me—alive."

"What about the old man? Who is he anyway?"

"I don't know. He is the only part of this puzzle that I don't quite understand. Kill him on sight if he interferes again. Do _not_ fail me again, Sandra. Do not."

"I won't."

"Just one more thing then before we part company for the night."

"What?"

Moradi walked to the other side of the old embalming room. He retrieved a smallish electric chain-saw from a corner cabinet. Plugging it in and flipping the switch, it sprang to life, and hummed contentedly. Pointing to the near-corpse on the table, he said simply, "Show me your bona-fides, Ice-Queen. Show me your stuff. Show me just what you did to your dear old daddy—all those long years ago." Nodding toward the near-corpse, he said, "Bring me his head."

"Bring it to me in your hands."

She did.

* * *

At that very moment, in a city far away, a dark limousine made a slow turn into a long drive of a large building and pulled up beside a nearly concealed doorway. It was the servant's entrance, marked simply—RECEIVING. This night however, there were no servants, nor deliveries. This night there was only the limo, with but one person inside.

The rear door of the car opened slowly, as a woman in black stepped out, and then quickly entered the building—slowly and deliberately closing the door behind her, making sure it was locked. The limo driver pulled carefully and soundlessly away—disappearing into the cold black night.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Detroit,

1940

When I finally awoke, dawn had at last broken, and slate-gray light filtered through the sheer curtains. Rain drops freckled the window panes. There was barely enough illumination to find my way around the room. I finally got my pants on over the rather roomy pair of undershorts the kid had given me. White cotton, almost to the knees. Not exactly my style, but way ahead of the alternative. I finally got my shirt buttoned-up and was adjusting my tie and shoulder holster when the soft knock came to the door. My watch told me it was just past six.

I couldn't say I was surprised. I had actually expected it a little earlier.

I opened the door wide to allow Brick to enter, as he was holding two cups of steaming hot black coffee. It looked like Brick was going to turn out to be a good partner after all. I always equated caffeine and partners that way.

"Good morning, Johnny," he said, handing me one of the cups.

"Morning, Brick. How was your night?"

"Better than yours, I'll bet."

"Why do you say that? I slept like a baby," I lied, using the Howard Carter playbook. I wanted to find out just what Brick had heard during the night. And I wanted to find out why he had made a special trip up to my room so early. There were mysteries in this old house for sure. The kid had told me himself just as we arrived the day before that we had the house to ourselves. He had lived alone for several years he explained. No wife, no girlfriends—and no little babies either.

"Have any odd dreams lately, Johnny?"

It was not the opening I was expecting. "Maybe," I hedged.

"How about the night at the hospital?"

"How'd you know about that?"

"Lucky guess," Brick replied.

"Yeah, right."

"Who'd you see?"

"Heard, more like it."

"Who did you _hear_ , Johnny?"

"My mother. My father. A few others."

"Heaven? Hell?"

"Yeah Brick," I replied, starting to get a little irritated. "Mom was in one, and dad was in the other. I'll let you figure out which was where. You already seem to know more about this than I do."

Brick shook his head up and down slightly—just once. "Yeah, guess you could say I do, Johnny."

"So why don't you just tell me whatever the hell it is you came up here to tell me, and stop beating around the damned bush," I spit out.

"You're displaced, Johnny." His face and voice was as flat as an Orc's.

"I'm _displaced_?" I repeated. "Just what the hell does that mean, Brick?"

"It means it's good news and bad news time, Johnny—most of it bad, I'm afraid. It's like the old joke. Which one would you like to hear first?"

"How about starting out with the truth? That seems like a really good place to begin." I was getting even more irritated. It was looking as though Brick was going to be really good at doing that to me.

"You don't need the watch anymore, Johnny. You've just graduated to the big-leagues."

"What do you mean?"

"How do you travel with the watch?"

"Hold it and think where—and when, I want to go."

"Where's the watch now, Johnny?"

"In the night-stand drawer."

"Then try it right now—without the watch. Don't worry, I'll wait right here for you to get back. It'll make it a lot easier for me to explain to you what I need to."

"Why?"

"Because then you'll believe me."

I stared at Brick for probably ten or fifteen seconds. I didn't know what to say. I _did_ know what to do though. A thought flashed through my mind. I couldn't control it. I couldn't stop it. As God is my witness—I couldn't even slow it down. In a moment I wasn't in the room anymore. I was in another place and in another time. Another building. At the bottom of a stairway. A staircase to Hell—only this time up instead of down. A slice out of time. A piece of my life. My own personal torment. One I had revisited a thousand times in my dreamscapes. Only this time it was real.

This time I was living in my own personal nightmare. I struggled mightily to escape. I stood at the bottom of those stairs and clenched my hands tightly and willed, with every cell of my body, and every fiber of my soul to be somewhere else. Anyplace else. Anytime else. But I wasn't moving. Try everything though I might, I stayed exactly in the same spot. Right at the bottom of those hellish stairs of the damned.

And there was no place to go—but up.

Detroit,

Present Day

It was true, Linh thought, as they emerged from the van about an hour later. It was a Church all right—kind of. Truth of the matter was though, that it hadn't been used for any religious services for quite some time. Or for anything else either. It was, or at least had been, a Catholic Church—or maybe even a small Cathedral. The very dark gray marble stones and vaulted spires attested to that. The windows had long since been boarded over with plywood though. The dark stains and moss growing on the cheap wood testified to the fact that it hadn't been done recently.

It was actually several blocks from the scene of the terrorist bombing. That entire area was still cordoned off, but even at that Linh, Howard and Maggie could see the tendrils of smoke in the sky, as the ruins continued to smolder. As promised, a uniformed police officer met them and directed them to park off to the side of the Church building, when Howard produced his identification. Carter was then directed into a side entrance, again one that was blocked off from the public.

They entered a few minutes later and were met by Sergeant Andrew McMullen of the Detroit Police Department.

"Good morning Sir," McMullen started out. "Although sad to say, not much good in Detroit this morning."

"Agreed, Sergeant. Pleasure to meet you anyway." Carter held out his hand, and the big Irish cop took it.

"You too, Chief Carter. I understand you may know one of the victims?"

"Perhaps. A private detective and personal friend from Washington State. He was a registered guest at the Hilton. On the second floor."

McMullen let out a low whistle. "Sorry to hear that Chief. We haven't had any survivors from that floor. Name?"

"John Albert O'Brien."

"We've recovered quite a few ID's so far, although a number of them weren't with the bodies. A few victims have already been identified by relatives, but not that many. Most were from out of town." McMullen checked his list. "No Sir—he's not on my list."

"Well, that's a good start, Sergeant. How many without IDs?"

"Thirty-four."

"We're going to have to look, Sergeant."

"I know, Chief Carter—and I don't envy you that. The ladies too?"

"Yes—the ladies too. They're both deputies in my Department."

"Okay then, Sir. They're all in the main Chapel, just down the hallway to the right. The lights have been off here for years, but we have some floods rigged. We're keeping it cold in there—for obvious reasons. The bodies are all inside body bags, but I'm gonna warn you right now—a lot of the bags contain nothing but pieces. Quite a few of them are pretty much unrecognizable as having ever been human beings. The smell ain't too good in there either. I've been a cop for a lot of years, Chief—but even at that it turns my stomach real bad."

"I understand Sergeant. I'll know my friend if I see him. He has a couple of pretty distinctive scars. I was with him when he got them. We'll be okay."

McMullen nodded his head sadly. "Okay then. Just check in with me when you're ready to leave. I'll have to let you out. If you find your friend, we'll get him moved out to the Wayne County medical examiner's office right away for you. There're pretty full right now, so we're taking it slow."

"Okay, Sergeant—I appreciate it. Thank you."

Once inside the Chapel, Carter, Linh and Maggie quickly understood what the Sergeant had been talking about. Three rather neat and tidy rows of dark black body bags lay on the floor, where once equally straight rows of pews had stood. The sweet and sour metallic smell of blood and fecal material hung in the close air with a thickness that could almost be seen. The jerry-rigged lights cast crazy shadows on the floor and walls of the old Sanctuary, contributing to the hellish and otherworldly atmosphere. The stately old Church had truly become a house of the dead.

Linh spoke up. "How you want to do this Howard—split up?"

"Not a chance Linh. All of us together—one bag at a time—ready?

Linh and Maggie swallowed hard, and answered in unison—"Ready."

Cambridge,

Massachusetts

I started up the stairs. There was nothing else to do—no use going back. No wimping out. There were exactly thirteen steps. I had counted them many times. My girlfriend Sheila and I had joked about it on many occasions. Bad luck and all. She was not terribly superstitious, although somewhat a believer in Astrology. She was a beautiful kid, and smart as hell too. I had fallen in love with her somewhere between the second and third date, and although we never formally moved in together, she spent a lot more nights at my place than her own. Our youthful appetites were, shall we say—sultry and sensual; cool, passionate and hot—all at the same time.

It was at her place that I was now. Climbing the same stairs that we had traversed, hand in hand, so many times before. And also the ones that I had taken, two at a time, as I raced to her apartment on the night of December 17th, in my senior year at Harvard. She hadn't answered her phone all day. When darkness fell late in the afternoon, I began to realize that there was something seriously wrong. I knew that she had been depressed. I knew that she was suffering since the abortion of our baby the year before. I knew she wasn't in a very good place. I suppose I also might have guessed that she needed professional help—too late of course.

What I didn't quite get was the fact that she was also suicidal.

I could see the door at the top of the landing now. I knew it would be unlocked—same as it was that night—so many years ago. I could hear the Christmas music coming softly through the door, just as it had been then. My legs grew heavier and my feet slowed as I approached, unlike on that horrid night of my memory. At last I reached the door. I felt my hand, almost involuntarily slip around the knob and turn. It gave way easily as the door swung inward. The music grew louder. Perry Como softly crooned the lyrics of _Hark!_ _The Herald angels sing._

" _Hail! The heaven born Prince of Peace,_

Hail! The Son of Righteousness!

Light and Life to all he brings,

Risen with healing in his wings,"

He sang in the dark—a voice on the radio. The only light came from a narrow slit in the bathroom door. Sheila's studio apartment was small, but I knew it just as I knew her—by heart. A sleeper sofa just to the left. The bed was open, unmade. The covers scattered. Just beyond the bed was a tiny kitchenette. To the right was the bathroom. White on white on white—almost blinding in the light of the glaring overhead florescent light fixture. White tub—old-fashioned claw feet. The ancient building had stood since the beginning of time. White painted walls. White tile floors. Small tiles with broken grout—darkening with age.

The bathroom door was partly closed. An inch or two remaining open. I remembered how we always had to push it closed that last bit to make it click shut. This night, Sheila hadn't bothered. This night, she was in a hurry. My eyes traveled, as they had that night long before, to the floor. Where the tiny white tiles met the light-brown carpeting of the living-room. I could already see the stain forming, even from several feet away. The blood had worked its way along the grout-line, and was now beginning to pool just outside the door. I knew where it was coming from. This was not my first visit to this tiny room in Hell.

I pushed the door open.

She was staring directly at me. Her lifeless and sightless eyes met mine. Imploringly. Accusingly. The tub was filled with water—bright red. Impossibly red. Almost _luminous_ —in stark contrast to the darker burgundy of her lifeblood on those tiny white tiles. One arm, dripping, dangling from the side of the tub. A blood-splattered kitchen knife lay on the floor. It was, I knew, a sharp one. I had bought it for her—a gift to end the problem of slicing her beloved pineapples. Now, it had ended all her other problems as well. I wondered for an instant, just as I had before, if the use of that knife was a personal message from her to me.

Perry sang on . . .

" _Mild he lays his glory by,_

Born that man no more may die:

Born to raise the sons of Earth,

Born to give them second birth."

I looked at my feet. Planted on those tiny white tiles, just exactly as they were then. Not just close—but _precisely_ where they had been. My hand remained on the doorknob, just as it had then. Everything—just the same. Except for one. I looked in the mirror. No longer did a youth look back. Now I was face to face with an older me. Instead of a college kid, now stood a middle-aged and somewhat broken-down man in an expensive and tailored suit. Lines on his face that hadn't been there before. A deeper widow's-peak. Gray on the edges. A slight stoop. In that moment, I knew this wasn't a dream. It was the most real moment of my life. My past—right in front of me—in the here and now.

And I had a choice.

I looked at the corpse of the woman I had loved. Lived with. Argued with. Laughed with. Made love to. Conceived a child with. Cried with. A first love. A starter romance. A test-run for later on in life. Mistakes. Blown opportunities. Missed chances. Regrets. Pain—lots of it. The pain of days. The pain of death. The emptiness of nevermore.

And I could change it.

As I stood in that blood-splattered bathroom, I knew, with one-hundred percent clarity and complete and absolute empathy, _exactly_ what it was to be Matt McCabe. I at last, completely understood his pain, his doubt, his humanity, his fear, his uncertainty, and yes—his insanity.

And . . . the choice, that _he_ was being forced to make.

And I forgave him.

I wept, my chest heaving. But I didn't weep for McCabe. And I didn't weep for Sheila either. I wept for me. Because for the first time, in a long life of study of the infinite, I understood the power that was God's.

And more importantly, I understood the power that wasn't.

With a simple flick of my mind—a flash of thought—I could take it all away. With just a moment out of time, I could make this woman live again. I could put the blood back in her body, the air back into her lungs, return the light to her eyes. I could even put my dead son back into her womb.

And I could put them _both_ back into my arms.

I stood, weeping, for the space of several minutes. I wanted, with every single fiber of my being, to walk into the kitchen and retrieve the bottle of Gin that I knew was there. And I wanted to drain it. To numb the pain. To forget for a night. To go away. To check out. To run away again. To desert those I claimed to love—again. To prove to myself once more, that I was everything I always wanted not to be.

A coward. And a no-class one at that.

In the end, I simply walked away—gently closing the door behind me, both to the bathroom and to the apartment. Darkness once more enveloped the scene of death.

As the apartment door clicked shut, Perry finished his carol:

" _Hark! The Herald angels sing,_

Glory to the newborn King . . ."

Once out on the sidewalk, I walked to the corner phone-booth and made a quick phone-call, telling the police just where to find Sheila's body. Fat flakes of white fell from the sky. For just a moment, I once again watched them in wonder and awe—freezing the moment forever into my memory.

Then, carefully looking both ways on the nearly deserted side-street for prying eyes and finding none, I disappeared quietly into the dark and snowy night.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Detroit

Present Day

Finally finishing their grisly task, Linh and Maggie sat outside the Church on a sidewalk park-bench, thoroughly enjoying the ice-cold morning air as it washed the smell of death from their lungs. It had taken close to two hours to go through all of the body bags—a lot longer than any of the three would have guessed. But then jigsaw puzzles are often time consuming. Carter was still inside, finishing up with the officer on duty.

Maggie spoke up first. "I don't think I'll ever forget this night. Not if I live to be a thousand years old."

"That'll make three of us then, Maggie." Linh remembered the second row of bags. "That poor man. I almost lost it."

"You thought it was Johnny, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did. As soon as Howard unzipped it and I caught a glimpse of his face, I thought it was him. I swear to you Maggie—it was Johnny's face that I saw—if only for a split second. Then, it just sort of dissolved into someone else. When I looked closer, I realized he really didn't look like Johnny at all. Must have been my mind playing a trick on me."

"No doubt. Cops are only human too you know," Maggie smiled.

"Don't tell that to Howard. He thinks he's superhuman."

"I saw him turn plenty white a few times there," Maggie remembered.

"Yeah, I know. He almost lost it too with that teenaged kid. Couldn't have been much more than thirteen or fourteen years old."

Maggie shook her head in agreement. "This was what Johnny came here to stop. I was mad at Howard for sending him at first, but I'm not now. Even if Johnny had been killed, he still would have tried to have made a difference. And even if he had ended up on a marble slab at age forty something, it would have been a life well lived."

Howard exited the building.

"Well, we've got some encouraging news, ladies. I've been on the phone with Harper Hospital. They don't have anyone there with the name of O'Brien, but one of the wounded that came in right after the bombing matches his description."

"Why no name?" Linh wondered.

"That was my question too. Seems the hospital staff was pretty overwhelmed, and I can certainly understand that. They were putting victims that weren't too badly hurt on gurneys out in the hallway, while they attended to the more serious injuries first. Makes sense. According to the night nurse, that's where our Johnny look-a-like was. According to her, he was suffering oxygen deprivation. Apparently the guy got up sometime during the night and simply walked out. With all the confusion, I don't doubt it. Now we just have to figure out where he went."

"We sure he's Johnny?" Maggie said.

"I'm going to say yes," Carter replied. "The nurse said they removed an object of obvious value from this gentleman's jacket pocket and took it to the nurse's station."

"Wouldn't be a gold pocket-watch, would it?" Linh asked, a smile coming to her face.

"It would," Carter said. "But it gets stranger yet. The man left without the watch. It was still there after the guy left. He never returned to the hospital. They know that because it was on total lock-down. He could have exited any entrance, but not re-entered. Yet this morning, the watch is gone, and the nurse says it was inside a locked drawer. A drawer that showed no sign of forced entry."

"Another employee with sticky fingers?" Linh asked.

"Apparently not. According to the charge nurse, she had the only key—and she swears she's not a thief. I for one, believe her."

"Yeah—me too," Linh agreed. "This has Johnny written all over it."

Carter shook his head in agreement. "Johnny was partnered-up with a guy named Jedediah Wahl. Mr. Wahl was registered at the Motel Six on Woodward Avenue that was also blown-up. The body count there was much smaller than here, and _no one_ killed there vaguely matches Wahl's description."

"You don't sound quite like you're finished," Linh said.

"Not quite," Carter agreed. "This news I'm about to tell you is top-secret. The blown-up private residence in Bloomfield Hills was owned by a lady FBI agent named Faris. An Iranian by birth and an expert in languages. She was coordinating with Johnny and Wahl, and was going to serve as their translator. The FBI tossed the cops and took over that scene almost immediately, although they didn't seem to express a hell of a lot of interest in any of the rest of it. Turns out that one of the Detroit cops smelled something a little fishy about the whole thing and had the presence of mind to snatch one of the stiff's fingers out of what was left of the victim's bedroom on his way out. That's where most of the body was found, although it was really fragmented."

"The FBI's behavior was strange enough to set off alarm bells all over police headquarters, so they hurried up a fingerprint search on the severed finger, and what do you suppose they found?"

"That the vic isn't the agent?" Linh ventured.

"Bingo. It was the agent's housekeeper. An Italian lady—naturalized citizen, so her prints were on file. Most FBI agents don't make near enough jack to have housekeepers, but for some reason this one seems to have been really loaded. No one has the faintest idea where money-bags Faris is right now either. She hasn't shown up anywhere, to the best of the cop's knowledge."

"What does the FBI say?"

"Nothing. They're still maintaining that she's dead, although I'd be damned surprised it they didn't know better."

"Getting curiouser and curiouser, wouldn't you say, Howard?"

"Yeah Linh, I would—but then O'Brien's in the middle of it, so what the hell would you expect—right?"

For the first time in a long day and night, the three of them laughed.

"So where to next, Howard?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Linh. We've got no idea of where the hell Faris, Wahl, _or_ Johnny is, how badly he might be hurt, or what the hell he might be doing, and not a dog's idea in Hades of where to start looking for any of them either."

"Follow the watch?" Maggie volunteered.

"That would be a plan," Carter allowed. "Got any idea on just how to do that? As I remember, it didn't have a GPS in it."

A man spoke behind them. "I might be able to help with that one," it said.

Carter, Maggie, and Linh spun around at the sound of the voice.

"Took you long enough to get here," Linh said dryly.

"Better late than never?"

"Maybe. You intending to stay around for a while?

"Long enough to find Johnny anyhow."

"Then what?" Linh asked.

"Then we round-up the bad guys, Linh. Same as always."

"Then what?"

"Then I want you to take a trip with me."

"Where?"

"To whatever future we have together."

"Do you see a future for us?

"Not the way it stands right now. I'm not going to lie to you about that."

"You looking for points for honesty?"

"All I'm asking for is a fair hearing, and a chance."

"Okay Matt—you've got it. To whatever future we have. Count me in."

Carter spoke up. "You two going to hug or anything?"

"No," Linh said. "Not quite yet."

"It's okay," Matt said. "I understand."

"No. I'm not real sure you do," Linh said.

Carter jumped in again. "Well, I hate to break-up this little heartwarming moment guys, but—Matt, raise you right hand."

"Why?"

"Because you are about to become Officer McCabe."

"A cop?" Matt replied.

"Yeah, Matt. A cop. An Irish gum-shoe cop to boot. And by the way, you chicken-shit, miserable little prick, I hope to hell you don't like it very much."

Matt raised his hand—fast.

Detroit

1940

Brick's chair was empty when I returned, but I could see him making his way down the hallway through the open door.

"Back a little faster than I would have thought, Johnny."

"Did you know where you were sending me, Brick?"

"I didn't _send_ you anywhere, Johnny. You went where you went all by yourself."

"And you had no idea of where that was going to be—right?"

"I suspected where it would be—that's all. When you're involved with the Devil's timepiece, we all tend to go to our darkest places."

"I didn't have the watch."

"Doesn't matter, Johnny. It still has its hold on you. Always will, as long as you're alive—or it is."

"So, being "displaced," is pretty much like being dead—is that about right, Brick?"

"Not exactly—but in the ballpark."

"And you're about to explain all the fine points of difference to me—right?"

"No, Johnny—I'm not."

"Who is then?"

"Me."

I spun toward the voice. The Kid stood in the doorway.

"Sit down, Johnny," the Kid said. "And shut-up, lose the attitude, and let me explain to you just how your new reality works."

I did.

Washington, D. C.

Present Day

The room was a tiny one. Small, plain, and decidedly unpretentious. It was deep in the basement of the grand old residence, just off one of the several kitchens. A kitchen that would be teeming with activity during daylight hours—quiet and dark now, at nearly four in the morning. It looked like it might have been used as a potential kitchen staff interview room—or maybe one where punishments were meted out for unsatisfactory employee performance, or perhaps disobedience.

Agent Faris wondered if that was why she was here now.

She had been waiting for well over an hour, since being escorted into the room by Agent Stuart Hollings. Shahida had not bothered to ask him any questions, knowing that he was far too small a "fry" to be in any significant loop. At nearly sixty-years old, Agent Hollings was quickly approaching retirement. Not one that would be trusted with state secrets, Shahida knew. Much better to only let younger agents in on what was really going on. So much easier to control—when their entire careers stretched out before them.

When the door finally opened a minute later, two men entered. One, Agent Faris did not recognize—although she made him to be FBI to the bone. The other man she did.

"Good morning, Mr. President."

"Agent Faris," the President said. "You don't seem surprised to see me."

"Surprised, yes—shocked, no. I've been out of pre-school for a few years now."

"A cynic."

"A realist, Sir. This whole deal hasn't smelled right from the start."

"Just what do you think is going on, Agent Faris?"

"More than meets the eye."

The President smiled. "Good answer. Where do you suppose the rancid smell is coming from, Agent Faris?"

"You."

This time there was no smile. "Honest. Don't you know honesty can get you out of a career real fast, Faris? Or worse."

"What else is new? I was about ten minutes from being dead a while ago."

"You were not," the President said. "You would not have been allowed to be killed. I am sorry about your maid. No one was aware that she was there."

"Her husband and two children will be glad to know of your sorrow."

The President's jaw visibly tightened. "Do not vex me, Agent Faris. In war there is always collateral damage. Sometimes that's just the price that's paid to keep the State safe."

"The State—or yourself?"

The jaw tightened further. "Where is O'Brien, Agent Faris?"

Faris looked surprised. "How should I know? I hardly had time to go looking for him before I was whisked back here."

"Humor me," the President said. "Offer me a theory."

"Dead?"

"No ma'am," the President said. "Not dead. Slightly injured though. He was briefly in the hospital, but left apparently under his own power. We have not been able to ascertain his whereabouts since that time."

"Then Moradi may have him."

"He does not. Moradi is looking for O'Brien as hard as we are—but isn't having any luck either. He seems to have completely disappeared."

Faris glanced at the door. "How do you know what Moradi is doing?"

The agent standing next to the President smoothly drew his semi-automatic pistol and pointed it directly at Faris's head."

"Because Moradi works for me," the President said. "I think it's just about time we had your weapon, Agent Faris."

"What are you after?" Faris said.

"O'Brien. Nothing more, and nothing else."

"Why O'Brien?"

"Well—to be perfectly honest, it's a whole lot more about something Mr. O'Brien in carrying. Let's just say that it's something that could significantly change the balance of power in the world. I want to make sure that balance is changed in _our_ favor—not our enemies. That's happens to be why I'm Commander-in-Chief. It's my job to protect America."

"America—or yourself?"

"Cheeky."

The FBI guy spoke, sweeping off the pistols safety. "Your gun, Agent Faris. Hand it over— _now_. I won't count to three."

Faris slowly drew her pistol with two fingers and placed it on the table.

"Good girl," the President said. "Now you are going to remain here as a guest of the United States Government. Your accommodations will be quite nice. You won't be suffering, I assure you."

"That's good to know," Faris responded. "So much for being on the same team. Why not just kill me now and be done with it?"

"Agent Faris," the President said, with mock indignation. "What do you take us for? Do you think we are some kinds of thugs or something? Your life is in no danger. We are simply detaining you for your own protection. After all, you narrowly escaped death once. We just want to make sure you don't have any further close calls."

"And? There's always an 'and' with men like you."

The President smiled again. "Now I _am_ hurt, Agent Faris. Here I thought we were making progress on the friendship front."

"So—why am I really still alive?"

"In case O'Brien comes looking for you. Simple as that. You're the bait."

"O'Brien probably thinks I'm dead."

"He might—but probably not for long. Mr. O'Brien is not a stupid man."

The door opened again, and three uniformed police officers entered.

The President continued. "Meet your three new best-friends. All District of Columbia Police Officers. Don't let their youth fool you—they are most competent. They will be assigned to your care and protection 24/7 until this thing is over. They will be keeping you safe from harm, and keeping you safe from _doing_ any harm as well. You may consider yourself to be in their protective custody. Do not attempt to leave that custody, Agent Faris. They are empowered to be extremely harsh with you if that were to occur."

Faris looked them over. Two thin white men—young. The other was bronze-skinned—perhaps Tongan or Samoan. He was also young, but taller, well-built and very muscular. His nametag read Ringo Pulini Jr. The other two names were Dallin Weeks, and Trey Wiggins. The fact that there was no attempt to cover or remove those nametags make Agent Faris doubt that she would see the end of the week alive. _Might as well go for the gold_ , she decided. _Sure would be a shame_ _to die for something and never even know what it was_ , she reasoned.

She stood and faced the President of the United States defiantly.

"What does Johnny O'Brien have that's so important as all of this?"

The President smiled for the third and last time, as he moved toward the door.

"His watch. That's all, Agent Faris. Just his pocket watch."

Detroit

1940

"So, what's my _new_ reality?" I said, as the three of us sat down. I picked up the coffee that Brick had brought me before I left. Still steaming, I marveled. Not too bad—for a cuppa joe going on a couple of decades old.

"My real name is Norman Selby, Johnny. The history books remember me better as "Kid" McCoy. A phony Irish name. My handlers thought it made me sound a bit more manly. Irish tough-guys were all the rage back in the day."

"When was that, Kid?"

"1897. I had just won the Middleweight Boxing Championship of the World."

"And that's why you were able to handle yourself so well with the two goons."

"Sort of. Truth of the matter was, Johnny—I never was that much of a fighter, even back then. I had two-hundred fights and lost six of them. The ones where I tried to be 'myself.' Now—hell, my joints ache like a bitch and I can barely make a fist much before noon. Lucky if I'd be able to fight my way out of a wet paper bag most the time."

"How then?"

"Because I've got an edge, Johnny—same as you do now."

"Which is?"

"I committed suicide, Johnny. At the Tuller Hotel, right here in Detroit—April 18th, 1940—a lot like your friend Sheila."

"Slit your wrists?"

"No—I was more of a coward than she was. Sleeping pills for me."

"Why?"

"Because I was tired, Johnny. Real tired. That'll do for now."

"So you're telling me you're dead."

"No—I'm telling you I'm displaced, Johnny—same as you."

"You said April 18th,—1940?"

"Yeah."

"It's not that date yet."

"I know, Johnny. I've got a choice to make here too. Much like the one you made for your lady-friend tonight."

"Someone stopped you, didn't they Kid?"

"Yeah—someone stopped me. But only _after_ I'd done it. That's why I'm displaced."

"Who?"

"The same one that stopped you, Johnny. _After_ you were killed in the Hotel explosion."

"Matt McCabe."

"Close, but no cigar—try his dear old papa Roan instead. Roan was a fight fan. Made me what I was—a star of the squared circle. Oh, Matt made the phone-call, no doubt about that. But Roan is the one that stopped you."

"I always forget that McCabes come in more than one flavor."

"True fact, my friend," the Kid said.

"Why did Roan interfere with me?"

"My guess would be that he figures you are going to play a part in his baby boy's final chapter."

I involuntarily shuddered. "How 'bout you Brick. Are you displaced too?"

"No. My story is a little different."

"And?"

Brick hesitated a moment. "Oh, why the hell not. Let's just lay it all out here today. We're all friends— _and_ partners—right?"

I nodded my head affirmatively. "Go on," I said.

Brick sighed deeply.

"It all started in Deadwood," he said. "A shootout in Deadwood, South Dakota."

Brick paused again. "On the day the towers came down."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Detroit

1940

Brick settled once again into the rather large, overstuffed, and very comfortable recliner in the bedroom with his refreshed cup of coffee. He didn't put his feet up. Wasn't much like Brick to ever get himself backed into a corner. Or to not have the ability to move fast either.

The Kid sat on the side of the bed without refreshment. He didn't drink the stuff—perhaps a holdover from the training days of his youth. Now booze, especially after his retirement from the ring—that was another matter. Amazingly for a man of his sixty-six years, the Kid appeared still quite youthful and supple, despite his gray and thinning hair. He may have complained about his stiff joints and knuckles, but I for damned sure was a guy that didn't want to get in the way of those mitts. I had recently seen first-hand, the awesome finality with which the Kid could still knock a young guy on his proverbial ass.

Once again, Brick stared at me without speaking. His brilliant blue eyes shown as usual—like a spotlight. This time, they were also ringed with just a bit of moisture. I knew that what he was about to tell me was not going to come easy.

Finally, he opened his mouth to speak.

"I was a 'hot-shot' cop back in 2001, Johnny. Brand, shiny new. So full of myself and my 'abilities,' it was a wonder I could take a crap without the help of a good strong laxative. Didn't matter to me that I was a cop in a little jerk-water stop like Deadwood either. I was just beginning. Deadwood was going to be my training ground. I had nothing in front of me but smooth sailing and a big fat future. But like they say, life is what happens when you're making other plans. Anyhow, that's how the day started out. By the time it was over, I was finished. I would never wear a policeman's badge again—until I took this job."

"So you are a cop then," I said.

"In a manner of speaking."

"We're supposed to be partners, Brick. Don't you think I deserve a little more detail than that?"

"I'm Mossad."

The remark hung in the air like an old fart. Finally I broke the silence with the most inane reply I could think of.

"You're not Jewish."

"Don't have to be, Johnny. Just have to be willing to fight—and die, for them."

"Do they give you a magic de-coder ring and everything, Brick?"

"Cute, Johnny. But the answer is no. All you get is a small paycheck to go along with the rather large target painted on the middle of your back."

"That's how you got the bullet from Moradi."

"Correct. He was operating in the Middle-East at the time."

"Damned long way from Deadwood to Israel," I observed.

"It is."

"That's it?"

"There's a bit more to it than that, Johnny. After Deadwood, I kind of hit the skids for a while. While I was playing my 'lush in the gutter' routine, I met a cop. It was in Reno, Nevada. As it turned out, he was a Jewish cop."

"What was a Jewish cop doing in Reno?" I asked.

"Same as me, Johnny. Trying to make a living."

"What were you doing for a living, Brick?"

"Robbing liquor stores."

"You are a man of many talents."

"You could say so."

"So you got busted?"

"Yes—by the Jewish cop."

"Then what? Convicted felons don't usually get hired on by the police—or Mossad either for that matter."

"The Jewish cop—Officer Stanley Kaplan, to be exact, saw something in me, Johnny. Something I didn't even see in myself. Instead of taking me to the Station, he took me home with him. Paid for the booze I had stolen. Gave me a sofa to sleep on, three good meals a day, a hot shower and clean clothes—and a choice."

"What?"

"To be a man—or just another crime statistic with a cheap grave marker out in Potter's field."

"Inspiring. I'm really glad too, Brick, that you made the right choice."

"Thank you, Johnny. After I got clean and straightened back up, Stan was also the guy that put me onto Mossad. I ended up spending over three years in the Middle-East and paying my dues before I came back to the States."

"What made Kaplan think you were Mossad material?"

"Because I showed him what I could do."

"What I saw on Nevada Street."

"That's right, Johnny."

"What was that anyway, Brick?"

"That was what my grandfather taught me back when I was a kid. I never knew my father. He died in a car wreck when I was a baby. I was raised by my mother and granddad. He was a pretty good fighter—after all, he had been trained by his father before him."

"Who was that, Brick?"

"The man sitting just to your left—Kid McCoy."

"Your great-grandfather."

"Right. My mother's father's father."

"The very same gentleman that was 'displaced' by Roan McCabe."

"Right, Johnny. That little event gave the Kid some unique abilities."

"Yeah, Brick. I know a man with those same abilities. His name is Matt McCabe. The son of Roan, and a man that knows how to lag a bit before or behind in time."

"Right, Johnny. Pretty useful information to have if you want to avoid getting hit—or shot for that matter either."

The Kid spoke-up. "It was my edge, Johnny. It's how I won all those fights. It's how I won the Championship."

"Cheating."

"Yes—I suppose you could say so. But I never had any other jobs skills. And poverty didn't really agree with me very much."

I tried to sort it out in my mind. "But you aren't displaced?" I said to Brick.

"No, I'm not. And I don't time travel either. What I was taught was basically a mind trick. Most everybody has the ability, with training. That's how Matt learned. Roan and Aedan taught him. All the damned watch ever did was to focus its owner's mind. The McCabes just seem to be naturally good at it. The Kid too. Now you are as well."

"Lucky me."

"Depends on how you look at it, Johnny."

"I once told Matt the watch was either a blessing or a curse," I said.

"You wanted in Johnny, and don't tell me you never considered the risks. You saw Matt and you knew what the watch had done to him. Still, you didn't back away like a sensible man would have. No one that has ever come in contact with the Devil's timepiece has come away unscathed. You've got a lot of Irish luck in you, but it was no match for the watch. It's got you too now—just the same as him. Just in a little different way."

I knew it was true, but I wanted no part of going there right at the moment.

"What happened in Deadwood?" I asked.

"I killed a woman."

"How?"

"By accident. Didn't matter. She was just as dead as if I had done it on purpose."

The Kid spoke up. "I killed a woman too, Johnny. I did it intentionally."

"So this quaint little trait runs in the family?"

"Something like that, Johnny," the Kid said. "The woman I killed was my wife. My last wife, as it turned out."

"How many did you have anyhow, Kid?"

"Eight. But one of the eight I married three times."

I was never much good at mathematics, but even doing a quick count in my head, I came up with a count of six different ladies.

"Busy man, Kid. A wonder you ever found any time to climb into a boxing ring."

"It was an interesting life all right, Johnny—I'll grant you that one. Complex, complicated, and very busy."

"I'll bet. So why did you kill number eight—or number six—or whatever the hell number she was?"

"Because she was a cheater and at least partly responsible for the death of my daughter."

The old fart smell returned as that remark hung even heavier than Brick's had a few minutes earlier. For the life of me, I couldn't think of anything to say to him, so I turned back to Brick.

"And if you don't mind my asking, Brick—how did yours end up dead? I've got to tell you two, I find this fascinating. I've been throwing lead around for a few years now, and have never managed to mow down one of the fairer sex."

"Well, that's just exactly what I did, Johnny," Brick said. "I mowed one down."

Brick clenched his jaw. I could see the tendons in his neck bulge slightly as he went on.

"It was a bank robbery and hostage situation. Long story short, Johnny—Chief Wiggins selected me to drive the perps and their hostages to a waiting helicopter. Only once in the car, I was supposed to pull a Beretta nine from under the dash and take them both out— _inside_ the car. I wasn't a killer in those days, and Wiggins knew it, but he also knew I could shoot and had a cool head, so I got tagged."

"Messy work," I said. "But it's been done."

"Yeah, but I got fancy. I pulled the pistol before I got out of the car, and engaged them on the street—right in front of the old-fashioned red-brick bank building. I wanted to be a showboat."

"What happened?"

"I can dodge a punch, Johnny, because I am out of time-sync a split-second before it's launched. In other words, I can see the fist being thrown just before it actually happens, and I move out of the way easily. The Kid does the same thing. It's what Grandpa taught me. I upped the game a little though, and applied the same basic technique to pistol shooting. I could actually see where the bullet was going to go, a split-second before I pulled the trigger. It had the effect of making it look as though I were firing without aiming, but in fact—it was a very carefully aimed shot—in my mind's eye."

"Cheating—just like the Kid," I flatly stated.

"Guilty, Johnny. I guess with the Kid and I, the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree."

"So what happened?"

"I killed the two perps—after issuing them a fair warning to throw down their weapons. I saved the three hostages too. Two Women and an infant."

"So a happy ending then."

"Not quite, Johnny. I had disobeyed orders getting out of the car that day. I guess it wouldn't have mattered that much if it had worked out all right. But it didn't. A lady died. A pregnant woman at that."

"How?"

"Full-metal-jacketed bullets. 9mm. It was all the Department used in their Beretta model ninety-twos. They fed through the gun like greased lightning, and solved any potential malfunction problems, but they created a few new ones along the way."

"Like ricochets?"

"Exactly, Johnny. You're getting the picture now."

"How'd it happen?"

"I took out the bad guys with two perfect head-shots. I could not have missed. Like I said, they were perfect—no chance of a screw-up. No chance of anything going wrong. Except something went wrong. The full-metal-case bullet zipped right through the head of bad-guy number two, instead of expanding and staying inside like a hollow-point would have done. It pinged off the side of the brick building and traveled about two blocks away, and ninety degrees away from the direction it was originally travelling. It hit and killed a twenty-three-year-old pregnant woman out for a walk with her dog."

"I'm sorry, Brick."

He shrugged. It was a cop's worst nightmare. An innocent bystander had died. Bad enough under circumstances that went down right according to the book. But this one had to lay damned awfully heavy on Brick's heart. He knew, every single day of his life since that moment, that if he had simply obeyed his orders, that woman and her unborn child would have gone on living, instead of taking a short trip to a marble slab in the back of a hearse.

"So two deaths you blame on yourself," I observed.

"No—just one. The lady was brain-dead, but they got her to the hospital and on life support in time to take the child. A little girl, as it turned out. A preemie, but she lived all right, and she's alive today—nearly sixteen years old. Her mother died a few hours later, when they removed her breathing tube."

"Jesus," I said. Under the circumstances, it seemed all right to so use his name.

"So I went off the deep-end for a while, Johnny. Mostly from that incident. I simply couldn't get it out of my head—day or night. The only thing that let me sleep much was pills, and booze. I had a girl-friend. A Sweet lady named Rose. She tried her best to help me. She finally moved in with me not too long after it happened. She did the best she could, and that's a plain fact, but as I hit the sauce harder and harder, well—our relationship simply dissolved in all that alcohol. She left me."

Brick hesitated again and struggled for several seconds before he went on.

"Hell no, Johnny—that's not even close to being fair. I left her. She was simply the first one to walk out the door."

"You loved her?" I asked.

"Yeah. I would have married her in a heartbeat."

"Is it too late, Brick?"

"Yeah. Too late. I looked her up after I got back to the states. She was dead. Breast cancer. She hadn't even hit forty yet."

All I could do was shake my head lamely side-to-side. There were really no words.

"What about the child?" I asked.

"Jennifer Joyce Ames," Brick said. For the first time, I caught the hint of a smile. "Everyone just calls her Jenny. Her mother's name was Joyce. A sweetheart of a kid. Dear God, how I love that child, Johnny."

"You keep up with her?"

"I do. No one ever knew who her father was. And no man came looking for her either. She went to live with her Aunt in Southern California. The lady didn't have much money, so I've helped to support her as much as I can over the years."

"Does she know what happened?"

"Yes, she does. I told her everything, right after she turned eight years old. She grew up fast, Johnny. A more poised young lady you're never going to find anywhere. She forgave me—a lot more than I ever did myself."

"You were never tempted to have your great grampa go back and fix things, Brick?"

"Never. Joyce was gone—to another place. And I didn't have the right to take her from wherever that was—anymore than you could with your girl Sheila. Some things just have to be endured the way they are."

I nodded my head in agreement.

"So what's next?" I asked.

The Kid spoke up. "How about a tour of Detroit, Johnny? My Detroit, that is. The way it was, back in the day—and the way it will never be again."

"Why not? We have some time."

"I'll show you around," the Kid said. "Be your tour guide. One little thing I might ask though, Johnny."

"What's that, Kid?"

"Help me find out who the son-of-a-bitch was that killed my daughter."

"Ever try before?"

"Yeah, but didn't have much luck. I'm a pug, not a detective."

"Ever hire one?"

"A couple. They took a lot of money from me, but never came up with anything. I don't think they tried very hard."

"Why not?"

"They were like the police, Johnny. They thought they already knew who did it."

"The police had a suspect?"

"Yeah."

"Who?"

"Me."

"Why?"

"Long story. Do you think you might like to hear it, Johnny? I've had this thing hanging around my neck for a long time."

"Is it why you killed yourself?"

"Partly."

"If we found the killer, would you change your mind about that, Kid?"

"Maybe. Don't know. Not sure. Take your pick."

"Did you do it, Kid?"

"No, Johnny. I loved that little button like few other people I've ever known."

"What was her name?"

"Beatrice. Little Bea Alderman."

"Alderman?"

"Her natural father. I was her step-dad."

"How did her father look as a suspect?"

"Lousy. His name was Lew—a cheap hood. Stabbed to death in a bar-fight when Bea was about two years old."

"How old was she when she was murdered?"

"About seven or so."

"How was she killed?"

"Nobody knows exactly, Johnny."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Her body was never found, Johnny. She was kidnapped from the house her mother and I shared."

"And the police just assumed she was dead?"

"Some pieces of her clothing were recovered on the banks of the Detroit River a few weeks later. The cops figured she was dumped in the river."

"Why do you blame the mother?"

"Oh, she didn't actually kill Bea, Johnny. She just caused it to happen—by her bad behavior."

An odd look had come over the Kid's face when he said that. Made me think that perhaps I didn't really want to pursue this particular line of questioning—at least not right at the moment. One thing for sure—after seeing that look, I had no doubt in my mind whatsoever, that the Kid was at least _capable_ of murder.

"Kid—I owe you my life. I'll help you find the answer you're looking for, if there is any way possible to do it."

"Thanks, Johnny."

Brick spoke up. "One more thing, Johnny. I'd like to have you get rid of the watch. Right now. Here. Today."

"Why?"

"Reason number one—you don't need it anymore. Reason number two—I don't want it falling into Moradi's hands in our times. Or anybody else's in 1940 either."

I thought it over for a few seconds, and then shook my head yes. It made a lot of sense.

"Where?" I asked.

"Somewhere where no one will find it. But somewhere where you can retrieve it when, and _if_ , you're ready to."

I pondered the _if_ for a few seconds. "Suggestions?" I offered.

"I've got a place, Johnny," the Kid said. "And it's perfect. Better yet, it's right in the back yard."

"Sounds good," I agreed. We all just sort of looked at each other for the space of a few seconds—wordlessly. Then I broke the silence—Todd Beamer style.

"Okay then," I said. "Let's roll."

We did.
CHAPTER NINETEEN

Washington, D.C.

The room was small, but even at that it was comfortable enough. A two-room holding chamber, but far better than most. A single bed, with box springs and mattress—instead of a lumpy cot. It was well lighted, and warm. A barred window near the ceiling, much too small for even a tiny person to enter or exit. It looked into a brick lined shaft of some sort. A toilet, along with a sink and shower stall—all completely exposed. Shahida had used them a couple of times, always carefully watching the thick Plexiglas window in the door to her cell. She had expected to catch one of the young police officers peeking, but it had not as yet happened. Even when they brought her food and drink, they knocked politely at the door and waited for her permission to enter. A pleasant surprise—and not at all what she had expected.

She had tried engaging them in conversation, but had been met each time with simple stony silence. They had always been respectful, but entirely distant and completely professional.

She could hear the three of them in the next room, softly talking and laughing. Occasionally she could catch enough of the conversation to know that they were playing cards. Sometimes there was the sound of a television in the background, but the volume was always quite low—as if the men did not want the sound to cover the possible approach of someone to the outer door. Or to cover any sounds she might be making either.

It had been well over a day since she was escorted into the room. Lots of time to think, but very little had come to her in the way of making a plan. Rather, she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. From the looks of the ambient light filtering through her high window, Shahida could tell that darkness was once again only an hour or two away.

She knew that although she was well trained in martial arts and hand-to-hand combat and would stand a chance with just one of the men—three were entirely out of the question. She also noticed that whoever brought her food was always unarmed. Smart—she would not be able to take one by surprise and attain his weapon.

Basically, she was helpless—and worst of all, she knew it.

Shahida picked up one of the many magazines in the room. _People_ —it was the only cruel and unusual punishment so far.

There was a tapping at the door. Shahida replaced the magazine and addressed the still closed and locked door.

"Come in."

The door opened. This time the young man on the other side was not alone. This time the FBI agent that had been with the President was along. For the space of perhaps ten to fifteen seconds, the door remained open as the two men wordlessly looked at her. Shahida guessed that the older man was simply checking on her condition— _and_ confirming her location. In a moment the door closed and clicked into the locked position once more.

Shahida picked up the magazine and began once again to read.

Surprisingly, the restaurant wasn't very crowded. Matt, Linh, Maggie, and Howard had the booth nearest to the back, and were able to talk in nearly normal conversational tones. The last of the scrambled eggs, toast and pancakes were gone, and each was nursing their second or third cup of coffee.

Maggie spoke up. "Guess this is how you know you've finally made it to the cop big-leagues. When you can sort through body parts for half the night, and still have a big appetite the next morning."

Howard agreed. "That's just about right, Maggie. I've seen the county morgue guy with a cheeseburger in one hand and a scalpel in the other, many a time. When you get hungry, you have to eat. It doesn't really seem to matter what's going on. You get good at it."

Linh eyed her husband warily. "So, Matt. How do we find Johnny?"

"Darned if I know."

"Not funny."

"Wasn't meant to be. Howard hit it right on the head when he said the watch doesn't have a GPS in it, although if I'm close enough I can probably pick up on it."

Howard spoke up. "We sure Johnny even has the watch?"

"Not entirely," Matt admitted. "I'm guessing he probably does, knowing Johnny and Brick. For reasons too lengthy to go into here though, it really doesn't matter that much if he does or not."

"So then?" Linh said.

"So then we figure out where he went. My best guess would be that he's still in Detroit. Only probably not present day Detroit."

"Why?" Howard asked.

"Safest place. Lay low while things cool down a bit. It's what I'd do."

"That's it?"

"Plus the fact that the guy Johnny is most likely with—Brick Wahl, happens to have family in the city."

"Who?"

"His great-grandfather; Norman Selby, aka 'Kid' McCoy."

"You're talking a man pretty damned old," Howard said.

"Not in 1940. He was in his sixties then. He and Brick get together every once and a while."

"You know Wahl?"

"Some."

"Why 1940?"

"It's the year he died. The Kid's kind of fixated on it."

"How'd he die?"

"Suicide."

"Messy one?"

"Not really. A handful of pills. Old Norman always was a piss-ant and a coward."

"You know him."

"A little, just like Brick. Roan McCabe and Norman always had, shall we say—a little mutual infatuation society going on with each other."

"So your dear old dada and Brick Wahl's great-grandpa were pals."

"Yeah. Roan liked to bet the fights. Norman made him a bundle. Roan made the Kid the world champ. It was a relationship that kind of worked for both of them."

"A boxer huh?"

"A cheater. The Kid never did much square in his life."

"Why are you here, Matt?" Linh asked, changing the subject a little peevishly. "I thought you were supposed to be sorting through your childhood issues with the old parental units. And working out exactly where, and with _whom_ , you wanted to spend the rest of your life."

"It's done, Linh. Everything's ready. Roan, Aedan, and Joshua are sitting up on a mountain in Arizona right now waiting for me come back."

"Patiently?"

"I doubt it. Joshua went to a hell of a lot of trouble to get me back there. After all that has happened _here_ since I left, I kind of have to ask myself just why that was."

"Meaning?" Linh probed.

"Meaning—stop and think about it Linh. Howard gets called to a conference of police chiefs in California to discuss an 'alleged' terror plot. A plot which now seems to have quite possibly never existed. Strangely enough, I am taken out of the picture at just about the same time. My partner's pretty much on his own—sent to kill some guys that are supposed to be masterminding the said alleged plot. Instead, a trap is sprung on him and his new partner. Instead of being the hunter, they end up getting hunted. For what? If you answer anything but the watch, you probably still think the Easter Bunny is real."

"Makes no sense, Matt," Howard said. "How would anyone know that you had decided to give it to Johnny?"

"Well, Howard—it would have to be someone that not only knew I had given it away, but someone that knew about its existence in the first place. The two things plainly go together. Not that many people are aware of it, if you stop and think about it."

"Who knows about it that you don't trust?" Howard asked.

"Only one."

"Joshua McCabe."

"Right. Who did you meet at the conference that put you in touch with the President?" Matt asked.

"An old friend."

"One with a name?"

"Yeah—he's got a name. But I'm not at liberty to say."

"That's pretty cryptic, Howard—considering what's at stake."

Howard's anger flared. "I know what's at stake, sonny-boy. You sure you do?"

Matt's eyes flashed. "Been a few decades since I've heard you call me that, Howard."

"Yeah, Matt. It's been a long time since we were kids together. One thing's never changed since back then though."

"What's that, Howard?"

"You're an asshole—that's what. A showboat. The main attraction. All three damned circus rings at the same time. The center of attention. You love the spotlight. I never told you that way back when, because I was in awe of you—like a big brother. Well, princess—I've gotten over that in the last fifty years or so. Hot-dogging is what got your ass shot-up and your brains blown out up at the Carson Mine. If you hadn't turned your father's cursed freak watch into your own personal pocket-pool mistress, you'd be as dead as hell right now, and nothing more than a faint memory to anybody but me."

Matt stared back at Howard, unspeaking. All the color had drained from his face however. "Don't hold back, Howard. Tell me what you really think."

"Okay. You're also a womanizing bastard, and a two-timing mongrel dog. You always said you threw over your women, Matt, but the truth of the matter was none of them could stand to be with you for very long. They always felt they were somehow coming between you and some pretty little shiny object you seemed to love a whole hell of a lot more than you did them."

Matt spit out his reply. "You must _know_ I could take you apart, old man."

"You could _try_ ," Howard said, never breaking his gaze into Matt's eyes for a second.

Linh's voice broke the tension. "Gentlemen—perhaps a brief return to your own corners for a few moments would be in order. Maybe we all need to remember why we're here."

Howard led off, unapologetically. "What does Joshua do when he realizes you're not there?"

"He won't, Howard. I left him asleep with the others in an outfitter's tent. Doesn't much matter if he wakes up in five minutes or ten hours. I'll be back before he does. One of the little miracles and perks of time travel."

"Guess Norman isn't the only cheater around," Howard said.

Matt began to rise, but Linh quickly blocked him. "Not now. I want you two to knock it off and get over yourselves. If you can't act like grown-ups, I'll go after Johnny myself."

"You aren't going, Linh," Matt said. "I won't have my son's life risked."

Linh drew in her breath sharply as her eyes flashed. "Matt—apparently you've mistaken me for someone that gives a tinker's damn about what you think, say, or do." Matt opened his mouth to speak, but Linh instantly cut him off with a quick wave of her hand. Leaning over close to him, she spoke directly into his ear in a whisper that the others could not hear, and for approximately fifteen or twenty seconds. Matt's face reddened several shades of scarlet.

He swallowed hard several times. Finally, he spoke. "Guess I was wrong. Guess you'll be going after all."

"Damned straight. Now that we've got that out of the way, _sweetheart_ —I'll simply ask when you want to get us out of here."

"Well, no time like the present. We'll need to find a little more private spot though. Can't have a chorus-line of people suddenly disappearing in the middle of the street."

"You got hardware, Matt?" Howard asked.

"A forty-five, Howard. Just like back in old '52."

"Extra mags?"

"Two. Twenty-two rounds altogether."

"That'll do."

"You got my back, Howard?"

"Damned right, Matt—same as you've got mine. _That_ doesn't change—ever."

"Follow me then deputies," Matt said, grinning slightly in spite of himself.

The four left the restaurant then—a strained and fragile peace between them.

Shahida awoke suddenly—unmoving—acutely aware that she was no longer alone in the room. Slowly she opened her eyes just enough to be able see clearly. The door to her cell was open and she could see easily into the next room. She could also see a plain and unadorned pine casket sitting atop a gurney. Ready to be filled and rolled away.

She knew her number was up. No reason not to face it squarely. Slowly she sat up on the edge of the bed and turned her head to the right. There, in the half darkness, exactly where she knew they would be, sat two of the three DC cops—Weeks and Wiggins. The other was nowhere to be seen. Weeks had a high-capacity automatic pistol in his hand. Wiggins was holding a rolled-up black body-bag. They were looking directly at her.

"So which one of you brave boys gets the cheap thrill of killing me?"

Weeks spoke up. He was the younger looking of the two. Closed cropped sandy hair. A gentle face, but punctuated with sharp blue eyes and a hard gaze. "Well, the way me and my partner here figure it, Agent Faris, you won't be that much good to us dead. We think we might be able to put you to much better use alive."

"So that's it then? Rape and then murder. You guys must make your parents real proud."

"My father's an accountant," Weeks said. "He wouldn't know a shooting-iron from a tire-iron."

"Now my father _would_ know the difference." Wiggins chimed in. "I come from a long line of cops." Wiggins was a slightly built man with wavy black hair. Despite his best efforts to look serious, a faint smile played on his lips.

"Dirty like you?"

"Naw. They were all the salt of the earth. The line goes all the way back to the frontier."

"So how to you intend to do this guys? One at a time, or do you prefer a messy four-some?"

"Do you see three cops here, Agent Faris?"

"Very polite way to address a woman you're about to gang rape, Wiggins."

"I'm a polite guy."

"You're a little bastard. Where's Pulini?"

"Tied-up at the moment. You're kind of plucky—for a girl."

"I had to be a few times, back where I came from. It's saved my life a time or two."

Wiggins threw back his head and laughed. "Well, lady, it just might again."

Weeks smiled broadly. "Sorry, Agent Faris. Sometimes Trey and me get a little too playful for our own good."

"What are you talking about?"

Weeks turned the pistol he had been holding around and handed it to Faris butt forward. "Here. You may be needing this. Please don't shoot me, by the way. We're what you might call the good guys."

"What's going on here?" Faris said, taking the offered gun.

"Officer Pulini was part of a shadow detail that operates out of the back of the district police department. It offers, shall we say, "special" services to the White House. Services that can't be had elsewhere. As in—no questions asked services. Pulini was to be paired with two other cops for this job. Fortunately, the way the detail commander works it, for reasons of plausible deniability they would not be men which he had met before, so we were able to pull off a switch pretty easy. Every organization has an Achilles heel."

"Where are they?"

"Alive—but detained. That'll do for now, Agent Faris."

"Make that Shahida. I think we're on a first name basis now. By the way—I think I love you two."

Wiggins laughed again. "Hope you'll still feel that way by morning. My name is Trey, Shahida. The half-wit sitting next to me is Dallin.

"Nice to meet you both. Who do you work for?"

"Oh, we're actually DC cops. We just happen to be honest ones, and Trey's granddad is a retired cop that works now as a special liaison between the FBI and CIA."

"Central? What do they have to do with this?"

"More than you can possibly know, Shahida. We'll fill you in, just as soon as we get clear of this building."

"Which is?"

"An underground bunker for the White House. It's surprisingly well guarded. We're going to need just a little bit of luck to get out of here without shots fired."

"How dirty is the President?"

"Much more than you could probably imagine."

"Bet you're wrong on that one, Trey. I'm Persian you know. What next?"

"Strip naked—while Dallin and I wait outside. Shinny yourself into this body bag and give us a holler when you're in. We'll put you in the casket and give you about a quart of fake blood to pour over yourself. We want you to mat up your hair real good. Don't worry, we'll have your clothes and we'll take you to Dallin's apartment where you can clean up afterwards. Keep the pistol under your body and pull it only if you need to. You'll know when if it comes to that. We're hoping we can pull this off without anyone opening the bag for a look, but there are no guarantees on that one. If they do take a look, it should be pretty convincing if you can hold your breath a little. Sorry to say you were partly right, Shahida—it _is_ going to be a little messy."

"That kind of mess I don't mind, guys."

"Okay. Only one last thing then."

"What?"

Weeks smiled again as he quickly drew his pistol and aimed toward the empty shower stall. The small room echoed with the blast as he fired a round directly into the far wall. Broken pieces of tile and grout cascaded to the floor. In a few seconds the sound subsided. Weeks looked at Shahida and grinned. "Bang," he said, and then added with a wink, "You're dead."

"See you in a few minutes, Shahida," Wiggins said as they exited the door, closing it carefully behind them.

"See you," Shahida repeated as she began to quickly remove her clothes. Preparing, she ruefully thought to herself, for her own murder, funeral, and hopefully, her resurrection as well.

Rising from the dead was certainly a most reassuring thought right at the moment, Shahida considered. She was mighty glad she had converted to Christianity a few years before.

Mighty glad indeed.
CHAPTER TWENTY

Detroit

1940

We finished our work in the Kid's backyard in probably an hour, and cleaned up quickly in the house. The antique and aged water heater in the old building had seen its better days. I thought the water was going to have to run long into the afternoon just to get warm, but it finally responded, and I was able to wash the dirt and grime off my hands.

Brick and I assembled in the front yard, waiting patiently as the Kid started up his car and backed it out of the garage. I kind of wondered what would be Norman's taste in a set of wheels, and as it turned out, it was a sweet ride—a 1939 Ford Deluxe Tudor. It was destined to become a classic, with its rakish curves and brilliant chrome grill, and was well on its way to that status even in its first year. The car, as it turned out, was a gift, or rather a loaned company car of the Ford Motor Company, to the Kid. He was employed by Ford, and rather uniquely so, as I was soon to understand, and the car—well, just let me say—it was a good investment for the company.

Brick took the passenger seat, while I settled into the back. The Ford was equipped with optional leather seats, rather than the standard cloth. They were beautiful and stylish on the one hand, but very stiff and cold in the frigid Detroit Spring air, on the other. Again though, smart—bodily fluids would not soak in so easily as cloth. And much, much easier to clean up if they did.

"Tell me about Ford," I said to the back of the Kid's head.

"Big company. Builds cars. Makes a lot of money doing so."

"Funny. Tell me what it is _exactly_ you do for Ford."

"I bust heads, Johnny. And I don't mean the one in the engine either."

"That's what I thought," I replied. "Is that what you were doing when your daughter went missing?"

"Don't you mean when my daughter was murdered?"

"I mean I don't know if she was murdered or not. And neither do the Detroit cops. And neither do you."

The Kid harrumphed. "I hadn't worked very long for Ford when she 'disappeared.' I was still in the fight game then—at least on the side. I was a manager and trainer."

"Of who?"

"Well, let me see. That was in December of '29. It would have been Murray. Patrick Murray."

"Just after the crash," I observed.

"Yeah, you bet—things were tough. The country was still in shock. The reality of the Great Depression hadn't quite set in yet."

"Tell me about Murray."

"What's to tell? He was a real mick. With an Irish temper to boot. A little slow in the ring, but after he got hit a couple of times, he'd generally explode and tear his opponent's head off. Not a bad fighter."

"You improve him much?" I asked.

"Naw. He didn't need much. I couldn't exactly impart the secret of time-travel to him. But even at that he was all right. Never gonna be the world champ or anything like that, but he could, and did, win quite a few matches."

"Make you much money?"

"Not too much. Especially after black Friday. But him and me kept food on the table. In those days that was no small thing."

"Back to Ford," I challenged again. "Why the strong-arm stuff? I'd of thought you were a classier guy than that, Kid."

"Well you'd of thought wrong," the Kid replied more than a little peevishly. "The depression wasn't exactly over in a few months you know. I was getting older and weaker. I needed something that produced a more regular paycheck."

"You were a little past your prime by then."

"Yeah, I was—but the Ford guy that hired me never knew it."

"What do you mean?"

The Kid looked out over the steering wheel and off into a distant past, obviously viewing people, places and things that only his eyes could see. I watched them in the mirror. They had a kind of almost vacant look, but even at that, I could see that he slightly smiled—a smile with teeth in it. Exactly the same smile that I had observed just before the Kid had saved my life back at the old warehouse by knocking a couple of hoods into the next week.

"The guy's name was Harry. Harry something or other. I can't really remember anymore. Anyway, he was the head of "hiring" at Ford. But he wasn't exactly hiring assembly line workers. Ford was at war with the new United Auto Workers Union. And more exactly, they were at war with Walter Reuther."

I remembered back to my high school history class days, and the formative years of one of the first great American labor unions. Walter Reuther was the first President of the United Automobile Workers of America—better known as simply the UAW. It was not especially popular with big business interests of the day. "I'm guessing the higher-ups at Ford were none too thrilled with Mr. Reuther, right?"

"Right, Johnny. Ford considered Reuther to be a commie pig, and they weren't about to cave in to him. General Motors and Chrysler had already suffered costly sit-down strikes and signed labor agreements with him, but Ford wasn't about to. They were bound and determined to make a stand. They wanted to teach him a lesson, and if they couldn't do that—well, they wouldn't have minded even one little bit seeing him end up good and dead."

Going back to my mental history book, I remembered the airplane crash that had finally killed him. It was about a year or so before I had been born.

"Do you think they finally made him good and dead, Kid?"

"Possibly, Johnny. You have to remember though, that plane crash happened several decades after the events we're talking about. If they did, it was pure spiteful payback. Labor laws and union contracts for more pay and better working conditions were well established by then. It would have been pretty pointless to kill him at that stage from a profit/loss standpoint. People die in plane crashes all the time. Sometimes things just happen for no real good reason, Johnny."

"Yeah," I agreed, my voice dripping with just a bit more than doubt. "Sometimes they just do. So what about this Harry guy?"

"I answered a sort of 'cattle-call'. Ford wanted tough guys for their newly formed 'security' force."

"Ford private police, right, Kid?"

"Right, Johnny. Strike-busters."

"How many 'cattle' showed up, Kid?"

"Around a dozen, best I can remember. Hoods—every one of them. Pimps, bookies, and thugs. All strong young guys too."

"Except for you."

"Except for me. Harry took one look at me in my three-piece suit and thinning gray hair and laughed in my face."

"Mistake number one, Kid?"

"You bet, Johnny. Pissed me off good. Mistake number two was when he walked up to me and shoved me hard in the chest. Caught me off guard and I damned near fell over backward. Harry thought it was funny as hell and laughed again."

"What did you do, Kid?" I was already beginning to see pretty much how this thing was going to play out.

"Well, after I got my balance back and straightened out my vest and jacket, I called him a miserable fat pig and asked him if he'd like to try that again. He did. Came at me with a fully cocked fist. His mitts were about the size of a small ham."

"Never laid another hand on you, did he?"

"Only to shake my hand and offer me the job of head of security."

"How bad did you work him over?"

"Enough so he'd remember it for damned sure. My last punch knocked him completely over the desk in his office and slammed his fat ass into his desk chair—backwards and upside down."

I had to smile with the thought of it. Pretty much, I figured, people had been underestimating the Kid for most of his life. Not very long before—I had been one of them. It could easily be a fatal mistake.

"He hate you for the beating enough to grab your kid?"

"No, Johnny. We became pretty good friends to be honest. I remember his name now. Bennet. _Big_ Harry Bennet. A semi-pro boxer and an ex-Navy guy."

"How 'bout anyone else you roughed-up?"

"I doubt it. They were all small-fry, Johnny. Nameless, faceless factory workers. Just trying to keep a roof over their heads and a little food on the table."

"Any regrets, Kid?" The Kid was silent for a few seconds as he thought it over. Finally he spoke.

"Naw. It was a tough old life, Johnny—back in those days. Hell—it still is."

"Amen to that, Kid," I replied. "Amen to that."

Brick spoke up. "Tell Johnny about the world-famous corkscrew punch, pops."

The Kid laughed a little. "It was my trademark. My finishing move. My 'lights out' punch. It was a left. But when it hit, I turned my wrist about ninety degrees. I really don't think it was a damned bit better than any other decent left hook, but the crowd loved it and ate it up. I made up a bunch of mumbo-jumbo and hokum about developing it from the principals of gun barrel rifling. Another story was that I watched a cat batting around a ball of yarn. That's all it was too. Just a yarn—another good old Kid McCoy tall tale. Public didn't care. They couldn't get enough. They just loved the 'Kid.'"

Norman was silent for a long few seconds. Then he spoke. "It was a good life, Johnny. A damned good life. I don't regret a thing I ever did. It was the god-damned time of my life."

"You ever regret killing your wife?" I could tell that I had hit a nerve as the Kid's face flushed a mild red.

"No sir," he replied softly. "I regret that less than anything I ever did in my life."

"Tell me about her."

"I'd rather not, if you don't mind."

"I do mind, Kid. If your daughter wasn't nabbed by union thugs, there's a damned good chance the mystery revolves around your wife. After all, there's not much else left—right?"

The Kid was silent again for several seconds. "Right. I guess. Okay, Johnny. I asked you for help. I guess you can't do that if you don't know it all."

"Thanks, Kid."

"I can't go there without a little fortification, Johnny. You have to grant me that one."

"Okay, Kid."

"I know a good bar, Johnny. Just a mile or so down the road."

We rode on in silence. Finally the Kid slowed the car and right turned onto a lovely tree lined residential street. Odd place for a bar I thought, but as the Kid stopped in front of a rather quaint looking Victorian style two-story house, I could plainly see the lighted sign.

It said . . . The Stonehouse Bar.

Washington, D. C.

Present Day

Weeks and Wiggins were as gentle as possible in lifting Shahida up and into the casket. Through the narrow slit in the unzipped portion of the body bag, Shahida could see Officer Pulini. Weeks and Wiggins had done a good job of tying him up. Pulini wouldn't be going anywhere soon. A heavy gag protruded from his mouth—firmly taped over with duct tape. His hands were cuffed behind him, and also anchored with stout twist-ties. The ankles were identically secured, and then additionally chained around a rather large and heavy looking refrigerator. If Pulini tried kicking the refrigerator over, it would probably dislocate his hip joints as it went. Pulled toward him, the machine had a very good chance of killing him as it fell on him. Pulini was settling for laying very still on the floor, even as he shot hard looks at his adversaries.

Once inside the coffin, Shahida began to pour the fake blood over her body and head. It was an interesting combination—common tomato ketchup mixed with chocolate syrup and then slightly thinned with mineral oil, along with a dash of red food color. It was the same old tried and true combination used in the motion-picture trade for time immemorial. It did have its real-life drawbacks however. While visually very convincing, it would literally never pass the smell test if anyone were to examine the "corpse" very closely. Not a problem in the movies—here, the ketchup and pancake syrup odors presented a substantial risk.

Weeks and Wiggins zipped the bag shut and quickly closed the lid. It made a loud click as it snapped into place. The sound was more than a little jarring to Shahida. In her old country, she had heard the same sound many times. There however, the occupant of the casket didn't care much, and would never rise again. Here, Shahida said a silent prayer to her new Christian God, imploring deity for assistance and assurance that she would soon see that lid open again. Shahida pushed her pistol deep into the small of her back. It felt cold against her naked skin. The darkness inside the casket was total and complete.

In a few moments, the casket began to move as Weeks and Wiggins opened the outer door and began pushing the gurney out. There was a slight pause as they stopped to lock the door behind them. Then movement began again as the trio started the simultaneously short, and very, very long walk to freedom and escape.

The procession ended abruptly as a muffled voice spoke up from outside the darkness of the box.

"Halt," it said.

Detroit

1940

Once inside the Stonehouse bar, I was rather amazed at what had been done with the grand old residence. The ground floor had been widely opened up into a much larger and more usable space. There were probably a good baker's dozen of tables and chairs scattered about. The tabletops were littered with drinks, drinkers, cards and card players. Even fairly early in the afternoon, the Stonehouse was a busy place. There were a set of stairs going up, but chained off. I had very little doubt that whatever was going on up there probably did not include drinking and gambling—or Sunday school lessons either.

The Kid strode up to the bar like he owned the place and ordered a double scotch—neat. Seemed like he'd done it before. Brick followed suit but settled for a draft beer. It looked delicious—a good old-fashioned foamy head and deep amber color. I could tell at a glance that beer quality must have been going down for a while. What I really wanted was something I was pretty sure they weren't going to have—a Diet Coke. I tried for a glass of Club Soda on the rocks instead, and when the bar-keep didn't do a double take, I figured I was probably home free—at least as far as the drinks went.

Wrong again—as per usual.

As the bartender turned away to fill my order, I felt a solid jar on the right side of my body as a big and burly guy pushed in close beside me. He didn't have to—it wasn't that crowded a bar.

"Hey, barkeep!" he bellowed. "Bring a whiskey on over for my new friend here." He was a bruiser all right. Probably an inch or so over six feet, and he had a good solid forty to fifty pounds on me. "First one's on the house for any friend of Kid McCoy!" he bellowed again. The Kid didn't even bother to turn his head to look at us, although Brick was sizing the goomba up from the corner of his eye.

"You gonna be okay, Johnny?" he asked a little paternalistically.

"Yeah, Brick, I'll be fine. Thanks anyway." I looked the guy over. He wasn't about to win any beauty contests, that was for damned sure. His suit and vest had seen a lot better days. Just a little bit more than threadbare, and long past it's prime. The plaid English driving cap perched crookedly on his noggin could sure as hell have used a good dry-cleaning as well. The face sitting under it didn't look as though it had seen a lot of hot, soapy water in the very near past. His breath roiling out from the lumpy face did not exactly remind me of a lily-field either. A flame anywhere near it would have presented a clear and present danger.

"You got a name, pal?" I cordially asked, as I managed a friendly smile.

"Sam," he bellowed once more, slurring his words slightly as he did so. "Sam Gabriel." It was plain that his daily libations had begun considerably before ours.

I stuck out my hand and Sam took it, pumping it several times. He was no weakling. I could have sworn my feet slightly left the floor on the upswing. "Well, Sam, my name is O'Brien. Johnny O'Brien. Just Johnny to my friends. I thank you for the offer of a drink, but today I'm just having a soda. If you want to buy it for me, that'd be great—but that's all I'm drinking today." His face darkened at the rebuke, as his voice lowered an octave.

"Everybody new to the Stonehouse gets a free whiskey. That's just the rule."

"Rules are meant to be broken, Sam."

"Sorry, Johnny—no exceptions to the rule."

"Let me put this to you as plain and simple as I can, Sam. I don't drink booze. Ever. I'm going to have a Club Soda today. If you'd like to have a friendly drink with me under those terms, I'd enjoy it. If not—well, just let me say right here at the outset—please don't start in on me—because, I really don't like to hurt people." I could see Brick smile a little on the edge of my vision.

"You've got a hellofa lot of confidence—for a little bitty man," Sam said.

"As a little man, I have to," I replied. Sam backed up a pace. A couple of other patrons hurriedly backed up several more. It was plain they had seen old Sam in action before.

Brick casually leaned over a few inches closer to me and whispered, "Try to see the punch before he throws it, Johnny."

" _That's_ your best advice, Brick?"

"Sorry. We didn't exactly have time for the full course. Don't worry, you'll be fine—I'm sure you're probably a pretty fast learner."

I didn't have time to thank Brick much for all the great advice he hadn't given me before I felt Sam shove me hard with both of his massive hands. It backed me up a couple of steps and I was damned glad to have a little more room to move around in.

"Sam, I'm only going to say this once. I'm not in a good mood today. Matter of fact, I'm in a damned bad one. Please don't screw around with me. You don't have an idea in the world of what you're starting here."

"I'll risk it," he said as he pushed me again even harder.

That was it. I waded in. I threw what I thought was a pretty decent punch, but Sam caught my hand in his like a baseball in an oversized catcher's mitt. His right smashed into the left side of my face and actually lifted me a couple of inches off the floor. I staggered but didn't go down. Grabbing me by the front of my shirt and pulling me closer, Sam plowed his left into the other side of my mug. This time I hit the floor hard—but only after staggering into and overturning a table and breaking three or four glasses and mugs that had been sitting on it. The lights were getting a little dim by this point, and birds were beginning to make a faint chirping sound in my head.

It was shaping up to be a long afternoon.

Once more Sam was towering over me as he reached down and grabbed another handful of my shirt and hauled me to my feet, fully intending to turn my face and nose into blood and snot soup. I could see Brick and the Kid watching from the corner of my eye. They seemed contentedly unconcerned, and very unlikely to interfere. Sam pulled me to my feet as he lined up his right fist for the nighty night punch. My eyes bore into his right balled-up hand as he cocked it back as far as he could go. In my mind's eye, I could see the punch as it sailed toward me through the air. I could see it connecting with my head. Funny thing happened then though.

The punch never reached my face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Washington, D. C.

Present Day

The gurney stopped moving. It was all that Shahida could do to not pull the pistol from behind her back and to a more instantly accessible location. It was too early she knew. There was still a chance that they might all make it out without gun-play. The guards seemed young, and they might well sneak by. But she was also painfully aware that here, they were in the dragon's lair, and should it come to a shooting match, she and her two friends would be woefully over-matched.

The voice from outside the box was muffled, but still Shahida could easily make out every word. It was a male voice, that of a youngish man.

"Is that the suicide from the B4 unit?" the voice asked.

Weeks hesitated an uncertain moment and then spoke up. "Yes sir."

"All right. Let me see the DC."

"The DC?"

"Yeah smart-ass, the DC—you had Strumpf pronounce, didn't you?"

Weeks looked blank.

"Jesus, where do they get you guys from anyway? You can't just take a body out of here until the doctor comes over and does a pronouncement."

"A pronouncement?" Wiggins said.

"Yeah, genius. A doctor, a medical physician specifically—has to examine the body and pronounce it dead. Us, we're way too stupid to be able to tell a thing like that. How'd she off herself?"

"Bullet through the head."

"Well then, there you go. You or me, we look at a body with a big gaping hole through the noggin, and a bunch of brains leaking out, well, you can't expect us dumb shits to know if she's dead or not. Takes a physician for that. Then he has to sign the DC—the death certificate. You have present that to me, or to whoever is on shift here when you come through. One of us signs it too and off you go over to the Sunny Side funeral home. They do our cremations. No double signed DC—no cremation, simple as that."

"Sorry, we didn't know."

"Then I'll bet Dr. Strumpf wasn't even called, was he?"

"Sorry, no."

The guard signed. "Okay then. Park her over there in that side hallway and I'll give his office a call. Probably take a few hours for him to get over here, but maybe we'll get lucky and be able to get you two out of here while we're all still in our youth."

Another voice spoke up, this time from the end of the hall. Shahida recognized the voice as belonging to the FBI agent that had been with the President. _Things_ _are turning sour pretty fast_ , she thought, as her hand tightened on the pistol.

"It's okay Officer," the voice said. "I'll take over from here. This lady is a special case."

"Yes sir," the guard replied. "No problem."

"Thank you," the older man said, as the young guard turned and walked away.

"Weeks, Wiggins—take a right at the hallway. I have a hearse from Sunny Side waiting. Where's Pulini?"

"Staying behind," Weeks replied. "He's got the shits this morning. Too many hot peppers on his pizza last night."

"Okay then," the older man replied. "We need to make this fast. Too many people already looking for her. Faster she's in an ashcan the better."

"What's the deal with her anyway?" Weeks asked.

"None of your damned business is what's the deal with her," the older voice said. "The less you know the better."

"Okay, okay—just curious, that's all."

"Remember what they say about the cat. You like all the extra money you're making?"

"Sure."

"Well, keep your eyes _and_ your mouth shut and you'll keep making it."

"Okay--got it boss."

"So start pushing this damned thing then. Long way out to the loading dock."

"Yes sir."

The procession started moving.

Detroit

1940

It was quite easy to sidestep the punch. Child's-play really. It was easy to see how the Kid, and Brick too, for that matter, had been able to win all those fights. Gabriel stumbled forward slightly as his right connected with nothing but air. I gave him a cuff on the side of his head as he went by. I could have done a lot worse, but I really didn't want to seriously hurt the guy. I kind of liked him. And besides, the whole time-travel fighting thing seemed a lot more than just a little shady to me. It wasn't quite cricket, to say the very least. On the other hand, I didn't exactly want a good beating from Gabriel either—so I kept it up—momma didn't raise no fools.

"Knock it off, Sam!" I said as he passed me for about the tenth time. I added another powder-puff swat for emphasis. "You can't win this, big-guy." Apparently he didn't know that, as he cocked his big mitt for another try at the center of my face. He didn't miss by much, and I felt the breeze as his knuckles passed an inch or two from my nose. Brick and the Kid had at last turned away from the bar to watch the festivities. They were both holding their drinks, and looked prepared to defend them if necessary, or at the very least keep them from spilling if we waltzed in a little too close.

It was not as though Brick and the Kid were no help at all. They shouted advice _and_ encouragement. Trouble was, it was directed toward Gabriel, not me. I guess they probably looked at this altercation as a learning experience for me, and as an added bonus—they did not have to be the ones doing the teaching. At any rate, it was plain that they were enjoying the spectacle and having a good time. Again, I thought it about time to bring this so-called "fight" to an end. Trouble was, I wasn't exactly sure how to do that—at least without causing Gabriel to lose a lot of face, and I didn't want to do that. I was starting to really respect the guy. Anyone who absolutely refuses to give up, no matter how one-sided the odds or pointless the conflict—well, some qualities just _have_ to be acknowledged.

In the end, the finish wasn't very pretty. I tripped him. I admit it wasn't much flashy, or even very fair, but damn—did it work. He sprawled headlong and face first into the floor, which gave me a terrific advantage as I basically stood on his neck and demanded his surrender. Like I said, it would never make the annals of the great fist-fights magazine year-end photo edition.

Sam twisted his neck around enough to be able to speak.

"What was that you were drinking?" he inquired.

"Club Soda. Neat. On the rocks."

"Tell the barkeep to make it two, and I'll have one with you."

"Fair enough, Sam," I replied with a smile. "Fair enough." I quickly removed my foot from his neck. He rose slowly to his feet, straightened out his jacket and vest, and then stuck out his hand for a shake. I was only too happy to accept it.

"I've fought many a man," he began. "And not a one of them ever made the fool of me that you just did. I bow in your presence Mr. O'Brien, and I tip my hat to one hellofa great fighter." Gabriel tried for the cap tipping thing but it wasn't on his head anymore. I had knocked it off in the first few seconds of the fight. I reached behind me and retrieved it from the floor and handed it to him.

"Just Johnny to my friends, Sam. Just Johnny to my friends," I repeated.

"Yes sir, Johnny," he said enthusiastically. Let's have some of that soda stuff. Can't say I've ever had it before. Maybe I'll like it!"

"Maybe you will," I agreed. "I hope so, Sam. I truly do."

"You a fighter, Johnny?"

"Not unless I have to Sam. I'm a private detective by trade."

We bellied up to the bar, all four of us in a row—kind of like crows on a telephone line. Brick and the Kid nursed their liquor. Gabriel and I sipped our Shirley Temples. It was practically a Hallmark moment. Sam allowed as to how his soda didn't taste near as bad as he had expected it to. After his little go-around with me, and the absence of new intoxication for a few minutes, old Sam was starting to lose his buzz just a little bit. When he spoke, his words were not nearly as slurred. He spoke to the Kid, but somehow I just sort of intuitively knew to whom he was referring. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up just a little. And my skin crawl.

"Big Al's back in town."

"So I've heard," the Kid responded dryly. "Been awhile."

"Years," Gabriel agreed. "They say he's dying."

"And Satan always speaks the truth, doesn't he?" the Kid replied sarcastically.

"You're not a believer?" Gabriel asked.

"I wouldn't believe that bastard if he said the sky was blue," the Kid responded.

"What's he got to gain? He's a broken man."

"Yeah, right. What he has to gain, is the only thing that ever really mattered to him. Power. Power over men, over women, over anything of good, worth, or value. Money was only the means to his end."

I jumped in. "Are we talking about the "Al" that I think we're talking about, Kid?

"Yeah, Johnny. The one and only."

"You kind of forgot to mention earlier that he was a friend of yours."

The Kid screwed up his face in distaste. "He was never a friend of mine, Johnny. Never. No man on this earth was _ever_ the friend of Al Capone."

Washington, DC

Present Day

Shahida rinsed the last bit of ketchup and syrup out of her hair. Finally, after nearly thirty minutes in the shower, the smell of the fake blood concoction was fading. It was just in time too, as the hot water was quickly beginning to fade from the smallish sized water heater. Weeks' digs were a little surprising to Shahida. It was an exceptionally neat and clean apartment for a bachelor guy, and well decorated too. Not what she would have expected. Shahida had wondered if the oddly good-looking Weeks and his goofy partner might be a couple, but several photos of Weeks and his very pretty girlfriend rapidly ended that speculation.

Weeks' taste ran to colonial style furniture, but instead of the more common maple stain of that period, his was rich dark wood, and very stylish. A nice four poster bed in the bedroom, along with matching end-tables, and a large dresser. A drop-front desk in the living room, and a sweet corner cabinet—all perfectly matched. The extra-large sofa was cloth, and a sedate cream color. One look told Shahida it would be a comfortable sleeper.

Quickly she dressed in the bathroom, and wrapped a towel around her wet hair. In a few minutes she would blow-dry it and brush it out. Not much more needed to be done with it—Shahida's hair had a natural wave to it, and always quickly bounced back. She expected nothing different this time, despite the strangely concocted "shampoo" that it had been subjected to. It wouldn't do to not look her best when the time shortly came to question the FBI guy. It was a matter of dominance.

He was currently seated on the big comfy sofa, with both hands and feet securely handcuffed. The last that Shahida had seen him, he did not seem like a particularly happy camper, having just been bested by a junior agent, and a female one at that. She had to smile at the memory of it.

As the coffin reached the loading dock, the senior agent had called for it to be opened. Since there was not going to be a doctor called in on this one, or a death certificate, he explained, he was going to have to do a visual on the corpse. Not trusting the older agent to be a complete moron, Shahida intended to give him something interesting to see. After Weeks and Wiggins nervously opened the lid and the agent stepped forward and unzipped it, the "corpse" rose up quickly and jammed the barrel of her 9 mil against his forehead. The agent's eyes grew large with the complete and total surprise of it. Shahida couldn't help smiling too as she remembered Weeks and Wiggins eyes also enlarging considerably as her "blood" smeared breasts tumbled free of the body-bag. Once they had the agent cuffed and gagged and on the floor of the hearse, Shahida returned to the dead for the short trip to Weeks' apartment. Fortunately a small complex and under cover of darkness, it was no trouble to smuggle Shahida in, wrapped in one of Weeks' bathrobes. Likewise with the old agent, who had decided that he would rather comply than lose a few inches of spine as Shahida's pistol pressed into his back. The escape had gone remarkably easy—freedom for her and her two friends, and a captured crooked agent as a bonus. She hoped that their good luck would continue. Experience told her however that was probably not going to be the case. When her body did not show up at the funeral home, and Pulini was discovered, Shahida decided that all hell was likely to break loose at the White House.

Finally finishing with her hair, Shahida stepped into the living room.

"Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?" She asked the very uncomfortably seated agent.

"Why should I tell you anything?" he answered, spitting out his reply.

"It'll be more fun that way for one thing. And help pass the time. Let's start out with name, rank, and serial number. It's traditional."

"Oh why the hell not?" the agent replied. "Kessler. Senior FBI agent number 105455."

"You don't carry an ID."

"Not a good idea in my present line of work."

"What's your first name?"

Kessler's eyes flashed anger. "None of your damned business."

"That's a name you don't hear every day. We'll just stick with Kessler. Okay Agent Kessler. Why does the President want me dead so bad?"

"You're a bright girl; bright enough to have gotten the drop on me—you figure it out."

"Okay, I'll take a shot at it--pun intended, by the way. You tell me where I'm going wrong."

"Feels good to be on top, doesn't it, Agent Faris? My advice; enjoy it—It's not going to last very long."

"Nothing ever does," Shahida allowed. "So the President of the United States sets this great big glorious 'Jihadist plot' machine of his in motion and gets some of the biggest and best names in law enforcement nationwide to go along with it. Why? To create a frenzy, _and_ a giant smoke-screen. Screening what? There certainly isn't and never was any plot to kill children in a Christian academy—that much's for certain. But it's a great story; no one's going to ignore the possibility of a toddler massacre. Everyone goes bat-shit crazy. Everyone reacts. So what's really going on?"

"Maybe, bringing people together? Kessler replied. "Ever see _Die-Hard_?"

"No, I'm not into American movies. Too violent. Bringing who together--O'Brien and Wahl?"

Kessler slowly nodded. Shahida's hunch was paying off. He was turning out to be a talker. Egotists usually are.

"Why?" Shahida asked.

Kessler sneered. "Okay sweetheart--I'll help you along. What does this President--hell, what does _any_ President want most in all the world?"

"To have more power." Shahida said.

"Bingo—a _nd_ to keep it a lot longer than eight measly years. No President ever wants to relinquish power. Goes against the natural instincts of a predator," Kessler added.

"So contriving a fake Islamic State attack would allow him to stay in power?"

"Depends. Go deeper," Kessler added. "Let's see you work those Poirot 'little grey-cells.' Do the math."

"You would have to declare martial-law to be able to suspend elections," Shahida mused. "And you would have to get most of the country, including Congress and the US military to think that it was a good idea. It would take something pretty damned big to be able to do that."

Kessler grinned again, more savagely this time. "How about an attempt on the life of the President of the United States of America? One that was traceable to a foreign power."

"Not enough. We've had that before."

"Right. How about an attack on the President that _he_ survives, but about three-quarters of the US Senate and the House of representatives do not?"

Shahida shuddered at the thought of it. An attack on the heart of the United States government. "Impossible. They are way too well guarded."

Kessler chuckled. "If you think that, then you don't know Saal Moradi very well."

"I don't know him at all--outside of his dossier. Apparently no one else does either."

"Wrong Agent Faris. One man knows him _very_ well."

"Who?"

"Mr. O'Brien's new partner."

"Wahl?"

"Right. Jedediah Wahl. He and O'Brien are not together exactly by accident. Wahl has a payback coming. Moradi has an interest in O'Brien as well, although I don't know precisely why."

"A payback for what?"

"Wahl stopped an assassination attempt by Moradi."

"When?"

"Years ago."

"Where?"

"Israel."

"Moradi holds a grudge."

"You could say so. Let's just stipulate to the fact that he doesn't like to be denied."

"The President's playing with fire."

"He is if he thinks Moradi is a lapdog."

"Let's say the President gets his way. Are you ready, Agent Kessler, to accept an American dictatorship?"

"Not too much worried about it to tell you the truth."

"Why not?"

Kessler shrugged for an answer.

Shahida pondered this. "How involved is Central?

"Not at all."

"Secret Service?"

"Pure as the driven snow."

"How about the DC cops?"

"Plenty dirty—except for your two."

"Yeah, except for my two. I kind of like them. They're almost like a pair of missionaries they're so wholesome and good. How dirty is the District FBI?"

"None."

"Except for you."

"Except for me."

"Why?"

"Personal reasons, Agent Faris. _Extremely_ personal reasons. Let's just leave it at that for now, if you don't mind."

Shahida shrugged away her indifference. "Fair enough—I don't care. Your reasons for being a traitor to your country are your own. You can explain them to a Federal judge."

"Assuming you live long enough to get me in front of one."

"Yes, assuming that. Why are you helping me, Kessler?"

"Who says I'm helping you?"

"Have you said a false or untrue word to me so far?"

"Why would you believe me, if I told you I hadn't?"

"Because oddly enough, I don't believe that you're lying to me, even if you're not helping me."

"Correct, Agent Faris--and very astute. Every word I have told you is the complete truth."

"But there's more."

"Of course there is. There's always more."

"What?"

"Nope, Faris—this is the place where I keep my big, fat mouth shut tight."

"Doesn't matter. I know enough to stop this thing."

"Not even close, Faris." Kessler rocked slightly back and forth, smiling savagely as he did so. He spoke in a mocking tone. "You're a little girl who's about to lose your life—and _all_ your fine friends with you. And this time—you stay dead for good."

"Because?" Shahida asked.

Kessler answered slowly and deliberately, rocking harder and still smiling—falling into a child's sing-song voice.

"Because I know one thing you don't."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Melton Industries

Just outside Dayton, Ohio

Present Day

The young man, really just a boy—twenty, at the most, lay on the hard, cold and unyielding concrete, slowly bleeding to death, and twitching out his life. His breath came in ragged gasps. Bloody bubbles were slowly expelled from his nose and mouth. Two bullets from the short-barreled .357 had taken out the lower spine, along with three or so feet of his intestines. Several blood covered fragments of both could be seen scattered on the cement.

Now, the moaning and pleading for mercy had mostly stopped, with only an occasional soft and keening call for his mother. _She will not be coming for you,_ Moradi thought with amusement. Deep bone chills and violent tremors had taken over the youngster's body, a sure sign that death was near. The boy's face and lips were blue—his teeth audibly chattering in his death agony.

Moradi watched in silence, and with abject fascination. He squatted on his haunches a few feet away from the boy's final struggle, the smallish stainless-steel Smith and Wesson magnum loosely dangling from his hand. Death had always interested him. The many stages of it. The awesome finality of it. First shock, and then dismay; denial, bargaining, anger—and finally, acceptance. That's where the kid was now, twenty some minutes after his fatal wounding. He had stopped begging for his life long before. _No point in not giving in to the Reaper,_ Moradi thought. Too late to save him now, even if he had wanted to. Most of his blood was presently on the outside of his body—and running slowing across the warehouse floor like a small stream.

Moradi was interested too to note the hardness of his own penis. It throbbed dully—an odd mixture of pleasure and pain. The death struggle of the young man was not without its sexual component. Oh, not the gender of his victim specifically—a dying woman would have had created the same effect in Moradi's body. Rather it had to do, Moradi thought, with the lurid inevitability of death. And the absolutely certain and remorseless nature of it.

Yes, he thought. Death had been a constant and lifelong companion to the man of many faces. And it was a lover to him as well. Did that make him a monster, he pondered? Yes, he supposed that it did.

But it also made him a god—after all, life and death was the stuff of deity.

This night Moradi wore a different face. That of a silvered-haired old man. Complete with cane, drooping mustache, and stooped-over shuffling walk. Even if O'Brien and Wahl were to see him at this very moment, they would most certainly not have recognized him. The feeble old man routine had taken the young and inexperienced security guard completely by surprise. He had never stood a chance. No sooner had he walked up and asked the old man if he could help him, than Moradi had shoved the silenced magnum into the boy's stomach and pulled the trigger twice. It was fun to watch the wild-eyed expression on his hairless face as he flailed backwards and piled up on the floor—the lower half of his spine severed, and his legs useless. It was exciting to watch him hopelessly struggle to regain his feet, spreading his own blood, urine and feces in an ever widening circle with his efforts as he did so. It formed a sort of "blood angel," Moradi thought with amusement. It was a good look.

Moradi bent over him now—his hardened penis straining against the fabric of his pants. "Ask me to kill you," he said softly to the child. "Ask me for my mercy. Beg me to end your torment and pain." Standing, he nudged the boy gently with the toe of his shoe, turning his face from side to side. "Say to me; sir, would you please be so kind as to put the barrel of your gun into my mouth and scatter my brains across this floor. Come on boy. Prove to me that at the end you are a man. You can say it. It's easy. It will end your struggle. It will end your suffering. It will end your misery. It will speed you to heaven's door."

In response, the boy only moaned deeply, as he expelled even more darkened blood and gore from his mouth and nose. Moradi had no idea how there could have been any more still left inside.

The man could feel his swollen and aching penis expel a small amount of fluid. He was nearly at the point of full ejaculation.

As Moradi watched, the boy's body suddenly quivered and stiffened, as his breathing slowly ceased and the eyes glazed over. Death had found him at last. "Too late, my child. Too late," the god said. "No mercy for you."

He would have liked to have reached inside his pants and pulled out his swollen member. It would have felt good to have given himself release. It wouldn't do though, to spread his DNA across the scene of the crime. That particular pleasure would have to wait until later. Anticipation, he thought to himself with a smile, was ninety percent of pleasure. And he had an "almost" willing candidate in mind to catch all the DNA he could produce.

For now, he would settle for that for which he had come. They were just across the warehouse floor. Stacked on shelves—all in a most handy row. Moradi loaded the stacks of plastic explosives and state-of-the-art detonators into his rather roomy backpack. He would take more than he required. Always better to have plenty and not need it, than to need plenty and not have it, he thought with another smile.

The door clicked quietly shut as he quickly exited the building, and walked to the waiting car. The Ice-Queen was agitated. "Where were you?" she demanded. "Why were you taking so long?"

"Sandra dear, have no fear," he rhymed. "I was just visiting with one of the night staff. A very nice young man."

"Did you get them?"

"Of course I did."

"Is it really the best?"

"The best there is, Sandra dear. At least five times the power of conventional plastics. Strictly experimental. This stuff isn't even close to being on the market yet."

"Why wasn't there more security?"

"Reverse psychology, my lovely. Less security—less interest. They had no idea that anyone even knew this stuff existed yet."

"All hell's going to break loose when they realize it's been jacked."

"Doesn't matter. It'll be far too late to do anything about it. Besides, no one will ever dream the use it's going to be put to."

"What now?"

"Drive. We have miles yet to go. Are the men in place?"

"Yes—just as you ordered—waiting for us. All the hardware too."

"Then stop a few miles out of town, Sandra."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. Doesn't matter. Somewhere dark, and quiet."

"Why?" she asked, a hint of fear suddenly rising in her voice.

"Why? Because I have another job for you to do—that's why. Don't question me—that is if you know what's good for you."

"I'm sorry I couldn't find O'Brien. I tried. I tried really hard. It's like he dropped off the face of the earth."

"It's okay, Sandra. I know you did your best. I don't know for sure if he's still in Detroit or not—at least in the present time, that is. Doesn't matter. He'll be back; a misguided hero come running to save the universe one more time—just like old space-cowboy Captain Kirk. And that's when I'll have him—right where I want him—right in the middle of my lovely killing fields. Now drive."

They rode on in silence—heading due east into the night.

Las Guijas Mountains

Southern Arizona

Present Day

It was just after ten 0'clock when Joshua McCabe finally awoke from his sleep. He probably would have slept longer, but even in the Spring, Southern Arizona heat builds up early. It would easily top ninety degrees by afternoon. It was an impediment to sound sleep, McCabe thought—that, and the endless supply of bloodthirsty and tormenting bugs.

A quick tour of the campsite confirmed his worst fears—Matt was gone. Joshua was not exactly sure at what time he had left, but he _was_ pretty sure he wasn't going to be coming back anytime soon. Joshua was aware of Matt's increasing suspicion over the past few weeks. Almost as alarming was the fact that the two elder McCabes were gone as well, their bunks unmade but from the looks of them, empty for some time.

Joshua began the long hike down the mountain and to the old road. It would take him several hours of hard walking to get to the tiny and very quaint town-site of Arivaca. An old mining camp from the gold rush days, Arivaca—meaning literally 'dry-cow,' was now mostly home to winter season snowbirds and resident town drunks. The village watering hole, the Silverbelle Bar, did a land-office business year-round.

Joshua had barely begun his walk when he heard the distinct sound of start and stop digging just off to his left in a small grove of cottonwood trees. Making his way there, he could just make out the form of old Aedan McCabe leaning on a shovel and trying to regain his breath. It was plain that he had been digging a grave, and it was also plain who it was for as Joshua bent over the cold and stiff cadaver of Roan McCabe.

"What happened?" Joshua asked

"My son's dead. That's what happened. I found him in his bed this morning."

"How did you get him here?"

"Over my shoulder. That's why I'm about all in. I can hardly finish this hole."

"Why are you burying him here?" It had been plain that the cancer in Roan's body was going to kill him soon, but Joshua had hoped that he would at least make it long enough to get off the mountain and back to civilization.

"Because that's where we are," Aedan replied testily. "Do you want me to let him rot in the sun?"

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too. A man should never have to bury his son. It goes against all the laws of God."

"But saving him from a firing squad . . . well, that didn't violate any of those precious 'laws,' right, grandpa?"

"No, great-grandson—that violated God's laws too. I've spent a lifetime paying the price of those violations. My son, my precious wife and daughter—all gone. I'm the last one left. All because of me and my foolish, foolish pride—and hate."

"So, what now—gramps?" Joshua sneered.

"Help me finish this grave and bury Roan. Then we'll wait for Matthew to return."

"What makes you think he's coming back?"

"Because he has a job to do and a work to finish. Because he needs to destroy, once and for all, the monster I created."

"You think he can do all that?"

"With my help."

"What 'help,' can you be old man?" Joshua sneered again.

"I can take a bullet for him, Joshua," Aedan said solemnly. "That's what I can do."

Washington, DC

Present Day

"What the hell did you just say to me?" The President of the United States did not seem amused, as he listened to a report from his chief of security.

"I'm sorry sir—I don't know what else to say. I don't know anything more."

"No one ever arrived at Sunny Side?"

"No sir."

"Officer Pulini is dead?"

"Yes sir. Chained to a refrigerator and then shot in the head."

"No word from Agent Kessler?"

"None. No answer on his cell either—it goes straight to voice-mail."

"What's going on, Captain—at least according to your best guess?"

"I don't know, Mr. President. But somethings going wrong, and it's going wrong fast."

"Suggestions?"

"Yes sir. Call Moradi. He needs to know what's happening, and he's going to need real-time updates. By now he's on the road, maybe even here."

The President nodded his head. "I don't like this at all. If we play this thing wrong, we could all end up dead—either shot to death or on a hangman's scaffold."

The Captain waited patiently. Finally the President spoke. "Call him. Call Moradi. Use the red phone, and send the call to my office as soon as you have him on the line."

The Captain nodded quickly and headed toward the open elevator doors.

Washington, DC

Present Day

"What do you mean, Kessler—you know one thing I don't?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, Agent Faris."

"I would. And you are going to tell me."

"Now just why the hell would I do that?"

"Because if you value nothing else, I know you value your own life."

"And you and your little boy-toy cops are going to make me talk? Really? Don't make me laugh, Faris. There is _nothing_ that you could do that would make me spill so much as a single solitary bean. I was a hard-assed old son-of-a-bitch when you and your two brats hadn't even dribbled out of the end of your father's dick yet. I was a 'guest' at the Hanoi Hilton for nearly three miserable years of my life. Trust me little lady—the Viet Cong were not exactly warm and fuzzy hosts. Do you really think you can scare me princess? Go ahead—do your worst. I'd really like to see your pathetic little torture attempts. Go ahead, make me _laugh_."

Shahida merely smiled. "Okay, laughing boy—no problem. I'll be glad to." Looking across the room to the seated Weeks and Wiggins, she simply said, "Would you two please be so kind as to unlock Mr. Kessler here and see him safely out of the building."

"No problem at all," Weeks responded with a grin as he began to unlock and remove the handcuffs from the FBI agent.

"What are you doing?" Kessler demanded.

"Turning you loose. That's what. You are free to go. Have a nice day, sir."

Kessler looked confused. "You can't do that."

Shahida smiled again. "You bet I can. Again, have a nice day, Agent Kessler, and please be sure to not let the screen door hit you on the ass on your way out."

Kessler's confusion was turning to panic. "You can't let me go."

"Why not, Kessler? We haven't put so much as a tiny little mark on you. It's your lucky day, and this is your 'get out of jail free' card. Goodbye. Live long and prosper, and all that jazz."

"But Moradi and the President will think I've ratted them out. They'll think I helped you escape. Moradi will kill me."

"Hardly my problem, Kessler. Don't worry. I'm sure Moradi will make it quick and painless. I've heard he's just the salt of the earth. Goodbye."

"Please, Faris. That'll be signing my death warrant."

"Again, you crooked little bastard—your continued good health is not any part of my problem. Unless you want to reach an accommodation with me that is."

"Like what?"

"Like telling me just what that one little thing is."

"Will you keep me here?"

Faris nodded her head yes. "You have my word on it. Comfortable, cozy, and very much alive. Best deal you're going to get this week."

"Okay."

"What then?"

"The one little thing, is that the President thinks Moradi works for him. To create an incident that he can use to suspend elections and stay in office."

"But there's more to it than that, isn't there, Agent Kessler."

"Sure there is. Moradi works for no one but himself. And the President _is_ the target."

"An assassination of a sitting United States President?"

"Yes. And all his evil little Minions with him—each and every member of both houses of Congress that are present at the time. It will probably be near to five hundred people, all in one place to hear an emergency address by the President."

"When?"

"Whenever the Prez called for the emergency joint session. Probably within hours of Moradi hitting a number of civilian targets. It will be made to look like radical Islamic terror."

"Where?"

"Capitol Building—where else? House Chamber side. Only place big enough to hold that many lawmakers all at one time. Every seat will be filled, plus standing room only. Fish in a barrel."

"What's in it for Moradi?"

"The only thing that matters to him—immortality.

"The crime of the century," Shahida said.

"The crime of _all_ the centuries, to quote a certain megalomaniac I know," Kessler replied, sitting back on the big comfy sofa and gently locking the handcuffs back around his own wrists.

Detroit

1940

This late in life I was starting to get pretty good at adding twos and twos and coming out with fours—at least most of the time—so, thinking that my mathematical skills were still decent, I took a shot.

"What time's your brother going to be here, Sam?"

Sam looked slightly amazed. "Soon—and very good Johnny. You're as sharp with your head as you are with your hands."

"Sometimes, Gabriel—when all the brain cells fire. It has a lot to do with the nose as well."

"How so?"

"Meaning I smell a set-up."

"Right again. You don't call yourself a detective for nothing, do you?"

I shrugged. "I'm guessing you and your bro aren't all that close anymore, right Sam? Hence the surname change, to your brother's middle given name. Don't need to be much of a detective to figure that one out."

"Yeah, we went our own separate ways years ago. The new name was for my own safety. I always liked Gabriel. Sometimes it ain't all that good for your health to be a full-on Capone."

"I'll bet that's true," I observed dryly. "What are you doing here, Sam?"

"The Kid never got over losing his little girl," Gabriel said softly.

"Would you?"

"No—I wouldn't. She was a sweet kid, Johnny."

"You know something Sam? Maybe something that keeps you awake at night?"

"Maybe—but nothing for sure."

"I'll be honest with you Sam," I said. "I'm looking into it for the Kid."

"Professionally?"

"No, Sam—I'm the lowest paid detective on Earth—it's the story of my life. It's personal for me."

"Why?"

"Because the Kid saved my life. I owe him."

"Good enough."

"What do you think happened, Sam?"

"I hardly knew the Kid then, Johnny. We didn't get to be pals until he retired and started coming here to drink. But even at that, I smelled something bad."

"Your brother ever part of your happy little group?"

"Alphonse was in San Quentin then. They only recently kicked him out because of his bad health. The times that he and the Kid were ever together, well—let's just say they didn't seem to like each other very much."

"Why, Sam?"

"Al wanted to buy the Kid. Wanted to make him part of his stable."

"And the Kid said no?"

"Yeah, and in no uncertain terms. The Kid would have had to throw some fights. And, well—that's just not the way he's made."

"No, Sam—I'm pretty sure it's not. What do you recommend?"

"Find a way to get Al off by himself. I don't think for a minute he had anything to do with it personally, but he knows things. Even from his prison cell, he knew things. The fight game was as crooked a business as ever was, Johnny—and a major source of money for the mob. Hell, it still is. I don't know how you're going to get him off on the side though, or even why he would be willing to talk to you, but try."

"I know a way, Sam. Can you get me close to him? Real close?"

"I can introduce you. Handshaking distance. Close enough?"

"Close enough," I answered.

"You're not going to hurt him, are you? He's still my brother."

"Not a hair on his head, Sam," I promised. "Not a single hair on his head."

Sam nodded his assent. Before we could continue with our conversation, I heard the door swing open behind us. Each and every head, at each and every table, swiveled toward the sound. Witnessing that reaction, I was pretty sure that when I turned around I would be about to come face-to-face with one of the most famous, and deadly dangerous gangland killers of all time.

I was wrong.

I could hardly believe my eyes. I almost wanted to rub them to make sure I was awake, as Matthew and Linh McCabe, Howard James Carter, and of all people, Maggie Moran, wordlessly stood looking at me and smiling broadly. For a few seconds all I wanted to do was look back at them, and marvel at the miracle that we had all found each other and were back together again. My heart glowed warm in my chest. It was practically another Hallmark moment.

It didn't last long.

Turned out that I didn't miss my guess by much.

'Scarface' Al Capone walked in right behind them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Detroit

1940

It was quite possibly the most surrealistic scene I had ever witnessed in my life. I blinked several times to see if I could make it change. It didn't. I was about to pinch myself to find out if that would help, but I never managed to do it before I was drawn into two of the most fantastic conversations that I had ever been involved in—or ever would—hands down. It was turning into an unusual day—to say the very least.

The first one began with my friends as Capone slowly walked by and headed to the bar. Maggie was first, as she rushed forward to me for a long hug and kiss. I tried to say something, but she just placed her hand over my mouth to shush me.

"No, Johnny. I need to talk first. Then you can answer and tell me if you still want me."

The look on her face broke my heart, but I obeyed her instructions and just listened.

"I was a fool, Johnny. And I put my feelings, and my fears, way above you. Yeah, that's right—I made it all about me, and I was about as wrong as a person could ever get to be. I'm sorry for what I said to you when I left. I never want to come between you and your job. And I'm sorry I ever tried to put limits on you or conditions on our relationship. Now I _know_ what you do, Johnny. And I know _why_ you do it. And it makes me love you even more than I did before. I wouldn't change a single thing about you my love. I'm proud of you and the man you are, and if you'll take be back I promise I'll never disappoint you again."

Her eyes looked up at me hopefully.

"Finished?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Then I just have one question for you, girl. And by the way—you've _never_ disappointed me, and I seriously doubt you ever could."

"What's the question?"

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes," she replied without hesitation. "How about this afternoon?"

I couldn't help but smile as I replied. "Love to, Maggie, but it may have to wait until we get back. I'm pretty sure our modern identifications wouldn't work too well over at the Justice of the Peace's office."

Maggie grinned. "No, I guess they probably wouldn't. Do you think we'll be back soon?"

"Yeah, Maggie. If a little plan I just cooked up works out the way I hope it will."

"I thought you were dead, Johnny. It wasn't a feeling I liked very much."

"I thought I was dead too, Maggie," I replied, thinking that right at this moment she didn't really need excessive detail about that little matter. There would be plenty of time for talk later.

That was if we all survived, of course.

We hugged then. Long.

"I can't promise you, Maggie, that my time will never come. What I can promise you is that I will never play fast and loose with either my life or your feelings. And I will never risk my life for anything that is not worthwhile. I don't need to do this for money. We already have more money that we could use in a couple of lifetimes. I will only do what I do to save human life—period."

She shook her head affirmatively.

Matt was the next up, as Howard and Linh hung back. I looked Matt in the eye for several seconds. He looked back, eyes unwavering, a forever cow-licked twenty-two-year-old kid. He looked like he might have still had a paper route. I was always stunned by his everlasting youth. Finally, I spoke.

"Thank you,"

"Do you know what I did?"

"Yes."

" _All_ of it?"

"Yes. And I understand. I understand everything. I love you, Matt."

"I love you too, Johnny. I couldn't let you go."

I took a step forward.

"You're not going to hug me, are you?" he asked, looking slightly panicked.

"You bet your ass I am," I replied.

Then he and I hugged. Long. Our little group was beginning to attract some attention. Even Scarface, Brick and the Kid were looking over. I ignored them. Capone would see enough of me soon enough. Probably enough for the rest of his miserable life.

"How did you find us, Matt?"

"Followed the watch, after a bit of deduction of just about where you and Brick would be."

"You found the watch?"

"Not exactly, Johnny—but I know what you did with it."

"Approve?"

"Absolutely. The solution was perfect."

"I thought you'd never part with it, Matt."

"Not long ago that would have been true, Johnny."

"What happened?"

"Everyone has to grow up sooner or later."

"You're eighty-five, Matt."

He smiled as he replied. "Some people take longer than others." For the first time in my relationship with McCabe, I couldn't see the sharp points of his canine teeth through his grin.

It was a good look for him.

Howard and Linh closed the circle. I got a third hug from Linh as Howard and I settled for handshakes. Howard was not exactly a teary-eyed and huggy type guy, but Linh, after what she had just witnessed with Maggie, Matt and I, beamed like a major shipping lane lighthouse.

"He's back, Johnny. Matt's back. Maybe close to all the way."

"I'm glad, Linh"

Howard spoke up. "What are you _doing_ here, Johnny?"

"Having a soda, what else, Howard?"

Howard looked pained. "I mean 1940, you nitwit."

"Hanging, and hiding out for a while, Howard. I think they call it "laying-low" in the crime novels. And paying a debt. I'll fill you all in a little later."

"What stage you at right now, Johnny?"

"The debt. I'm going to settle that one right now, and I've got a pretty damned good idea on how to do it too, Howard."

"Gonna take long?"

"Just the wink of an eye."

"You know who that is at the bar don't you, Johnny?"

"I know."

Howard grinned. "Can't wait for the show. Be careful though partner. That man ain't exactly a choir-boy."

"I know he isn't—but I'm gonna see if I can make him sing, just the same."

I sheep-dogged our little gang over to a table, as I motioned for the Kid and Brick to stay where they were. The number of players in the room was getting kind of large and unmanageable. But I only had eyes for one—Capone.

My eyes locked with Gabriel. The time had come and he knew it. Sam nodded his assent and made his way down the bar toward his brother. After a brief brotherly side hug, Sam started talking while he pointed across the room at me. I could see Capone's face and the doubtful look on it. It was easy to see that he was guarded, if not downright suspicious. I sure the hell hoped that old Al was buying the bullshit Sam was shoveling him. If he wasn't, it was going to get dicey real fast. I didn't think the bulge in his jacket was a sack of hard candy. The same went for the two goon bodyguards on either side of him. If my timing were off by only a split-second or two, the entire Stonehouse Bar could be turned into a slaughterhouse.

And that was something I wasn't really ready to risk with my two favorite ladies in the whole world present.

Not to mention my yet unborn god-son, Albert.

Gabriel motioned me over.

Showtime, I thought.

Sam started. "Al, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine—Johnny O'Brien. Johnny, this is my brother, Alphonse Gabriel Capone."

The suspicion returned to Capone's eyes. For just a moment I was pretty sure this wasn't going to work. Then slowly—very, very slowly, he stuck out his hand for a shake. I took it solidly in mine.

And then, we both disappeared.

Washington, DC

Present Day

Shahida Faris, along with Officers Weeks and Wiggins, were in the bedroom, well out of earshot of Agent Kessler. They sat on three opposite corners of the bed, with Weeks' laptop between them. On the large and bright screen was a diagram of the United States Capitol Building.

"The thing is massive," Shahida said. "It'll take a small army to cover it all."

"I don't understand why we can't just go to the cops and the FBI," Weeks said.

"Well, we could give it a try, and it might even work— _if_ they believed us," Wiggins explained. "Trouble is, we don't know for sure what our present status is. We could be classified as rouge right now, and the same for Shahida at the bureau. We could all get ourselves shot on sight."

"Yeah, I guess that's true," Weeks allowed. "So then, what's our plan?"

Faris spoke up. "I'm sorry guys, but I'm about out of plans. I got into this thing with two partners, and I'm not even very sure right now where they are, or even if they're alive for that matter. I can't ask you two to get further involved with what may very well become a suicide mission."

Weeks smiled. "You didn't ask us. We volunteered. We still do."

"Yeah," Wiggins chimed in, a big goofy smile on his face. "We be like best friends now. Besides—it's not hopeless. I may be able to come up with a secret weapon."

"Grampa?" Weeks asked.

"Yeah, if I can get him on his private line."

"I'm going to take a wild guess here boys, and say your grandfather had a little something to do with my rescue."

"Yeah," Wiggins answered. "He's been suspicious of the bureau for a while."

"How far away is he?"

"About ten minutes."

"Then give it a try. You never know," Shahida said.

"We should probably be getting out of this apartment pretty soon."

"You're right," Shahida said. "We'll leave Kessler tied-up here. He'll be okay. Where's the least likely place for anyone to come looking for us?"

"I'd say Central," Wiggins said.

"I like it," Shahida agreed.

"Good place to meet Gramps—if he's willing."

"Okay, it's settled then. Let's get going."

On the road

Present Day

"You seem quiet this morning."

"Thinking."

"Your lost innocence?" Moradi said.

"Something like that," the Ice-Queen replied.

"Where will you go, after this is over? What will you do? What's next for Sandra Buckles?"

She ignored the question. "How much did the President promise you for this job?"

"A billion. But only a fool would think that he ever intended to deliver."

"You plan to kill him too, don't you?"

"Of course. That was _always_ what I intended to do. But trust my creativity, Sandra dear. He will not die the way you think."

"Do you care anything at all about Islamic Jihad?

"Don't be absurd, Sandra. I care no more for the politics or religions of men than you do. Oh, you like your money and your pretty things. You want to be damned sure you don't end up back in the projects—but money's not your focus, is it?"

"Hardly."

"So what makes the Ice-Queen tick?"

"I don't know. The fear I instill, I guess—it brings a kind of fame."

"Why don't you stick with me then," Moradi said. " _In_ famy is my middle name. I enjoyed last night."

"I didn't."

"Brave words, Sandra dear. You know what I could do to you."

"Have at it. I don't care."

"I could _make_ you care, Sandra dear."

"Doubt it. Not today."

"Why should we speak of unpleasant things, Sandra? Let's speak of our success, our immortality, our _legend_."

"And what will you call that, Saal—the legend of the damned?" It was the first time she had ever used his first name. It did not go unnoticed.

"Very familiar." Moradi said.

"We are now much closer than we used to be, Saal—bodily fluid wise, that is."

" _Careful_ . . . Sandra Buckles," Moradi said.

"And where do you think _you_ will go, Saal?—after all this is over. Where on the face of this earth do you really think you can hide? You will be the most wanted man on the planet."

Moradi laughed. The sound began deep in his chest and slowly and amazingly softly rumbled out from his mouth. It was not a pleasant nor a friendly sound. The rustle of dead leaves and bones. "What makes you think, Sandra, my _dearest,_ that I plan to escape to any _place_ on earth?"

The Ice-Queen cocked her head questioningly.

"Satan has many worlds, my lovely," Moradi said softly, his voice dripping with venom.

"And Satan has other realms."

Washington, DC

Present Day

Shahida, Weeks and Wiggins sat, rather uncomfortably on hard backed metal chairs, facing an equally disreputable looking older desk. It was a small and dark room, lighted by only a single bullet lamp sitting in a corner atop a large and wobbly stack of file folders. The lamp had been twisted upwards to shine on the ceiling, thereby throwing more radiated light into the room than would have been expected from the small wattage bulb. It cast eerie shadows as Harold Wiggins entered the room and sat down at the desk.

He smiled and nodded toward Officer Wiggins. "How you doing sonny?"

"Not bad pops. You?"

"Not bad for an old guy." The conversation with his grandson apparently at an end, he turned his attention to Faris.

"You don't much seem to like to stay dead."

"I spent a little time in a casket recently. I don't recommend it. Boring. And the conversation sucked.

"I'll try to remember that," Wiggins replied.

"So what do you do around here?" Shahida questioned.

"Basically run notes between Central and the Bureau."

"Guess they don't know there's such things as phones and computers these days," Shahida said.

Wiggins grinned. "For some things you just can't beat good old paper and pencil."

"Things like what?"

"Treason."

"Serious charge."

"Serious felony. You don't believe it, Agent Faris?"

"I can hardly believe it."

"What? You don't think such a thing could happen right here in the good old US of A?"

"It reeks of tin-pot dictators and banana republics."

Wiggins' eyes bore into her. "Just what the hell do you think America has become under this President. He was never anything but an agent of foreign interests. Bought and paid for with thirty pieces of silver. Makes Benedict Arnold look like a Catholic schoolboy. Abraham Lincoln said that America would never be defeated by a foreign army. He said our undoing would come from within. Guess the voters in the last election cycle forgot to read a little Greek Mythology. Specifically the story of the Trojan Horse."

"You don't seem to care for our commander-in-chief very much, Agent Wiggins."

"Just _Mr._ Wiggins will do, Agent Faris. On second thought, what the hell—just make it Harold. We're all friends here."

"Are we?"

"Why did you sign up for the FBI, Agent Faris?"

"Wanted to keep America strong."

"You love your adopted country that much?"

"I love it a whole hell of a lot more than the place I came from."

"Personal for you, Agent Faris?"

"Yeah—personal for me. I left some good people in the ground back there. A lot of those people were my family. Not many of them went to their graves whole. We were not exactly best buds of the mullahs."

"Then we're friends, Agent Faris."

"Shahida," she replied.

Wiggins nodded his head and smiled briefly. "You know a little American history, and some of our somewhat less than stellar 'leaders' don't you?"

"I know enough to have passed my citizenship test. Plus, I'm a pretty avid reader."

Wiggins grinned again. "Welcome to America."

"Thank you."

"Where's your team, Shahida?"

"Damned good question, Harold. Might be dead for all I know. You know anything different?"

Wiggins shook his head negatively. "I've known Brick for a long time. I'm pretty sure he'll be okay. Johnny O'Brien—him I don't know. I've heard enough though, to think he's a man that doesn't like to stay dead for very long either."

"Yeah, he struck me that way too, the one time I met him. So what's the deal with his pocket watch?" Shahida asked.

"His watch?"

"Yeah. There's something special about it. The President wants it."

"The President told you that."

"Yeah, he did."

"Why would he tell you that?"

"Dunno. He's a braggart, and he probably didn't figure me to be alive for much longer."

"Truth that," Wiggins replied. "You were never supposed to leave the White House alive."

"I wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for your grandson and Officer Weeks."

"Trey's a good kid."

"A chip off the old block?" Shahida asked.

"Maybe."

"Says his lawman line runs back to the frontier days."

"You could say that," Wiggins replied. "I did a stint in Deadwood, South Dakota. These feet have stood where Wild Bill's did."

"You lived longer."

"I did."

"Don't play poker?"

"I do. What I don't do is turn my back."

"You're not going to turn it now either are you, Harold?"

"Not a chance."

"Got a plan?"

"Yeah—save as many congressmen as I can. There's a bunch of worthless bastards, but they didn't bring this one on themselves for once, and they don't deserve to die."

"Gonna save the President too?"

"Nope. That worthless sack of dog-shit can save himself—and good luck to him in the effort. If he lives I'll have his ass in irons."

"So what about the watch?"

"Damned if I know, Shahida. Could be a chip in it. Information, a secret code—who the hell knows? Could be anything. If the President wants it, then whatever is in it is worth a bunch. Well keep an eye out for it. Whatever it is, might just help to put the Prez away, along with a few of his cohorts."

"We?"

"Damned right. Where you go now sweetie, I be going too."

"Why not? The more the merrier."

"That's the spirit, Shahida."

"Why not call in the Bureau?"

"Because Kessler isn't the only rotten egg in the Bureau by a long shot. We could end up with bullets in our backs. Same with Central. Scum-bag POTUS has his admirers and henchmen everywhere. We die and the nation's last hope is gone."

"It's just that serious, isn't it?"

"Damn straight. Moradi is actually small potatoes in the giant scheme of things. The President though—he holds the future of American democracy in his slimy little hands."

"What's next, Harold?"

"Get the four of us out of here without being seen—same as we got in. Then you and your pups are going to get a crash-course on congressional life insurance policies."

"Like the ones on paper?"

"Hardly. Like the ones where you shag your ass out of the building, before some bad-guy lights it up. The House and the Senate both have back doors."

"Don't most buildings?"

"Not like these. These go _under_ the Capitol Building, and run for about four-hundred and fifty yards. Then they come up in another government building. An above ground underground parking garage. One outfitted with plenty enough vehicles to whisk away hundreds of people in very short order. There's even a helicopter pad topside to take away the big cheese."

"Sounds like you already have this covered."

"Not entirely. The biggest problem is the fact that there are two tunnels. We are going to have to figure out which one they are going to use to evacuate the building when the shit starts. Our 'posse' is just a tad bit on the small side."

"Got a plan, Harold?"

"Sure."

"Want to share it?"

"Find a way to connect with Brick and O'Brien. _And_ figure out what Mr. Saal Moradi is going to do next, before even he knows."

"Shouldn't be much of a problem—Wild Bill," Shahida observed.

"Shouldn't be a problem indeed," Wiggins agreed with a grin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Somewhere in Space and Time

My entire life, I had pretty much considered myself to be something of a slow learner. Most of my lessons came hard and painfully, and not just a few of them had to be repeated—often, more than just once. I guess that learning to drive a stick-shift was about as close as I ever got to getting it just right the absolute first time I tried something. It had seemed natural to me—a sort of "aha" moment. After a few clutches and shifts, I just sort of intuitively understood that this was how real automobiles and gearboxes were supposed to work.

Time-travel was like that for me too—only even more so. This thing I had down _pat._ I'd like to say that I willed myself to go different places and times, but that would be grossly misleading. No clicking the heels of my shoes either. It was far, far easier than that. It was _slicker_ than that. I merely formed an idea of where I wanted to be, and—zap, I was there. Matt had told me in the past that everyone had the gift, but it mostly remained dormant in people, except perhaps in their night-time dreamscapes. He said that the only real difference between the McCabes and everyone else was that they were simply better at it. This day I was beginning to think that I might be even better at it than the McCabes. The watch had only been a focusing device. The time-travel machine was first, last and always the human brain, and right at the moment my brain was firing on all cylinders. Now that I was displaced, I no longer needed the watch in the slightest.

Guess there is something to be said for being half-dead, or half-alive, or whatever the hell this displaced thing was.

I didn't really know where, or _when_ , for that matter, that Capone and I had ended up. All I knew was that I had a mental image of the landscape where I wanted to be, and then, zap—I was there. With old Al firmly in tow. Matt once said that he was afraid to go too far back in time. He said it got dicey there real fast. That the sky grew dark, and the ground felt like it was about to shift under his feet. Disconcerting. _And_ disquieting. I didn't know for sure, but I had a damned good feeling that we were very far away, both in space _and_ time. The sky overhead was darkening to a syrupy thick blood red. And the earth not only shifted under our feet, but although flat, seemed to slide away from us at crazy undulating angles. There were impossibly distant mountains on the horizon, dark and flat—devoid of vegetation or life of any kind.

The ground under our feet was also dry, parched, and widely cracked. It went off in all directions, and went on for as far as our eyes could see. It was dotted with armchair sized boulders and smaller rocks. Not a living thing, plant or animal, in sight—although the sudden appearance of pterodactyls in the sky would not have surprised me. It looked to be a desert landscape from a Lovecraft nightmare, although there was no heat. Dark clouds in the sky shrouded any possible sun. The air was cool on our skin, and carried the pungent scent of dry-rot.

Nope—I didn't much think we were in Kansas anymore. And there were no roads to be seen anywhere either—yellow brick or otherwise.

Capone and I landed on our feet, but old Al stumbled, and when he did, his hand was wrenched from my handshake death-grip and he fell on his ample butt—hard. Dust from the hard-pan surface was kicked up and swirled in the faint breeze. Capone's head swiveled around furiously and his eyes grew large, trying to take everything in all at once, but his brain was unable to process it. He did what any dimwitted gangsta would do under the circumstances, I guess.

He went for his gun.

I had to give him credit. Even for a dumb-ass wise-guy, Al was a man of much action, and very little to zero thought. He pointed his .45 directly at my chest and pulled the trigger. I don't know just how the hell he thought he was going to get back to where he was with me dead, but like I said, he was no rocket-scientist. Seeing it coming as I did a split second before he fired, it was a simple matter to side-step the bullet—all _eight_ times that he pulled the trigger. Finally, his pistol empty, he simply threw it at me.

I easily batted it away.

Next, he was on his feet and swinging wildly for my head. I was amazed at the short and chubby man's energy. Far from the public perception of Capone at this stage of his life, he was not even slightly weakened and wizened by disease, but in the apparent full-bloom of health. He still packed a damned good punch. Trouble was, for him anyhow, he connected with nothing but air. The last time he went by me, matador and bull-fight style, I gave him a hard slap across his face. He fell down again, and I shouted loudly for him to remain there.

"Give it up, Capone. You can't hurt me."

"Who the hell are you?" he snarled.

"Your worst nightmare, fat boy—and your very last chance on earth."

"Last chance for what?" he snarled again.

"To avoid an eternity burning in Hell—that's what," I replied. I had settled on my role, and I intended to play it to absolute perfection. My comment had gotten his full and undivided attention. As a good Italian Catholic, I knew that he had been raised steeped deeply in that faith. Heaven and Hell were far more than simple concepts and constructs to him. They were very real, and Hell was something that he probably had long felt he stood in danger of. Men like Capone though, always seem to believe they are going to live forever.

Old Al had just received his wake-up call.

"Are you the grim-reaper?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Am I dead?"

"Not quite," I deadpanned. "But then, the day isn't over yet."

"How'd I buy it? Shot?"

"Nothing that fancy. Heart-attack. You might survive it. The jury is still out."

"I don't like juries."

"I don't doubt it," I replied.

"What do you want from me?" he wailed.

"Truth, Capone—and confession. Tell me about your kills."

"What?" he wailed again. "I ain't killed nobody."

"You mean lately."

"I mean _ever_."

I gave him the meanest glare I had in me. "This isn't a real good time for lying, fat-boy." Almost as an exclamation point, one of the cracks in the hard packed mud opened up a few feet away from Capone and it hissed out a short steam-fart. The small geyser that sprang up a couple of feet above the ground got Al's attention real fast too. His eyes grew even larger than they had been. He could see what I was seeing too. We had only been there for a minute or two so far, but already the entire landscape had an even more unreal and surreal appearance and seemed to be even less stable. I could tell we needed to get out fast, but damn—it was the perfect spot to grill Capone, and I didn't want to give it up. I only hoped the "grilling" didn't become real. For both of us.

"What about Bugs?" I asked. I figured the St. Valentine's Day Massacre might just provide a good starting point in an examination of Capone's long and sordid life of sin and crime. Not to mention a few real good "warm-up" questions for the chubby and scar-faced gangsta.

"What about him?" Capone squealed. "He was a freakin' pig. Always movin' in on me. I didn't whack him, but I'll be damned if Moran didn't have it coming. I didn't shed a tear when it happened."

"How about the six men machine-gunned to death with him?"

Capone sneered. "Piglets. Six little piglets suckin' up to their big-tits momma Moran. They got what the hell they deserved."

"You ordered it, Capone. You and your Purples."

"So what? So what the freakin' hell if I did. You think I had an easy life? My father was a damned barber, and momma was a seamstress. In a brand-new freakin' world. We were nearly penniless. How's a family gonna live like that? You wanna send me to Hell, Mr. Reaper, for feeding the family? Yeah, you just go right ahead and do that. What the hell do I care? Go ahead. All my friends are there—or will be soon enough."

It was plain that old Al was getting mad and finally growing a set. Capone had been released from prison because he was supposed to be dying with end-stage syphilis, and a body riddled with cocaine and alcohol destruction. According to the "experts" of his time, his brain was nearly eaten away, and he had the mentality of a twelve-year old. Yeah, right. I could tell at a glance that the professionals of Capone's day weren't a damned bit better at what they did than their modern-day counterparts.

Capone was about as feeble as the Incredible Hulk, and I was making David Banner damned angry.

"It was a stupid move," I observed. "You were a hero to a lot of people before Moran. A guy that took bows at baseball-games, and blessed babies in Church. Everyone knew your name. You were a giant. Some said you were a Robin Hood. A champion of the little-guy and the downtrodden. Donated to charity and all that jazz. After you snuffed Bugsy, you became just another dime-a-dozen cheap hood. Public Enemy number one. All over a petty little turf war."

Capone had sat down on a rock, apparently resigned to the more than deserved fate he was sure was coming. He rested his chin on his fist, his elbow resting on his knee. A faint smile played on his scarred face. "It wasn't all that petty, Grim. He was sucking a _hell_ of a lot of money out of my bootlegging operation. Making me look weak. Constantly movin' in on me. Always testing me. The money loss I could stand. The disrespect—well, that was another thing. He was lucky he went the way he did. The old Thompson was a quick death. I shoulda cut his nuts off first."

"Yeah, you were a real sweet guy, Al. The regular salt of the earth. A simple businessman—just giving the public what it wanted. How many men did you kill, Capone? Between you and your Purples—just how many was it? No sense lying, fat-boy—it's way too late for that now."

Capone thought it over. I could almost hear the calculator working in his brain.

"Oh, I don't know," he softly said. "Maybe a hundred. Maybe more than that. I wasn't in a business where it paid to keep too very detailed records."

"No, I guess you weren't," I allowed. I decided to go for the gold. "How many children did you kill?"

Capone had been staring down at his feet, but with that question he looked up slowly, his eyes meeting mine fully for the first time. It would have been hard to have missed the hatred there.

"Who?"

"Little Bea Alderman, that's who."

"How the hell did you know about that?"

"I'm the grim reaper," I replied. "I know everything."

"Then why ask me?"

"Because you have to say it, you lousy piece of dog-shit. When it's yours—you have to own it. It's the only chance you've got. A slim one . . . but it's the one and only." And here we were. Right at the edge of it. He didn't yell or rage at me. He didn't rise up in righteous indignation. He made no denials or excuses. He simply sat there in silence. I could tell the silence wouldn't last for long. My hunch had been correct. I always knew with men like this. I _always_ knew. It was the only thing that separated me from the rest of the pack.

It was my edge.

I knew then why the Kid's money had been wasted on his hired "detectives." They might or might not have ever found the truth, or even come close, but they sure as hell weren't about to go up against Scarface Al and the mob.

"Why were you in Detroit tonight?" I asked.

"Passing through. Wanted to say goodbye to my brother and a few friends. I was going down to Florida for a while. I wanted to die someplace warm."

"You've almost made it," I said. The cracked soil steam-farted again.

"Yeah, Grim—almost there. Nice and warm—getting close."

"How 'bout the Kid? Were you going to talk to him on your way to your warm Atlantic sunsets?"

"No, grim—I wasn't going to talk to the Kid."

"Talk to me, Capone. Just like your immortal soul depended on it."

He sighed, resigned to his fate. "Tell me what you want to know," he said.

"Why? That's what I want to know, Capone. Why the _hell_ did it happen?"

"Just what you said, Grim. Business. Just Business. Business gone bad. Real, real bad."

"You set-up the kidnapping?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"The Kid. We wanted him to throw a fight. Well, not him, but the boy he managed—Patrick Murray. Murray was hot. We knew the Kid wouldn't do it. Murray either. Not without some "encouragement."

"Who's we?"

"The Outfit, Grim. The boys. My Chicago gang."

"The fight was in Detroit."

"Didn't matter. Murray was becoming a Phenom. Some was talking a title shot. There was a national interest in the guy. Lots of money to be made—everywhere."

"So you farmed it out to the Purples in Detroit?"

"Right. They were my local muscle."

"Who?"

"Gorchow. Liam Gorchow. A cheap-assed Jewish wise-guy. A hammer-head. He knew his stuff though. He was a damned good cat burglar."

"What was the plan?"

"Simple. Gorchow grabs the Kid's kid. The Kid throws the fight and Murray takes a dive. The Outfit collects a bundle—Murray was a big favorite, and the betting was heavy."

"Was Bea supposed to die?"

"No, Grim. She was supposed to go home."

"What went wrong?"

"Gorchow went wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he grabbed the child all right. But we never saw him again—at least alive that is."

"Come again."

"He stashed little Bea somewhere—no one knew where. And then he went on a drinking binge. Somewhere between the kidnapping and reporting back to the Purples at the Stonehouse, he managed to get his dumb-ass killed."

"Connected to the kidnapping?" I asked.

"Naw. Simply got a snoot-full and picked a fight with the wrong guy. Sober, the dumb-assed bastard would have known better. He was way out of his league—from what I heard, he hit the floor stone dead long before he ever tumbled onto the fact he was making a big mistake."

"Murray and the Kid didn't throw the fight."

"They never got a chance to. Gorchow was supposed to deliver the message. Trouble was, he got himself killed before he did. Murray knocked the slob out in the third round."

"So who found the girl's body?" I asked.

"Nobody. We could never find her. No one could ever find her."

My blood began to boil. "Then how the hell did you _know_ she was even dead?" I nearly shouted at him, spitting the question out. The ground farted again. Longer, and louder, and hotter this time.

Capone looked panicked. "The clothes. We assumed she was dead from the clothes the cops found down on the waterfront."

I held my fingertips to my temples. There it was. Again. Almost an instant replay of my watershed moment standing in front of Sheila's lifeless corpse. And once again, I knew I could change it.

And once again—I knew I couldn't.

All those many years later, Little Beatrice Alderman would remain missing and presumed dead—forever. For the briefest of moments, I considered sending Al Capone exactly to the place he was sure he was going anyway. But I didn't. It was way above my pay grade. A far greater man than me would have to make that decision—exactly seven years further down the road. I had done all that I could do. I had gotten the Kid his answer.

And I had paid my debt.

It was time for us to go. And fast. The ground seemed to roll under my feet. The landscape looked as though it were about to fall completely apart. And I sure as hell didn't want to be around when it did. I had another job to do. In Detroit. A Detroit far, far into the future—or was it? I had only imagined the setting where I wanted to go. I had never given a thought as to which direction in time we were traveling to.

Capone was in a full-blown panic. He was seeing exactly what I was—that we were about to witness the ground opening up and us falling in. Maybe that was what he expected—Hell opening its arms to receive him. Me, I knew better. It was time to boogie.

I reached out my hand. Al was only too happy to grab the lifeline. I thought of the Stonehouse Bar in Detroit. I could just feel us start to go as the shadow passed over our heads. I looked up. I will never forget what I saw. It was most definitely not a pterodactyl—or anything else from the distant past either. It was silver-gray and shaped like a bullet. It was metallic, and it was large. Flying. Slowly flying at low altitude over the wastelands that stretched out from us in all directions. I caught a brief glimpse of windows in the side of this strange craft. And another split-second glance of the faces peering out of it.

I didn't like what I saw very much.

And then we were gone. Back in the Stonehouse. Back in the exact same moment we had departed. Not a single soul in that bar suspected for a moment that we had ever left it. My hand was still locked with Capone's. The only thing that was very different was the expression of Al's face. His head swiveled around again, this time to assure himself that he was back where he belonged and not at the gates of Hades. His eyes were as big as saucers.

History would record this encounter. Almost every book and magazine article that would be written about the notorious Al Capone for decades to come, would talk about his famous near-death-experience at the old Stonehouse Bar. I would even look it up myself on Wikipedia when I finally got home. It was in there, and it made me smile. The article said that the experience was the main motivating factor in Capone's decision to end his life of crime after his release from prison in 1940.

Sometimes a time-traveler gets to affect history a little bit in a positive way—without even meaning to. It had been a good day's work.

Finally, Capone's gaze returned to me and locked with mine. Not wanting to be unfriendly, I smiled broadly, gave him a wink, and calmly said that I hoped he was going to enjoy his very well-deserved retirement down in Florida. From the somewhat astonished look on his face, I thought he was about ready for it.

I turned, shot Sam Gabriel a quick nod and a wink, tipped my Homburg for a moment, and returned to join my friends across the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Our confab at the Stonehouse lasted most of the rest of the evening. We had quite a lot to discuss. Like how to preserve the American Republic and save western civilization. No small issues. Capone stayed on for about an hour before saying his goodbyes and heading out, still looking more than a little peaked. He remained on his side of the bar and didn't speak to me again, although we traded glances across the room like a couple of kids in homeroom. Occasionally, I tossed in a smile, nod and a wink just for effect. It was kind of fun to see him wince, as he struggled in his mind to come to terms with what had just occurred. I could tell that he didn't have a flippin' clue as to whether it had actually happened or not. Every once in a while, old Al would pull back on the lapels of his suitcoat to see if his .45 were there or not. Of course it wasn't. He had left it behind—in another world; his only tangible proof that it wasn't a simple matter of "indigestion." Even such an experienced time-traveler such as Matt McCabe didn't seem to notice that Al and I were gone for a while. Only the Kid shot me meaningful looks. He knew something was up. He just didn't know exactly what.

It was good to have our old "gang" back again. Myself, Howard, Matt and Linh. The core. We had been through some stuff together. Tough stuff. I knew I could trust them with my life—and likewise, they knew I would give my own for them. Added to the mix was the Kid, Brick Wall, and my brand-new fiancé, Maggie Moran. I was still trying to get my head around the fact that she had actually said yes. Moran was a great name, and her late husband was a terrific guy, but I had every intention of changing that surname to something else very soon. Something with an equally Celtic ring to it—Maggie O'Brien. I wondered what Jan might have thought about it if I could only hear her speak. Pure speculation aside, what I _was_ pretty sure about was the fact that she would have been happy for me. No doubt about that one at all.

There were seven of us. A good number. A damned good lucky number.

I reached under our table with my left hand. Maggie must have been waiting for it, as our fingers linked together immediately.

"I've never asked you your maiden name," I said.

She chuckled. "I'm afraid I'm another Mick, Johnny. Seems you aren't able to get away from them. McBride. Margaret, or 'Maggie' Marie McBride."

I caught the flash of white smiling teeth across the table. "Another triple M, Johnny," said Matthew Mason McCabe. "You're sunk."

We all laughed then, as I received congratulations from around the table. Howard was the first to change the subject, but then he was always the type to be in a hurry to get down to brass tacks.

"What do you know about Shahida Faris?"

"Nothing. Not since we left modern Detroit. Word was she was dead."

"Dead my ass."

"What do you know, Howard?"

"Ms. Faris apparently shagged it out the back door, figuratively speaking, while her housekeeper was blown to bits."

"Confirmed?"

Howard nodded. "Detroit PD ran the print on a detached finger. It wasn't Faris. There was no other corpse at the scene."

"So, what's going on?" I asked.

"I think Faris is dirty. That's what I think is going on."

"Why?"

"She doesn't add up. The house she lived in, the car she drove. The housekeeper. A nice big, fat bank account."

"I can explain that one," I said. "She divorced a rich local celebrity. Got most everything he didn't wear to court."

Howard grinned. "Nothing much new in that story I guess. Where is she then?"

"Laying low, like us?"

"Not an agent. She'd check in with somebody at the Bureau."

"True," I replied. "Maybe she's not able to check in."

"Maybe," Howard allowed. "Got any ideas on how to find out?"

"Yeah, but not from here."

Matt spoke up. "Let's get out of here then. We're about as strong right now as we're likely to be. Let's go back and figure out what the heck is going on."

Howard nodded his agreement.

"I agree too," Brick added thoughtfully. "Moradi's about as off-balance right now as he's ever going to be. He's got to be wondering what the hell happened to you."

"Who's Moradi?" Howard, Linh and Maggie asked almost in unison.

"Saal Moradi," I said. "The world's latest contribution to the really long, sordid, and ever popular best-selling encyclopedia of scum-bag psychopathic killing monsters. He's got a sidekick named the Ice-Queen."

"Whoa—sounds interesting," Matt said. "I'm beginning to feel like I'm in the middle of a Conan Doyle novel."

"That's just about right," I said. "And we could use a Sherlock right about now."

"That be you, Johnny," the Kid said. "Tell us about Moriarty—Moradi, I mean."

"Not now guys. It's a long story and the devil needs his due."

"When then?" Howard asked.

"This evening," I said. "I'd like us to get a good night's sleep before we head back and go up against this guy. Moradi's tough, and I want us to face him fresh. We could stay tonight at the Kid's house if that's all right with him."

"Sure thing, Johnny. The welcome-mat is _always_ out."

"Thanks, Kid," I replied. "Let's head on out then."

Washington, DC

Present Day

Shahida Faris and the two DC cops exited Central hunkered down on the back seat of Wiggin's Chevy Suburban. It was a big vehicle and sported a lot of room. They had been lucky so far and no one had challenged them, but even with Harold Wiggins, a well-known figure at the wheel, it would have gotten dicey in a hurry, trying to explain the presence of three very much wanted people almost laying on the floorboards. Finally, they cleared the last gate and swung out onto the highway.

"Where to, Chief Wiggins?"

"My place. You'll find it to be a little more comfortable than Week's apartment."

"Where?"

"Just across the river—maybe fifteen miles. It'd be just about the last place on earth anyone would expect you to be."

"Maybe not. The Bureau must know you and Trey are related."

Wiggin's smiled. "I doubt it, Shahida. The United States government's law enforcement agencies don't run anywhere near as efficiently as you might imagine. Trust me—I've been in them for a lot longer than you."

Shahida looked doubtful. 'I don't know."

"Relax. You've read too many detective novels. Besides, my place has a couple of extra features that you won't find in your average suburban rambler."

"Like what?"

"Like a safe-house."

"You're right, Harold. You don't see a lot of those. Why?"

"Life insurance."

"You said a couple of features. What's the other?"

"A pretty well-stocked arsenal."

"More life insurance?"

"Yup."

"Plenty of ammo?"

"You bet."

"Let's hope Moradi comes to us then."

"We might just be able to arrange that, Shahida."

"I like the way you think, Harold. How?"

"Well, we don't have an idea in the world where O'Brien is. And he's our bait. Him and his special watch."

"What's the plan then?"

"Convince Moradi that we do."

The big Suburban lumbered onto the bridge—crossing the Potomac.

Las Guijosa Mountains

Southern Arizona

Present Day

The Trail descended sharply. Loose rocks, shale and sand made the going very rough, and the six and a half decades past had done little to improve it. Now the old road was nearly undiscernible with many sizable mesquite trees and cactus growing out of its center.

Joshua shaded the spring sun from his eyes. It was bright for the time of year—the sky a cloudless stunning blue, seemingly going on forever. Joshua marked his destination, just to the right of a small rock outcropping above a sheer cliff. It was all he had to aim for, as the original entrance was all but completely obscured by overgrowth.

He stopped often to mop sweat from his brow, hatred for his grandfather growing with every step. Damned shame, he thought, that he had not killed the son-of-a-bitch sooner. He should have never let him get away. Now, he wasn't even sure if Matt would return to the mine or not. It had always been part of Joshua's planned to end it there, right where it had all started so many years before. It was a _perfect_ location. Before he died, Joshua wanted Matt to see and understand that everything he had ever loved had been taken from him. Just as Matt had taken everything from Joshua that day on the banks of Spirit Lake.

Joshua supposed though that he would probably return. He knew that Matt wanted to get back to his precious Cindy Matthews more than anything else in the world. And the only way to a happy life with her was right here at this place. Yes, he would return, and when he did, Joshua would be ready for him. He would be ready, and he would make him pay dearly for the life he had taken—with his own.

Detroit

1940

We arrived at the Kid's place in about an hour. The Kid wanted to give us a quick tour of his town though, before we headed back. It didn't seem very gracious to not accept it. After all, he was our host. As it turned out, I was damned glad he had insisted. It was a trip—in more ways than just one.

I had no idea, from my previous short view of modern Detroit, just what a jewel it had once been. I did know from my earlier reading, that the population of the city had peaked around 1952 or so. This was early 1940. Detroit was still growing at this time. For all of its glory, it was still little compared to what it would become after the war. But here, at this moment, on this night—Pearl Harbor hadn't even been bombed yet, and Adolph Hitler was still considered to be a clown. At least to the west anyhow.

The Kid's big Ford was roomy enough to accommodate us all, albeit a little packed in. I sat with Maggie pressed next to me on my left. Directly to my right Matt was scrunched into my side. I guess I don't have to tell you which direction I was enjoying the most. Maggie was enjoying herself as well. Every time I looked in her direction, I saw her beautiful smile. She obviously very happy to be reunited with me.

I felt exactly the same way.

The Kid chirped on like a child, pointing out the numerous sights and landmarks as we motored along down Woodward Avenue, like a seasoned tour guide. New construction was everywhere. From modest frame to ornate brick houses on the side streets, to sky-scrappers reaching high into the night sky. The Tuller Hotel loomed tall as we drove by. It was the one thing that the Kid had no comment on. He looked away as we passed. The Kid had an appointment coming up at the Tuller very soon. This night though, for the first time since I had met him, he didn't seem in a big hurry to keep it. This night he was simply enjoying himself, and his life—with his friends.

The royal Penobscot Building gleamed like newly minted silver dollars. The Book Building popped against the night sky. Freshly painted Tiger Stadium did its best Roman Colosseum imitation. A lot of these same sights I had seen before, in a distant future. The old ball park—dead, and gone. The houses mostly burned out or torn down, or in a complete, total, and abject state of decay and destruction. The high-rise office buildings? Mostly empty and falling apart, or long gone, leaving only an empty and weed infested vacant lot.

The magnificent Tuller was to become one of those.

Detroit was to become a sad state of affairs, but on this night the lights of the buildings shone brightly, a constant traffic on the night-time streets, and the sidewalks filled with pedestrians, at this point still unafraid of the night, as their descendants would rightly learn to be. They were mostly well dressed. Suits, overcoats, white shirts, and ties. No sagging pants falling off their asses. No overpriced orange or red sneakers with flashing lights. Dress shoes instead. This night there was class. Grunge and plainness would come much later. The ladies wore dresses.

This night the Detroiters walked with a purpose. Later they would run the same way; from the dark—and the goblins that lived in it.

Now back at the house, we sat around the dining room table, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. Once again, Howard the intrepid lead off the conversation.

"Tell us what you know, Johnny."

"Well, Howard, as you have probably concluded by now, this whole damned thing never had anything to do with blowing up a school-room full of Christian kids."

"True that," Howard replied. "I kind of tumbled onto that little fact while I was sorting through body parts in a Detroit church."

"Why were you doing that, Howard?" I innocently asked.

"Looking for your dumb ass, Johnny. For some strange reason we all thought we should give it a decent burial."

"Thanks, Howard. I'm touched."

"Don't be. How come you weren't in the pile? Somebody did a real job on the Hilton."

"Dumb luck, Howard. You know me—generally in the right place at the right time. Or at least not in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Howard grunted for a reply. "So I'm guessing your Mr. Moradi was the mad-bomber?"

"He was," I said.

"What's he after, Johnny?"

"To create chaos. And . . . "

"And what?"

"Own the watch."

"Can he get his hands on it?"

"No. It's safe."

"Where?"

"Safe, Howard. Good and safe."

"So talk."

"I'm just getting to know the guy a little bit," I answered. "So far we're barely on a first name basis and not all that close. So I'm going to let Brick answer, Howard. He's what you might call an expert on Moradi."

Brick had been pouring himself another cup of coffee. He stopped, turned, and gave Howard a long look while he considered his reply. Finally, apparently having formulated his answer, Brick slowly returned to the table and sat down. After taking a long languid swallow from his cup, he answered. It was all very theatrical.

I was impressed.

"Saal Moradi has been around for a long time, Howard," Brick said. "But he's hardly been on anyone's radar-screen—at least big-time. The FBI and CIA have been keeping tabs on him for a while, but they have never really _concentrated_ on him. That's because he hasn't been what they'd call a major player. He didn't have name recognition—like say, a Bin-Laden. Moradi likes the background, the shadows. But trust me when I tell you, there's not a more dangerous man on the planet."

"How old is he?"

"Forty something."

"From where?"

"He's probably a Saudi."

"Probably?"

"Probably is the best anyone can do, Howard. He doesn't exactly have a Wikipedia article you know."

"You and he have a history."

"We do."

"Care to talk about it, Brick?"

"Not especially. I haven't been Mossad for a while, but that doesn't mean that I can exactly write a book about those days.

"I don't want a book. A paragraph will do."

"Long story short, Howard—I took a Moradi slug while serving as a bodyguard to an Israeli Knesset member. I should have died but I didn't. So Moradi missed his chance with me. It's my turn now."

"Sounds fair to me, Brick. What else do you know?"

"I know what he looks like—without make-up or disguise. Johnny does too. That gives us a slight edge. Moradi would very much like to see me and Johnny dead. He's more than willing to go out of his way to make that happen. He's already killed dozens just trying to whack O'Brien. Collateral damage means nothing to him, anonymity does."

"So, what does he look like?"

"About five eight, maybe as much as ten. A buck fifty in weight, tops. Thin guy with a thin face. He had a thin moustache as well when I saw him. It looked real. Brown hair, slightly graying. Dark complexion, but not as much so as you would expect. Flat eyes. We didn't spend enough time up close and personal for me to give you the color."

"The guy you were protecting, Brick—did Moradi get him?"

"The person I was protecting was a woman, Howard. And the answer is no. He got me instead."

"You did your job then."

"I did."

"Anything else?"

"Like what, Howard?"

"Like what is this guy all about? Like what makes him tick? Like what is his thing? Like that. Like everything you've been trying to not tell us so far."

"Didn't want to scare you, Howard," Brick said with a weak smile.

"I'm not a little girl, Brick. Try me."

"There's ladies present."

"Duly sworn-in officers of the law. So, stop insulting them and talk."

"Okay—I will. No one knows a lot about Moradi, but a lot of people know something about him. So, you pick things up as you go along. Seems he started out his career in Saudi Intelligence. Now mind you, he never spent a day in his life in the Army, but somehow all of a sudden he's a mover and shaker in one of the better military outfits in the Eastern hemisphere. That indicates more than a little natural talent and ability. Then why, you might ask, would they kick him out in pretty short order?"

"And the answer is?" Howard asked.

"I don't know. Nobody does for sure, but I'll tell you what I think. The word on the Interpol street is that after Moradi left Saudi Intelligence, he naturally gravitated toward Al Qaeda. Stayed in their employ for a couple of years and then _they_ booted him."

"Why?"

"Again Howard, pure speculation on my part, but I think he scared them."

"What could a Saal Moradi do to scare one of the deadliest terror organizations on the planet?"

"Oh, not physically frightened them, but he scared them with the possibility of tarnishing their reputation."

"Didn't know they had a reputation to tarnish," Howard said.

"Well, they do. Al Qaeda is a terror organization all right, but they are also a _political_ organization. They are not exactly mindless killers. Their terror has motivations, agendas, and it has solid objectives."

"So, you think Moradi didn't exactly share their political values."

"Precisely. He was too extreme, and I think maybe—too insane for them."

"In what way?"

"I think Moradi is a violent sexual psychopath, along with serious delusions of grandeur and violent fantasies. When he was with Al Qaeda, his two specialties were killing people with amazing creativity, and getting information from captives the same way."

"A torturer," Howard said.

"Yes sir. But he went too far with it for Al Qaeda's tastes. Generally, he was killing his victims horrifically, but before he was getting the information the terrorists wanted. In other words, he was too damned good at what he did. A kind of sicko over-achiever."

"So he's out of work."

"Not exactly, Howard. There's one organization where the 'talents' of a man like Mr. Moradi would fit right in. Where he'd be _perfect._ Where the very worst he could be would never be bad enough for them."

"ISIS."

"Right, Howard—ISIS."

"And this impacts us how?"

"Back in the days of the American west, the old Indians fighters always saved the last bullet for themselves. They didn't want to be taken captive—not at any cost. White captives didn't fare very well. They would always save the last round for themselves."

"Any recommendations, Brick?"

"Yeah. I suggest we do the same."

On that somber note, our little staff meeting broke up, and off to beddy-by we all went. The Kid's house was large, and there was plenty of room for us all. Matt and Linh got one bedroom. No one knew for sure, but there seemed to be a general consensus of opinion that they might have a little catching up to do. For that reason, they got the room furthest down the hall. Maggie got her own room. We might be officially engaged, but neither one of us wanted to blow our best intentions at this late date. It was true enough that we might be killed on the morrow, but we were firm in our resolve to be true to ourselves and to each other to the end, no matter what that end might be.

Brick and Howard bunked together in a third room. I thought they might have some catching up to do as well—of a decidedly less intimate nature.

The Kid was in the master bedroom. Me, I could have crashed in the last of the five bedrooms, but I didn't take it. It was true enough that I wanted a well-rested group heading back to modern Detroit the next day, but what I wanted a whole lot more was a few hours with the Kid. Just him and I, and one other inhabitant of the house—one that was unseen.

I settled for one of the large and comfortable Victorian styled chairs in the downstairs living room. I pulled a comforter around me and settled in. But I damned sure didn't sleep.

Finally, after the space of a couple of hours, right around midnight, I thought everyone in the house would be asleep. I left my chair and headed up the stairs—toward the Kid's room. Stopping outside his door, I raised my hand for a gentle knock. I didn't need to. The door swung open, the Kid standing just inside—still in his suit.

"Come-in," he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Virginia

Present Day

The lights of the District faded in the rear-view mirror. Wiggin's big Suburban picked up speed heading south on highway 395. It was amazing to Shahida just how fast the city faded away and how soon they were cruising in a far less populated countryside.

"Where we heading, Harold?"

"Fort Belvoir. Well, not exactly the fort itself, but close by. North of Davison Field, and south of the Belvoir County Club."

"Which place do you spent most of your time, Harold?"

Wiggins smiled. "Depends on how chaotic the world is at any particular moment. Let's just say I don't get out on the links as much as I'd like."

"Pricey neighborhood."

"Not for me. The house is a government perk."

"Special guy."

"Guy—no. Special talents—yes."

"Which are?"

"Which are, Agent Faris, to keep my eyes and ears open and my mouth shut."

"Which is my cue to do the same—right, Harold?"

"Smart girl."

The Suburban slowed as Wiggins exited the highway and turned onto a two-lane blacktop heading in a southeast direction. The lights faded further as it appeared they were headed into a black void.

"You're not going to drive us into Chesapeake Bay, are you Harold?"

"No. But you might think so. Folks around here keep a pretty low profile."

"What's on your mind, Harold? I've got a feeling there's something you're trying to keep from us."

"You've got good instincts, Shahida. You're going to make a damned good senior agent someday. That is if you live long enough," Wiggins added with a grin.

"What is it?"

Wiggins turned slightly in the driver's seat and spoke to the two young men seated behind him. "Trey and Dallin. Lean forward so you can hear me plain. When you two busted Shahida out of the White House, what condition did you leave Officer Pulini in?"

"What do you mean, gramps?"

"I mean, as in living—or dead?"

"Living. Chained to a refrigerator, and his mouth duct taped shut. Why?"

"Because he's dead now. Shot through the head."

"Jesus," said Weeks and Wiggins, almost in unison. "How do you know?"

"Because I get updates, that's how. It's kind of what I do, you know—keep my ear to the ground."

"Updates from who?"

"The tooth-fairy. And I'm not being intentionally vague either. That's his code-name. Even I don't know his real one. He texts on my secure line."

"An FBI White House snitch?" Trey said.

"Exactly. Everyone the Bureau watches isn't an agent of a foreign government."

"Which are worse?" Weeks asked.

"Hard to tell sometimes," Harold replied.

Shahida spoke up. "A shame—he was just a kid. He didn't deserve to die."

"That's a mighty charitable view, Agent Faris. He would have watched you die in a second."

"Still."

"How do you feel about Agent Kessler, Shahida?"

"Him I don't care much about, Harold. He's rotten to the core and damned sure old enough to know exactly what he's doing."

"Was."

"Was what?"

"Was rotten. He's dead too."

Shahida sighed deeply. "How?"

"Found at Dallin's apartment. Handcuffed and his throat slit."

"When we left him, he was sitting on the sofa, in handcuffs he'd put back on himself—very much alive. He was under the impression he'd be okay if certain people didn't think he'd helped me escape, or talked. I agreed."

"Well, he way underestimated the opposition, Shahida. He failed them. Someone didn't want any potential witnesses to your jail-break, like Pulini. Or one that might just crack under questioning either, like Kessler."

"Any idea on just who that might be, Harold," Faris asked facetiously.

"Now-now, Agent Faris. No good finger pointing. I assure you there won't be a molecule of evidence to make any kind of accusation."

"Except for us."

Wiggins smiled. "Exactly, Shahida. You have sized-up the situation precisely—and you got it on the very first try. You, Officer Weeks, and my grandson are now wanted for the murder of District of Columbia police officer Ringo Pulini and FBI Agent Francis Kessler."

"He wouldn't tell me his first name," Shahida said softly.

"I don't doubt it. He always hated it."

"What next, Harold?"

"There are warrants out right now for the arrest of all three of you."

"Then you should probably arrest us, Harold."

"You're right. I probably should. I _am_ an officer of the law you know. I've got a better idea though."

"Like what?"

"Like putting your asses to work, that's what. I know you don't have a phone anymore, Shahida—but Trey and Dallin do. Hand them over, guys."

Weeks and Wiggins complied. Harold lowered the driver's window and tossed them out.

"That was a six-hundred-dollar phone, gramps," Trey complained.

"Well, when you replace it, get yourself a cheaper one. You're a damned cop, for crying out loud. What, are you made of money?"

"Not exactly. You don't think that throwing those phones out the window is going to destroy the GPS, do you?"

"No. Of course not. That's the point."

"The point of what?"

"Spreading breadcrumbs, sonny. That's how it works."

"That's only two crumbs, gramps."

"Okay, wise-guy. Let's make it three." Wiggins reached into his jacket pocket and handed his own phone to Faris. "Send a text to O'Brien. Follow-up with a phone call. Chances are pretty damned good he isn't going to answer an unknown number, but that doesn't really matter. Voice mail will be actually be better. Just say you are free and on your way out of DC. Don't say where. Say you'll call tomorrow with more details. Say you need to get together with him as soon as possible. Don't mention me at all. Doesn't pay to be _too_ obvious. The Bureau or Secret Service will figure it out."

"They'll be monitoring?" Weeks asked.

"You bet your sweet ass they will."

"What'll happen?"

"We'll get some company pretty damned fast. That's what'll happen."

"Cops?"

"Probably. And Bureau agents. And if we're lucky—Mr. Saal Moradi in his glory."

"That's a hell of a lot of attention," Shahida offered.

"It is. But then, we're going to set a hell of a trap."

Finally, the Suburban slowed again and turned onto a long gravel drive. Shahida could just make out the dwelling at the end if it—a long, ranch style house. Probably built in the mid-fifties, it was obviously updated, enlarged, and improved. Still, it harkened back to a simpler time, and reminded her a lot of the house that she had lived in for a while after immigrating to the United States.

Wiggins pulled up close to the garage but did not enter it.

"Best leave our calling-card parked right out in the open."

"Aren't you a little afraid of it sustaining some damage?"

"Not really. Even if it did, there's another one just like it in the garage, and the double brick walls makes it pretty much bullet proof—except for rocket launchers of course."

"You expecting rocket launchers?"

"Hey, you never know."

"You live here all the time, Harold?"

"Yeah, pretty much I hang my hat here when I'm not on the road. It's a comfortable house. Built in 1955. Added onto many times. The original owners were worth some bucks, the way I understand it. It was the cold war era, so they installed a bomb shelter in the backyard. You used to have to leave the main house through the back door to access it, but about twenty or so years ago, the house was enlarged out over the top of it."

"Neat."

"Yeah," Wiggins agreed. "It's sweet, and the old shelter has been expanded just a bit as well. Let's get inside and I'll show you all around."

"Trey been here before?"

"Oddly, no he hasn't. He was raised by his mother after my son was killed, just outside Rapid City, South Dakota. I was in and out of his life a lot back in those days, but after I retired from the police department and took a job with the bureau, we didn't connect that often."

"How did your son die, Harold?"

"Well, I wish I could tell you it was in combat, Shahida, but the fact of the matter is, it was simply a dumb-ass military training accident. Sometimes things like that just happen."

"Yeah, sometimes they do, Harold. I'm sorry."

"Thanks."

"How did you get to be a District cop, Trey?—if you don't mind my asking."

"Not at all. Mom passed away just a few years after dad died— of cancer. I had just turned eighteen and asked gramps if he could put in a good word for me for a job with his old police department. He did a hell of a lot better than that and recommended me to one of his friends with the DC department. I'm glad he did. Never been a dull moment since."

"I'll bet," Shahida smiled. "Found a little corruption therein?"

"More than a little. I reported what was going on to gramps over at Central, and before you know it, I've got job number two—keeping my finger on the pulse of the sordid underside of the department."

"And Dallin?"

"Met him in my rookie year. We became friends. He's a good man."

The elder Wiggins smiled. "Yeah, they became best buddies from the moment they met. If they weren't both straight, they would have made a lovely couple."

Weeks and Wiggins grinned back, obviously unoffended.

"Anyway, that's why I've never been out here before," Trey continued. "Despite the same name, we intentionally didn't connect with each other very much. No one noticed the name—there's about a million cops and government workers in this neck of the woods. Whenever I had to tell gramps something, I'd generally meet him in the park across the street from his office, always in plain clothes. We shared enough park-bench hotdogs and coffee the local Langley police probably thought gramps was a chicken-hawk scouting out young stuff."

Harold smiled. "Touché, Trey—touché."

Unlocking the front door, they all stepped inside. Harold flicked a light-switch just inside the door, flooding the spacious living room with light. Shahida's impression from the outside was confirmed. A beautifully appointed and furnished house—worthy of the finest efforts of a professional interior decorator.

"Nicely done, Harold. You, or a pro?"

"Actually, it was me, Shahida. My book isn't quite as crude as the cover might suggest."

"Never thought it for a minute, Harold. You have good taste."

"Thanks. Mrs. Wiggins was always fascinated with interior decoration. She taught me a thing or three."

"Is she gone too, Harold?"

"Sadly, yes she is. A fine lady. I miss her every day."

"Again, Harold—sorry."

"Again, thank you. We Wiggins have been kind of a hard luck family."

Shahida quickly changed the subject. "How many bedrooms?"

"Four, up topside. Three more down below."

"Three? That's a large bomb shelter."

"Well, Shahida, like I said, it's been expanded a tad. Shall we go see?"

"Love to, Harold."

Wiggins crossed the living room to an over-sized brick fireplace. It was two, actually. Large and wedge shaped, one side of the wedge heated the living room, while on the other, a slightly smaller fireplace faced the kitchen. There was a considerable amount of space between the two.

"Nice," Shahida allowed.

"There _are_ some special features," Harold said. The kitchen side is a conventional fireplace. As in wood burning. The other, the living room side is a gas log. You will soon see why."

Wiggins reached above the hardwood mantle and pushed a certain brick. Immediately the entire fireplace, along with the grate and screen began to rotate counter-clockwise.

"Simple," Wiggins observed. "But sometimes you just can't beat a good old-fashioned classic."

For a lot of heavy brick on the move, oddly the revolving fireplace did not make much noise—mostly a moderate hum. Finally it came to rest, exposing a simple and amazingly clean narrow set of concrete steps going down. Harold reached inside and flipped a switch. The staircase was instantly illuminated.

"Ladies first," Wiggins said, expansively waving his hand toward the entrance.

"Oh, why the hell not," Shahida said. "I've recently been in a casket. I might as well go into the crypt as well."

"That's the spirit, Agent Faris."

Shahida started down. The three men bringing up the rear, just behind her. The temperature decreased markedly.

At the end of a short hallway there was a simple door. Shahida opened it, pushing it inward with some effort.

"Steel?"

"And reinforced, as well," Wiggins said.

Stepping through the opening, Shahida was surprised by the cleanness of the air in the smallish room. She had expected mustiness.

"Smells fresh."

"The air is pumped in from the outside, and it's charcoal filtered. The intake is about a hundred yards into the woods and not that easy to find, but if it were, we could shut it off in a second and go to internal Oxygen. Four people could live down here for about ten days with what we have in tanks."

"Nice," Shahida allowed.

"This room is like a hub of a wheel," Wiggins explained. "It's the nerve center. The desktop computer on the table to your right is set up to monitor the exterior cameras. There are six. They are set up in some of the larger pines surrounding the property. Four of them cover each side of the house above us, while a fifth and sixth monitors the road from both directions. Anybody comes our way, we'll know about it well ahead of time."

"What are the other doors, Harold?"

"Three are the bedrooms, and the fourth is a bathroom."

"Where's the arsenal?"

"You get right to the point. I like that, Agent Faris. Help me push this sofa aside."

Once the rather large and comfortable sofa and rug underneath it was pushed out of the way, Shahida could clearly see the outline of a trapdoor.

"A safe house within a safe house," Shahida said.

"Kind of," Wiggins agreed. "Down there is food and water storage, along with small arms and ammo."

"Why so much, Harold?"

"There are quite a few facilities like this around the District, Shahida. In the event of a massive governmental emergency, there are thousands of critical workers that would have to be put up somewhere safe. So, starting back in the fifties, the government began building these things, or converting existing facilities like this one. I certainly don't know where they all are, and I don't know who would—FEMA maybe."

Weeks and Trey Wiggins pulled on the latch. For a heavy door, it lifted easily. A short steel ladder descended into the darkness. Once again, Shahida took the ladies first position and started down. A couple of rungs down the ladder, she could see a pull-string for the overhead lights and yanked it. The much smaller room was illuminated. The three men followed her down.

Along two of the walls were shelves for food storage. They were filled with cans and boxes of all kinds. It was plain that three or four people were not going to starve anytime soon in this facility. The third wall and a good part of the fourth consisted of heavy-duty plastic barrels filled with purified drinking water. Shahida estimated there were at least several thousand gallons on hand. Just to the left of the last row of barrels was a lone door. Again, it was of solid steel construction, set well into the concrete wall.

"The goodies?" Shahida asked

"The goodies." Wiggins confirmed with a smile.

He pulled the door open, pausing in the doorway before entering. "There are a dozen high-powered semi-automatic and fully automatic assault rifles in here, Shahida, along with over ten-thousand rounds of .223 and .308 rifle ammo. There are also several Beretta Model 92 handguns with several hundred rounds of 9mm hollow-point ammo to go along with each of them. Two cases of grenades, and two rocket-launchers. We're well supplied. If Mr. Moradi is stupid enough to come this way looking for O'Brien, we're going to hand him his ass in a bushel basket. Come take a look." Wiggins reached just inside the door to his left for the light switch.

"Stop!" Shahida said, instantly drawing her pistol.

Wiggins hand stopped moving. "What?"

"Please push the door closed, Harold—slowly."

"What the hell's going on, Faris?"

"There's air coming out of that room, Harold."

"Of course there is, Faris. It's on the same ventilation system as the rest of this structure."

"It's not the air that concerns me, Harold. It's the smell coming with it."

"What smell?"

"Are there any explosives in that room?"

"No."

"I smell plastic."

"Impossible."

"No, it isn't Harold. I've smelled them before—in Iran. Both after and _before_ they went off."

"Plastic explosives don't smell, Shahida," Wiggins paused—"but something else does, doesn't it?"

"Right. Not the plastic itself, Harold—the taggants," Shahida said.

"Yeah," Wiggins agreed. "Smells a little like lemons, or seltzer. I catch it now myself."

"What's it tagged for?" Weeks asked.

"For bomb-detection dogs, before the explosion, and CSI guys after," Wiggins said.

"Something's been bothering me, Harold."

"What?"

"How'd you know that Agent Kessler hated his first name? He never used it."

"I knew him for years, Shahida. We came up together in the academy."

"He knew you well?"

"Yeah, kinda—we weren't poker or drinking buddies or anything like that, but we knew each other. He didn't know anything about this place, if that's what you're driving at."

"He knew the kind of man you are, didn't he?"

"Yeah, I guess he did."

"What else was done to Kessler? Besides cutting his throat, I mean."

"How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess. Tell me."

"I didn't mention it before, Shahida. I didn't think there was a point. Knowing what they did to him wasn't going to make him any less dead. I didn't mention it out of respect for him."

"Tortured?"

"Yeah, plenty. They tied him down and shoved an electric carving knife up his ass. And then they nearly sawed him in half with it—from the _inside_ of his body."

"And why do you think they did that, Harold—for kicks?"

"Yeah. Probably for kicks, _and_ for information."

"You're getting too old for this line of work, Harold my friend. And way too over-confident."

"You're right, Agent Faris," Wiggins said weakly. "I guess maybe I am."

Slowly they pushed the door partly open again as Weeks crossed the room to retrieve one of the emergency flashlights. Gingerly, he shown it into the darkened arsenal room. As the beam played over the room, they could see the empty rows of wooden wall racks. Racks that had only shortly before held firearms.

"Jesus, Shahida. They're all gone."

"Yeah, and something left in their place," said Weeks as he focused the beam on a small table in the middle of the room. On it lay a small black leather laptop sized case. From it a single wire stretched upward to the light fixture above. A piece of white paper was taped to the wire. It sported a short note. One written in letters large enough to be read from where they stood. Just below a bright red happy face were the words—"BANG, you're dead."

"It's wired to the light," Trey Wiggins said.

"Yeah," Shahida agreed. "And just in case we spotted the note in time to not flip the switch and kill ourselves instantly, I'll bet it was also wired to the light I turned on when we came in. Probably to a timer."

"Holy mother of God. How long do you think, Faris?"

"Your guess is about as good as mine, Harold. But not long."

"Suggestions?"

"Yeah. Close that door and latch it tight. Then let's get our asses out of here as damned fast as we can. That much C-4 shouldn't blow a locked door as heavy as this one. Moradi's obviously way ahead of us. He's the cat—we're the mice."

"I've been a fool," Wiggins said.

"I'd love to debate that with you another day, Harold. For right now let's get the hell out of here. If that package goes off, it's likely to take a lot of our hearing with it—at the very least."

The elder Wiggins climbed the ladder first, quickly followed by Weeks and Shahida. Trey Wiggins had taken an extra few seconds to roll a heavy water barrel against the arsenal room door, and his head was just emerging from the trapdoor when the bomb exploded.

The steel door didn't hold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Detroit

1940

"She moved through the Fair, Johnny," the Kid said softly.

It was not the opening I had been expecting when I entered the Kid's bedroom. Far from it. But the Kid had gotten to where I was going well before I had ever intended to. I had gone to his room to discuss two long dead people all right, not just one. I was just surprised that somehow he seemed to completely understand that.

Few people on earth had ever had the challenge and privilege of knowing the real Kid McCoy.

I had the feeling I was about to.

The Fair reference was to an ancient and extremely mournful Celtic folk song. Although the Kid was being intentionally cryptic, I knew it well. It was one of Jan's favorites. It was about lost loves, and long lives of sorrowful loneliness.

"You're a liar, Kid."

"I know I am. It's one of the many things I was never much good at." The Kid moved to one of the windows and parted the sheer white curtain with his hand, looking out with vacant eyes. "I once had a sweetheart. I loved her so well. I loved her far better than my tongue could tell."

"You never married her."

"No."

"You didn't kill her."

"No."

"She took her own life."

"She did."

"The woman I heard singing in the night."

The Kid slowly shook his head affirmatively as He continued to stare at the empty and dark Virginia Park Street.

"Singing to a dead child, Johnny."

"What was her name?"

"Theresa. That was her name. That _is_ her name."

"She's not much dead, is she, Kid?"

"Oh, she's dead all right, Johnny. She's just not much gone."

"Why, Kid? Why all the lies? Why not just tell it like it was?"

"Because a man accepts responsibility, Johnny. Because that's what a man does. I was a man damned precious few times in my life. _This_ time I chose to be one."

"You went to jail."

The Kid shook his head again. "For a while. It was a small price to pay, Johnny. It was better to let everyone think I had murdered her. It kept her pure. It kept her innocent."

I didn't point out to the Kid that her suicide was her own private sin—not his, and not his to remove. Sometimes reason plays a very small role in what we say, or do.

"And you saved her immortal soul?" I said.

"Yeah, Johnny. Hell is real to a good Catholic woman. And to me."

"She never cheated on you."

"No, Johnny. She never did."

"Well, she's not in Hell from what I can tell, Kid. I have an insight on those kind of things these days."

"Nor in Heaven either, my friend. She's here, here in this house—and suspended somewhere between the two."

"How'd you pull it off, Kid? In court, I mean."

The Kid chuckled a bit. "I put on a real show, Johnny. You should have seen me. Me and the shyster lawyer I hired. He wasn't worth a tinker's damn, but that was exactly the reason I wanted him. I didn't want somebody that had a clue what they were doing. I didn't want him accidently getting me off."

"What was his name?"

"Carson. Harvey Carson."

"What was your defense?"

The Kid smiled. "I told the absolute truth. Just exactly the way it actually happened. My secret though, was to make the jury so thoroughly despise me that they'd be convinced I was lying and convict me anyway. The day after she died, I put on a hell of a freak-show at her little antique shop. Everybody thought I was as crazy as a barrel full of monkey assholes."

"How did it really happen, Kid?"

"We had a fight, Johnny. She blamed herself for everything that had happened. She was despondent—depressed they'd call it now days. She was in pain. Had been since little Beatrice went missing. She screamed that she couldn't take it anymore and went for a little .380 automatic that I had in my jacket pocket. She got hold of it, and I grabbed her arm and we wrestled for it. She won—and shot herself in the head. Yeah, I know, Johnny. I could have changed it, but I didn't want to make her into . . . well, what you and I are."

I nodded my understanding. "So instead, Kid—she became an unquiet ghost."

"Yeah, Johnny—just exactly that."

"Go on, Kid."

"Carson and I rolled around on the courtroom floor 'recreating' the struggle. We pissed off the jury so bad I'm pretty sure they would have convicted both me _and_ him of her murder if they could have. My multiple public failed marriages and ribald lifestyle only added to their dislike of me."

"You didn't serve a very long sentence—for murder."

"I didn't," the Kid agreed. "It was second degree. I got paroled a little over seven years later. The evidence was never very strong against me. Mostly circumstantial. Besides, I was a model prisoner in San Quentin. It was a tough place. During a riot in my last year, I threw in with the guards. They said I maybe even saved one or two of their lives. It helped a lot when I came up before the board."

"Anyone ever try for your life in there, Kid?"

The Kid smiled again. "Sure. Several times, Johnny. But as you know, I still move pretty well for an old man. I moved even better back then."

"How old are you, Kid?"

"Sixty-seven, Johnny. And tired—tired as all get-out."

"I don't doubt it. You've led an exhausting life."

"I have," he agreed again.

"Is it over?" I asked.

"Just about, Johnny. Just about."

"You need to square some things first."

"I know, Johnny. I need to tell her I'm sorry."

"You didn't kill Beatrice Alderman."

"No—but I have sins to atone for. Theresa was the only woman I ever truly loved."

"Have you spoken with her before?"

"Many, many times, my friend. She comes to me often in my dreams. She listens to me intently as I pour my heart out. Then she turns and walks away—returning to the blackness."

"Does she ever speak, Kid?"

"Yeah."

"What does she say?"

"Always the same thing, Johnny. Always the same. As she turns away to leave me for yet another time, she says . . . "It will not be long, love— 'til our wedding day."

I shuddered involuntarily.

"Which room is she in, Kid?"

"The nursery."

I shuddered again, remembering blood alley. "Where else, I suppose. Where is it?"

"Downstairs. Just off the dining room. It was a library when we bought the house, and we converted it."

"Why? Beatrice was your step-child."

"Theresa and I were planning on having one or two of our own. Her death put an end to that."

"What did you do with the room after she died."

"Nothing, Johnny. On the day I returned from her funeral, I closed the door and turned the key on it. I've never opened it again. My financial manager kept up the bills on this place while I was in prison, and he had someone take care of the outside—but I don't believe he or anyone else ever ventured inside. He always said it gave him a creepy feeling just standing on the front porch. I know it took a lot of cleaning up after I returned. It was a dusty mess."

"I don't doubt it, Kid," I allowed. "Please don't tell me the nursery is where she died."

"Yes, Johnny—it was."

I shuddered a third time. It was getting to be a habit, here on Virginia Park Street. "I asked you not to tell me that," I said.

"Sorry," the Kid said. "I've been living in purgatory so long, my friend—it's come to almost feel normal. I should have long ago burned this house to the ground and had Father Bain consecrate the soil it stood on. That's what I should have done—but unfortunately, that isn't what I did. Instead, I kept the sickness alive."

"We need to talk," I said.

"We are," he replied.

"The _three_ of us," I replied. "Don't play stupid with me, Kid. It's an act that doesn't become you."

The Kid's eyes flashed anger, but he didn't move. It would be an interesting fight, I speculated. I had more than twenty years on him. He had a hell of a lot of experience on me.

"I hired you to find my daughter's killer, O'Brien. I paid you with your life. Now how about delivering on what I paid you for. Tell me."

"What makes you think I know, Kid?"

"I saw what you did tonight. I know you went away for a while with Capone."

"I thought I was better than that, Kid."

"You _were_ _perfect_ , O'Brien. I didn't watch you—I watched Sam Gabriel. I knew something was up between him and you."

"Makes sense, Kid."

The Kid took a step forward. "So, tell me what you know you son-of-a-bitch. I'll pass it on to Theresa when I see her tomorrow—in hell."

I shook my head slightly side to side.

"Not a chance, Kid. You get to be a man again tonight, on this, the last night of your life on earth. I tell you and her together—right here on this side of the veil—or I tell no one at all."

He took another step forward, forming his hands into fists.

"I could make you tell me," he said.

"You could _try_ ," I said with a bravado I didn't really feel.

It could have gone either way for a few seconds as the Kid thought over his options. Finally, the tension in his body relaxed as he un-balled his fists.

"Okay, Johnny—you win. I'll have to find the key."

"Why don't you try your right trouser pocket, Kid? My guess is it hasn't left that pocket very often over the past few years."

"How'd you know that, O'Brien?"

"Lucky guess, Kid. And like I said—you're a damned poor liar."

"Guess I am at that," he said, pulling the old-fashioned skeleton key from his pocket. "Guess I am at that. All right detective—you wanted to meet your other client? Well, this is it. Let's go."

The Kid quickly opened the bedroom door and headed out into the hallway and toward the stairway to the first floor. He didn't look like a man that was about to stop, even if I had asked him to. Even if I had told him that I had reconsidered this most unusual client conference. This was a man descending the staircase with a mission and a purpose. I followed.

This time I didn't shudder anymore.

I was past that now.

Southern Arizona

Present Day

It took Joshua a while to pull and clear away the overgrowth and debris from the entrance to the old Carson Mine. His hands were raw and bleeding by the time he was finished, and his body covered with sweat. It did not improve his mood any.

Turning on his flashlight, he ventured into the shaft. A bat brushed the top of his head as it made its panicked flight from the darkness. Joshua swung at it wildly with his hands, cursing as he did.

Once inside the shaft, Joshua was surprised with the drop of temperature, just as his grandfather had been so many decades ago. It was almost chilling. The flashlight beam played on the darkened and broken stone of the walls. In another moment the beam caught the outline of an old doorway just to his left. The wooden door had long since been broken apart and hauled away, the individual planks to be reused in other projects.

Joshua pointed his light into the room. Empty now, the floor littered with trash and rodent droppings, the only indication that it had once been an arms stash was a few broken and unusable wooden crate planks. Just inside was the ancient padlock, now rusted nearly to pieces.

Turning from the doorway, Joshua trained his light to his right, where he knew from Matt's stories, the vertical death shaft would be. The shaft that had once held the bodies of his grandfather and two Mexican gun runners. He located it easily. In more recent times, someone, probably from the state mining office, had placed several two by four inch eight-foot-long wooden studs across the dangerous opening and covered them with plywood. Red spray paint warned of the danger below.

Joshua kicked them aside and pointed the flashlight beam down into the shaft. Empty now, except for additional mine debris and rat turds, Joshua gazed downward for several seconds before he spoke aloud into the darkness.

"So, this is the place where your worthless corpse rotted to pieces. And this is where it will again—after I kick it back into this godless hole. You never should have left it you bastard. Yes, grandfather dearest—this is where the last of the nine lives of Matthew Mason McCabe end . . . once and for all, and forever."

Joshua quickly turned off the light, and turning, made his way toward the light of day—and exit.

Detroit

1940

The key made a slight snicking sound as it turned in the lock. My throat made another one as I swallowed hard. I was starting to think I must really love dark creepy places. I had certainly placed myself in enough of them over the years. The door didn't open easily. The Kid placed his shoulder against it and pushed. The door gave way slowly, opening hard. When it did, long strings of spider webs stretched from the door to the frame. The hinges groaned loudly.

It was a great special effect.

The interior of the nursery was airless and black. As he expected, when the Kid flicked the light-switch just inside the door, nothing what-so-ever happened. The Kid had brought a candle. I had another one in my hand. We lighted them now. As we entered, I was surprised at just how much illumination they provided. I could make out the features of the room easily.

The walls had been painted a non-gender specific off-white. It had darkened and stained over the years. In many places in the dank surroundings, long strands of black mold crept their way over the various surfaces. Cob-webs filled the corners of the ceiling. There were but two windows, both placed high up on the walls. They were dirty and covered with dark curtains that the moths had been very busy with. They now hung in shreds.

In the corner was a crib, still in remarkably good shape. Less so the surface it stood on. Wood flooring, it had been the victim of moisture, and buckled in many places. A sizeable and now tattered rug took up the center of the room. The large reddish-black stain nearly in the center drew the Kid's attention immediately. I had little doubt what the stain consisted of.

There was a small library sized fireplace. It was now the residence of numerous spider-web homes, complete with mom and dad spiders and their entire families of little ones. Just to the right of the fireplace screen sat a wooden rocking chair, again, in as good a shape as the crib. There was a lot of dust on that old floor. Except where the wooden rockers of the chair met the floor. There was little to no dust there. It was obvious the chair had been regularly used over the years.

I can't say I liked the looks of that very much.

Even at the ripe old age of my mid-forties, I also couldn't really say that I had ever completely decided if I believed in ghosts or not. Now, I figured would be a good time.

As the spirit, or ghost, or whatever the hell it was, of Theresa Mors entered the nursery by simply walking through the wall—I quickly decided that I did. I was rather impressed. I had been thinking that we were going to have to do something to conjure her up. I don't know, like maybe a séance or something.

She walked by us as though we weren't even there, and seated herself in the rocker, her eyes cast down at the floor. I was happy to see that she did not have an infant with her. That would have simply been _too_ much to bear.

The Kid did not seem terribly put off by seeing the very late love of his life outside of his own dreams. But then again, I wasn't totally certain we weren't all in one.

Finally, the Kid broke the dead silence.

"Hello, sweetheart," he simply and softly said. The ghost of Theresa looked up slightly. I could see a tear working its way down her cheek. Although she didn't say a word, her eyes easily spoke a love for the old, worn out, and rather pitiful looking man standing before her.

The Kid went on. "I loved you so very much," he started, choking slightly on his words, as tears welled in his own eyes. "I loved little Beatrice as well. I tried, dear, to find out what happened. I tried so long, but I couldn't find anything. I just wasn't good enough."

Theresa continued to look at the Kid. There was a slight smile on her lips. She had been a very beautiful woman in her prime. I guess she was still in it. And I guessed she always would be.

I was pleased that there was no apparent bullet hole in the side of her head.

I cleared my throat to speak. This was my first interview with a dead person. I had to admit that I didn't have much of an idea of how to go about it. So, as usual, I just decided to just wade forward and hope for the best.

It was about all I had going for myself.

"I'm so very sorry for your loss," I fumbled. "I'm a private investigator," I explained. "I have not been able to discover what ultimately became of your child. But I do know who took her—and why."

Theresa's gaze turned to me. It was uncomfortable, to say the very least. I returned it to her without blinking. As I did, I was able to see beyond the scariness. This was no creature from a Stephen King novel. This was a lady that was lost.

Lost—and in pain.

The Kid spoke up. "Was it Capone, Johnny? I always suspected him, deep in my heart."

"Yes," I replied. "Indirectly. Capone set-up the kidnapping, but no one was supposed to die. A hood named Liam Gorchow stole your daughter. He was supposed to keep her safe until you and Patrick Murray threw his championship fight."

"No one ever told us to take a dive," the Kid replied.

"I know, Kid. Gorchow got into a bar fight and was killed before he got a chance to track you down and give you the message."

"Then what happened to Beatrice?"

"Unknown, Kid. Dead men don't talk, and Capone said they could never find her. He believed that Gorchow killed her because of the clothes."

"I knew Liam Gorchow a little," the Kid said. "He and I never had a problem. Hard to believe he'd kill her just for spite."

I hated to say it—but I had to. "There is a darker explanation, Kid."

"I know, Johnny. The clothes. I hate to think of it."

I looked at Theresa. Tears ran openly down both cheeks now. I hated that I had put them there, but she needed to know the truth—if she ever had a chance to move on.

"I'm sorry," I said to her. She nodded her head slightly. "Can you go home now? I mean your real home." She continued to stare blankly at me, making no reply.

The Kid did.

"We're both going home, Johnny. There's nothing left. Gorchow is dead. I saw Capone last night. He soon will be. I don't have to do anything about that. It's time we both went home." The Kid held out his hands to Theresa. She arose and took them. They seemed real enough now. Not ghostly at all.

"Will you still have me, my darling?" the Kid asked. Theresa shook her head yes, the sadness fading for a moment as she smiled.

"Then I will say to _you_ , my love—It will not be long, until our wedding day."

They embraced then, the two of them. Long. Hard. Her head on his shoulder, his face buried in her hair—both gently rocking side to side. I believed they heard music that my ears could not detect. It was meant just for them. They both wept. So did I. I know they say that suicide is a sin—but who am I to judge. I once came within a moment of doing the same, and for the very same reason. To be with the woman I loved.

No sir—I was _no one_ to judge.

Finally, they parted. Theresa simply disappeared, like mist in the morning light.

The Kid and I reclosed and locked the nursery door. We retraced our steps to the Kid's bedroom. Outside, in the hall, we stood for a while in silence. And then we shook each other's hands, and said our goodbyes.

He would be gone when we awoke the next morning.

We would never speak again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Cape May Beach,

New Jersey

Present Day

It was growing much colder on the dark shore, as yet no hint of dawn's light. The Ice-Queen, her name notwithstanding, shivered a bit in the inbound breeze.

Moradi sneered at her. "What happened to the famed ice-water in your veins, Sandra, dear?"

"I'm tired, Saal. That's all. It was a long night. A long drive."

"Suck it up, princess. There'll be more—maybe."

"What are we waiting for?"

"The last cog of the wheel, dearest. The last piece of the grand, complicated, and marvelously complex puzzle that is Saal Moradi." Moradi scanned the horizon carefully, glancing at his wristwatch as he did so. "The final act of my," he paused for effect. "Magnum opus."

"Your what?"

"My _masterpiece_ , my dear," said Moradi, derision in his tone.

"The Queen looked doubtful, as her skin crawled slightly."

"You frighten me, Saal."

"That is good, my lovely. I should."

Another minute and a half passed before the Queen picked up the sound of an approaching helicopter in the distance. It neared swiftly, low in the sky, seemingly almost touching the water, without lights, its blades whipping up tiny waves in the mostly calm sea. It circled once, checking out the scene below, and finally set down lightly on the sand, nearly into the water. It was plain that the pilot wished to avoid detection as much as possible from a row of houses several hundred yards away.

As the blades of the bird began to slow their rotation, Moradi unbuttoned his light weight jacket and strode forward toward the machine. The Ice-Queen held back, preferring to watch the proceedings from a distance, the crawling of her skin not yet subsided.

In a few moments, the pilot emerged from the helicopter and strode forward to meet Moradi. He carried a large suitcase in his hand. Meeting Moradi halfway to the chopper, he gestured toward the suitcase and spoke in a thickly accented Arabic language. The Queen, although understanding a bit of the language, was unable to make out the individual words.

Moradi nodded several times in apparent understanding, and then took the suitcase, turned and started back the way he had come. The pilot did the same. Suddenly, about a dozen paces from each other, Moradi set the suitcase down as he spun around, pulling his stainless revolver as he did so. He called to the pilot in the same language. The pilot turned toward the sound, and as he did so, Moradi fired several times, killing the man instantly.

Calmly, Moradi ejected the three empty shell casings from the cylinder of his gun, and just as calmly inserted three fresh cartridges from where they had been. Replacing the pistol into its holster, he casually looked over his shoulder to the Ice-Queen and motioned for her to come to him.

The Queen obeyed, her feet, although unwilling, somehow moving forward. Passing the fresh and bleeding corpse of the pilot, she wondered just how long it might be before the same fate would be hers.

"He peeved you," the Queen said.

"Not at all," Moradi replied. "I simply did not need him anymore. I do however, have a need of his helicopter."

"I didn't know you flew them."

"I fly _everything_ , Sandra. It would be most foolish for a man in my business to not have mastered all the tools of his trade. A maxim Mr. O'Brien will soon come to wish he had observed and practiced."

"Where are we going?"

"Not very far, Sandra—but very fast. We have much work to do."

"What's in the suitcase, Saal?" asked the Queen, even as she dreaded the answer."

Moradi smiled wickedly as he reached the chopper.

"A reckoning, my dear. That's all. Just a reckoning."

Detroit

1940

When I finally came awake the next morning, it was to the not unpleasant smell of bacon frying below. I had retired after all to the last upstairs bedroom. After what had transpired the night before, I decided that the living room easy chair was just a little too close to the nursery door. Didn't want Theresa making a return appearance in the wee hours. Meeting her had been great, but I didn't want to make a habit of it. Once in the bed, I had slept later than I had intended. But that was all right. The night before had been a busy one.

As I pulled on my outer clothes and made my way downstairs, I wondered which of the two ladies were cooking, or if it was a joint effort between the two. As it turned out, it was a joint effort all right, but there were no women involved. Howard and Matt were busy in the kitchen, while the ladies sat at the dining room table quietly chatting. Brick stood in the doorway to the kitchen, looking on.

Hey—every job needs a supervisor.

Maggie spoke up. "Hello, sleepy-head. I thought we were going to have to bring a bucket of ice cold water upstairs."

"Not far from it," I allowed.

"Couldn't get to sleep?"

"Not too fast. Some late hour meetings."

Maggie looked puzzled.

"Where's the Kid, Johnny?" Linh asked.

"The Kid won't be joining us, Linh," I answered. "He has another place he needs to be today."

"Where's that?"

"The Tuller Hotel. He has a lady waiting for him. Probably a child too."

Both Linh and Maggie raised an eyebrow on that one. "Must be pretty important people," Linh said.

"They are," I replied.

"Puts us down to six."

"Yeah, I know. Seven would have been better, since we really don't know what we're facing—or how many."

"Just who is the Kid anyway, Johnny?"

"Long story, Maggie—I'll tell you all about him when we're back home and on our honeymoon."

Maggie smiled mischievously. "Well, I hope you've done something by then, Johnny, to take my mind off the Kid."

I grinned back. "I'll do my best," I said, in my best John Wayne 'little lady' imitation.

Matt and Howard entered the dining room carrying a huge platter of fried meat, eggs, hash brown potatoes, and even pancakes. Brick followed with a steaming coffee-pot.

"You two need to knock it off," Matt said. "You're sizzling more than the bacon."

"So what did you two do to get kitchen duty?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Genius boy here suggested that Linh and Maggie make breakfast," Howard explained."

"Ouch. You know, for or a guy of your advanced years, Matt—you're not a particularly smart man," I observed.

"Yeah," he agreed, grinning widely. "Now tell me something I don't know."

"I'll tell you two things. You don't know where Moradi is, any more than I do, and just like me—you don't know what he's up to either."

"Right, Johnny. Got a plan?"

"Matter of fact, yes. Give me some of that bacon and eggs."

"I mean after you fill your face."

"Find Faris. She may have a lot more information that we do, and if we're really lucky, she may be a step or two ahead of Moradi as well."

"Right, Johnny," Brick contributed sourly. " _If_ we're really lucky."

Virginia

Present Day

Shahida came fully to her senses slowly. She could not seem to decide precisely where she was, or for that matter, what condition she was in. She was alive—that she knew for sure. No dead person could hurt that badly. The blast had thrown her against a wall—hard. Her left shoulder ached wickedly, and her right knee was keeping it company.

The room was dark, and wet with mist—a result of the ruptured water barrel. A single small blue bulb burned in a corner from its recessed and protected niche. _Thank god for generators and emergency lighting_ , Shahida thought to herself, as she called softly to her companions. There was no answer. In the dim light, she could just make out the trap door, blown from its hinges, and lying in a corner. From one end she could see the protruding lower legs and shoes of a man. Shahida managed to roll onto her knees and work her way slowly to the prostrate form.

It was Harold Wiggins. Shahida was able to push the door off him and get him turned onto his side. It was plain that the older man was having a fair amount of trouble breathing. Even at that, he forced himself to speak.

"Where's Trey and Dallin?"

"I don't know yet. How bad are you hurt, Harold?"

"Leg's broke. I know that for sure. The damned door."

"What else?"

"How much more do you want? I can feel the bone sticking out of the side."

"I guess that'll do, Harold. I'm going to find the others."

"Go ahead. I'm fine. Not going anywhere."

Shahida stood on wobbly legs and made her way slowly to the gaping hole in the floor where the trapdoor had once been. Kneeling down and peering inside, she was surprised at the amount of ambient light that was coming from Dallin Week's belt flashlight. It was doing a fairly good job of faintly illuminating the entire room. Shahida's heart sank at what she saw. She knew she would never forget it.

Not if she lived forever.

The scene was wildly reminiscent of Michelangelo's Pieta. Dallin Weeks cradled a dying Trey Wiggins in his arms. Shahida remained frozen where she was, as it was obvious that there was nothing to be done for the young man. The force of the blast had shattered the inner door and water barrel, along with the wooden gun and food storage racks. Several large pieces were grotesquely sticking out of Wiggin's body. One of the larger ones had impaled the young man directly through his back and partly exited the center of his chest. His legs and arms were twisted at odd angles, broken beyond repair. One half of his face was burned darkly. Wiggins' eyes looked directly into those of his friend, even as his lips were struggled to form words, but as she watched, his chest heaved twice and he died.

Weeks drew the horribly broken and bloody body of his friend tight against his own chest, and gently rocked the young man for a few moments. Then he lowered him to the floor and straightened out his arms and legs as well as he could. Looking up for the first time he noticed the figure of Agent Faris above him. Shahida could see his tear streaked face as their eyes met.

"Help me get him out, Shahida," Weeks said with a broken voice. "I don't want to leave him down here alone in the dark. He deserves better than that."

Faris shook her head yes as she reached down to receive Wiggins' body. Weeks hoisted it up to her, and together they were able to maneuver him out of the lower chamber. In the blue light of the emergency lights, the wounds to his body looked even more ghastly.

Harold Wiggins had managed to work himself up and into a sitting position. He was able to see his dead grandson clearly. No explanation from Shahida and Weeks was needed. Tears ran unabashedly down the old man's cheeks.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Harold," Shahida said.

"He knew," Wiggins said. "Moradi knew everything we were going to do, even before we did, and just exactly where I would go. I completely underestimated him. I was stupid—and I've just killed my grandson."

"No Harold. That's not true. Your grandson was an officer of the law. Risking his life everyday was what he did for a living. What he _chose_ to do for a living. Every time he walked out of the door in the morning he knew there was a good chance he wouldn't return. He was a cop. A good one. It's what they do, Harold. It's what they do."

"I'm all busted up, Shahida. I can't even go after Moradi now."

"I can, Harold. Your grandson saved my life. At least I can get the man that killed him. I promise you I'll get the son-of-a-bitch. I promise that I'll get him if it's the last thing I do on this earth."

Weeks spoke up. "You won't be alone. I'll be with you. Trey was my friend—and I loved him."

"I know you did, but you can't go with me, Dallin. You're still an officer of the law too. I'm going to be going a long way outside of that law now. This just got personal for me."

For an answer, Weeks began to pull off his uniform shirt, carefully removing the badge and handing it to the older Wiggins. Underneath was only a blood soaked white A-shirt. Shahida and Harold watched as he further removed his duty belt, containing handcuffs, pepper-spray and flashlight holder, and tossed them on the floor. Removing it from its black leather basket-weave holster, he tucked the Glock 9mm pistol into the back of his waistband and the two extra magazines into his hip pocket. The blood and water had plastered the undershirt close to his well-muscled chest. Shahida noticed once again the young man's odd good looks. Weeks ran his right hand through his well-combed short sandy hair, leaving a streak of Trey's blood in it.

"Guess I'm not a cop anymore."

Shahida looked him over for a few seconds. "No, Dallin—I guess you're not."

"We need to get going," Dallin said.

"Yes we do," Shahida agreed. "Harold—we need your help."

"What can I do to help?"

"Tell us what to do. You've forgotten more than Dallin and I know."

"Don't know about that, Shahida—but here's what I'd do."

Shahida shook her head yes.

"Take my phone. Call this in to 911 when you are well out of the area. Leave another message for O'Brien. Set up a meeting with him. An exact location. It'll have to be close to where all this is going to be going down, so I'd suggest the National Mall. Maybe the Washington Monument. It's an open and straightforward location. Moradi will have to respond because it's too close to the Senate and House for his comfort. He'll guess you're onto his plan. Trouble is of course, that in all likelihood, O'Brien's not going to be there, so it'll just be you and Weeks up against God only knows what. It's going to be your last stand, but you'll know he's coming, so maybe one of you will get lucky."

"We don't know what he looks like," Weeks said.

"Don't worry about it too much, kid. Moradi will be a stand-out. He'll be the one trying to kill you."

"We've got to get you out of here, Harold."

"Leave me. Just tell the cops to come into the room through the fireplace. Leave it open when you go. No need to try to protect this 'secret' any longer."

Shahida looked doubtful.

"It's okay, Faris. I need a some time to talk to my grandson. I need to tell him I need to tell him how sorry I am—for a number of things."

Shahida started to say something, but changed her mind.

"One more thing, Faris. There's a code on the back of my phone. Key it in before you do anything else. It'll disable the GPS. No sense having any more company on the mall that you're already going to have."

"Got it, Harold."

Wiggins shook Shahida's hand, and then Weeks. "Thank you for being a friend to Trey. Shoot straight and fast—and keep your head down, young man."

"I'll do my best, sir."

"And both of you—don't hesitate to shoot. Not even a second. This isn't a routine traffic stop. America is depending on you."

"What about the President?" Shahida asked.

"Forget about him. You'd never get close anyway. Focus on Moradi. You'll have your hands full enough with just him. Karma will take care of the Prez. Karma always does. She's one relentless bitch."

Shahida and Weeks smiled a little at that.

"Indeed she is, Harold. You get well, all right? I want to see you again."

"The same to you two. I want to see you both again too."

The three looked silently at each other for a few seconds.

"Later then," Wiggins said.

"Later then," Faris and Weeks repeated.

Together, they worked their way up and through the fireplace exit, leaving it and the front door to Wiggin's home unlocked and the driveway floods on for the police and paramedics. Shahida drove the big Suburban as Weeks rode shotgun, his cocked and unlocked duty pistol securely in his hand as they made their way back toward the district.

In a hurry.

Detroit

1940

Breakfast was over pretty fast. We had all been more hungry than we thought. Maggie and Linh offered to clean up the kitchen, but I told them not to worry. The Kid wouldn't be coming home again—at least not to this house. Everyone looked a little quizzical, but no one asked questions. I was glad of that.

I told my little gang to get everything together that they wanted to take back with them. We wouldn't be coming back to Virginia Park Street again—at least not in 1940. Gathered together again in the living room a few minutes later, I told them this was about it.

Brick spoke up. "Where are going to end up?"

"You tell me. You're the Detroit guy."

"The old fair-grounds. It's been largely deserted for a long time now. Wide open, and at the same time, kind of secluded. I don't think we'll stir up much notice there."

"As I remember, Brick, it's just around the corner from the Stone House Bar. Maybe we should stop in for a shot when we get there. See how much it's changed and all."

Brick grinned. "You might find Capone sitting there, Johnny—still trying to figure out what hit him."

I grinned back. I guessed Brick had probably been paying more attention than I thought.

Maggie looked at me and spoke up. "I'm going too, Johnny—all the way."

"Damned right you are, Maggie. I love you, but I wouldn't even ask you to stand down. We come through this clean, Maggie, you and I, or we don't come through at all. Together, even-steven, and completely equal partners in each and every single thing we ever do—including this. That's my marriage terms. We're all in larger hands than our own now."

Maggie nodded her head yes. She knew she didn't have to say a word. She knew we understood each other perfectly. We were risking a lot, including the life of a precious unborn child. Yet none of us spoke up against it. We all knew what was at stake, and we all knew what was right. Sometimes, you just have to trust in God. Why not? —everything else was way beyond our control.

We all stood in a small circle, hands linked. I assumed the position of leader, although I didn't really think our group needed one. I asked Linh to offer a short prayer, and she did.

After we all said Amen, I made my small contribution. "I don't know what we're going into," I started. "But it's pretty likely to be unholy hell. I don't think anyone here needs a pep-talk, so I'll make this real short. Everyone has each other's back. One for all—all for one. Even unto death. Simple as that."

Everyone nodded their heads yes. It was our poor man's tontine. It would have been a good spot for a boozy toast, but nobody had any.

So we simply went back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Detroit,

Present Day

Things started moving pretty fast after we left Virginia Park Street, our rest and relaxation apparently over for good.

Brick really had a pretty damned good idea, sitting us down in the middle of the old abandoned fairgrounds. Trouble was, we all forgot that Detroit was still in no small amount of turmoil after the big terrorist attack that had occurred. As it turned out, the national guard had been called out by the governor to keep order, and yes, just as you have probably guessed by now, they were stationed right in the middle, of that old great big open space formerly known as the Michigan State Fairgrounds.

We appeared right in the center of them.

Hey—nobody can be right _all_ the time.

The first thing I heard after we landed, was the shouted command to "freeze!" It wasn't said in a very friendly tone of voice—so we did. The sight of about two dozen semi-automatic rifles trained directly at the center of our chests did a lot to help us along in the decision making process.

There was no bull-shitting ourselves out of this one this time, Howard Carter notwithstanding, so we just all kept quiet as we were quickly disarmed, put in handcuffs, with our hands behind our backs, and escorted to a makeshift holding area. We didn't even get to pass go.

Or collect two hundred dollars either.

The commander's name was Bullock, as we were informed. Major Bullock to be exact. Apropos, I thought. I supposed him to be probably about as dumb as a steer. All six of us were unceremoniously herded into one of the old buildings. I was pretty sure it had once been used to house cattle, or perhaps pigs. There was still a faint aroma, even all those years later. It did not smell like French perfume.

We had a while to stew before the big guy arrived.

"So how long we gonna sit around here, Johnny?" Brick innocently asked.

"What else you want to be doing, Brick?"

"Oh, I don't know, Johnny—maybe trying to find Faris. Just—you know, for laughs or something."

"Where do you want to start?"

"You tell me. You're the big-name, hot-shot detective, O'Brien."

Brick had intentionally used my surname, I realized—just to show his displeasure.

"Well, _Wahl_ —matter of fact, I _do_ have an idea."

"Want to share?"

Carter answered, his facial expression displaying no small amount of annoyance. "I can tell you what he's doing, Brick. Exactly what he been trained to do as a police officer. He's gathering all the information that he can get out of our present situation. We all know we can walk out of here anytime we want to, but if we did, we might be passing up some nugget of info we could really use later on."

It was Brick's turn to look annoyed. "Let me explain how this all works, Carter—since you're just a little bit outside your area of expertise right now."

Carter has been leaning against an old wooden animal enclosure of some kind. At Brick's words, the big man uncoiled and straightened out, ready for action. Howard Carter was not the type of guy to take a lot of guff off anyone—not even an old friend. And he sure as hell didn't like being told he didn't know what he was talking about. I had known Howard a long time, and even I wouldn't have tried it.

"You want to illuminate me, Brick?" Carter said.

"Settle down, slugger," Brick replied. "You just might need to use some of that energy in a few minutes. Besides," Brick grinned, "you'd have a hell of a time swinging on me with your hands manacled behind your back."

Carter brought his hands out in front of him, the unlocked handcuffs dangling from just one wrist. His very large hands were balled into fists."

Brick whistled softly. "Very impressive, Howard."

"Childs play. Go on, Brick."

"Ok, I will," Brick replied as he brought his own hands around to the front, his own cuffs dangling. "How many of the six of us time-travel?"

"Two," Carter replied, a small smile playing on his lips. He was clearly enjoying the exchange. The game up, Matt, Linh, and I produced our own hands. Maggie was the only one in our group that was still constrained.

"Hey, how'd you guys do that?" she asked.

"Old police trick," Howard mumbled.

"And how many of the six of us can dodge bullets?" Brick continued, as though nothing odd had happened.

"Three," Howard replied. "How's my math so far, Brick?"

"Perfect, Howard. Now let's see if you can keep it going. How many men are going to come to question us?

"Probably one. Bullock."

"Great, Howard. You're still getting an A+," Brick replied.

"Keep going, Brick."

"Okay, I will. Now the sixty-four-thousand-dollar-question. Bullock won't come alone. How many armed men do you think he's going to bring along with him?"

"I don't know," Carter replied.

"Neither do I," Brick said. "And neither does Johnny or Matt."

"So what's the point?" Carter challenged.

Brick looked disappointed. "You just flunked the course, Howard. You want me to explain this to him, Johnny—or do you want to do the honor?"

I grinned. "I'll do it, Brick. We were going to have to get around about to this pretty soon anyhow."

"Around to what?" Carter asked.

"More mathematics, Howard. And being on the wrong side of them."

"I'm all ears," Howard said.

He was right—he really was. They were big.

"It goes like this, Howard. I can dodge bullets. So can Matt and Brick. We do it by hovering a split-second forward in time. We are thus able to see our opponent lining up his shot, and we simply move out of the way. It's all way too fast for the eyes of our opponent to see. Or for that matter, anyone else either. That is, unless you happen to be one of the very few people that have this ability. Then, you probably are able to discern what is actually going on."

Brick smiled.

"That's how Brick was able to tell that I was messing with Capone back at the Stone House. Matt would have been able to pick up on it as well, but right at that particular moment, he only had eyes for Linh."

Matt grinned like a school boy. "Guilty as charged."

"And this tidbit of information affects us how?"

"Just this Howard. This little bullet dodging dog and pony show only really works very well if it's just one on one. In other words, one shooter—and one dodger."

"Why?"

"Well, little grasshopper," I deadpanned, "that be because if you got more than one person shootin' at you, you might very well step _out_ of the way of the bullet of opponent number one, and directly _into_ the path of the bullet of shooter number two. The more people shooting, the more the odds in your favor will decrease—and real damned fast."

The consternation showed plainly on Carter's face. I guess maybe he thought that beating the bad-guys was going to be a cake-walk. Don't suppose he remembered he was in the middle of a Johnny O'Brien story. In other words—nothing was ever going to be _that_ easy.

"So what you and Brick are telling me is that if an armed Bullock and three more armed guards show up, all of your much vaulted time-travel skills are going to be worth about as much as a pitcher of warm piss."

"Poetically, and eloquently stated as always, Howard—and just about one-hundred percent correct."

"What about Moradi then?"

"If it's just him and the Ice-Queen, we'll have them. The odds of it all actually working out that way though, are about the same as me winning the National Miss Congeniality Award this year—in other words, just about absolute zero."

"Some bunch of super-heroes."

I shrugged. "You get what you pay for, Howard. I told you back when you gave me this assignment that you'd be a lot better off hiring someone out of the phone-book."

"Yeah, Johnny—I probably would have. I'll stick with you though. I hate changing horses mid-stream."

"I'm touched."

"Don't be, glamour-boy. Soon as this is over I'm firing your ass."

"Can't. You didn't hire me, Howard. I'm FBI."

"Oh the hell you are, Johnny," Brick chimed in. "I wish I had a dime for every time some poor slob like you got sucked into that old 'you be working for the bureau now' bullshit."

"A scam?"

"You bet it is. They suck you in like a teeny-bopper on prom night. They use you, abuse you, and then leave you to twist in the wind the first time the going gets rough. And all without a box of candy, flowers, a movie, dinner, or for that matter, even a decent amount of personal lubricant."

"How do you know?"

"Been there, done that, Johnny. Many times. Did they promise you FBI credentials?"

"Yeah."

"Ever see 'em?"

"Son-of-a-bitch."

"Bingo, pal. First time they don't need you, they suddenly don't know you from Adam. It's one of the oldest tricks in their book. They do it all the time, and not just to best-selling, time-travelling, handy-dandy private investigators either. They run the same scam on low-level government whistle-blowers, public foundation CEOs and CFOs, and even nameless and faceless accountants and book-keepers in private business."

"Wow."

"Sorry, Johnny. You're nothing special. It's always better to know the truth."

"I'm sorry too, Johnny," Howard contributed. "I'm basically just a small-town cop. When the bureau said you were going to be good with them, I took it all in—hook, line, and sinker."

"It's okay, Howard. I'm not exactly a schoolboy either. Shoulda known better."

"We're on our own here, guys. Get used to it," Brick said.

Our discussion about blame placing was cut short with the creaking of the door at the far end of the building. In walked three soldiers. Jar-head and barrel-chest were on the wings, with no-neck in the middle. I took him to be Bullock. He wore a holstered .45, while the two at his sides carried short barreled semi-automatic rifles.

Three.

Just three.

We were in luck.

We all quickly placed our hands behind our backs again.

And I decided to have a little fun.

Five of our little group faced them directly. Maggie, bless her heart, kept herself turned slightly to the side, clearly displaying her still cuffed hands. No one had told her to; she did it on purpose, by instinct—knowing that it helped considerably with maintaining the illusion that we were all still safely shackled. Smart girl—with a damned good head on her shoulders. Once again I marveled at my amazing good fortune.

The little military parade finally reached us. Howard and the ladies wisely hung back. Matt and Brick flanked my sides. No-neck addressed me directly. Why they always start with me is a mystery. I guess they just somehow know, gut-level, that I'm going to be the one to mouth off.

And, they're almost always right.

"Who are you?" Bullock began. His tone of voice did not seem to have been improved much by the hour or so we had been here patiently waiting for him. It was plain that he was a guy that expected to be answered, and obeyed fully—and fast.

So sorry to disappoint.

"Dr. David Bruce Banner," I deadpanned, giving the formal full name of the human and mortal version of _The Incredible Hulk_. "Please don't make me mad either, soldier-boy. You wouldn't like me very much when I'm mad."

Bullock's face instantly seared hot beet-red. I had taken him off guard— _and_ disrespected him. Apparently not one to much like to play verbal patty-cake, he instantly un-snapped his full-flap hip holster and placed his hand on the butt of his .45 automatic.

"Try again, ass-hole," he spit out. "And do better." He paused. "Or I'll put a slug right in the middle of your fore-head," he added for emphasis. It was plain that Bullock did not like to be trifled with.

So I didn't. Trifle, that is.

I answered as casually as I knew how. "Right while you have your hand on that pistol," I began, "why don't you just pull it the rest of the way out of the holster. Just two fingers, mind you. Then turn it around butt forward and very carefully hand it over to me. We don't want it going off by accident or anything."

It had the desired reaction. Bullock pulled the big automatic about two or three inches out of the holster, and not with two fingers either. He was simply wrapping his big right hand more firmly around the handle. His eyes had grown larger at my words. He had almost ceased to breath—a sure sign that he was preparing for lethal action. And soon.

"And just what happens if I don't?" he softly asked, conserving energy for the gun-play he knew was coming. He was a genuine tough-guy all right, but I detected a split-second of uncertainty in his voice. It was enough.

"Then I take it away from you and shove it up your ass, big-guy. That's what happens." I didn't watch his hand. I kept my eyes bored into his. His eyes would be my tip-off.

Both our lives hung suspended for several seconds.

"Last chance, fat-boy," I softly said. I threw in a smile and a wink for extra effect. That was all it took. His eyes telegraphed his intentions long before his hand. I had no idea what the other two soldiers were doing. That wasn't my department. I had all I could handle right in front of me. As I slipped forward in time a split-second, I was surprised that Matt and Brick were apparently even a little faster than me. They both had moved too. I hadn't actually seen them do it, but I knew they had. It was like a small and brief flash of light at the corners of both my eyes. Similar to the brief blip of light off an automobile's windshield as it turns a corner fast on a sunny summer day.

Bullock jerked the gun. He was fast all right—but I was a lot faster. I had the thing in my hand before his arm even half straightened out. I could tell he couldn't believe his own eyes, and had no idea what had just happened. I have to give the poor slob credit though. He recovered quickly and drew back for a punch. He never threw it though, as I smashed his own pistol into his face. It was a good old-fashioned solid steel handgun, weighing probably three pounds fully loaded. It knocked him flat on his behind—and _did_ leave a mark to boot.

Matt was holding the second soldier at gunpoint, with his own rifle. The shocked man's hands were high in the air. Brick had also disarmed his guy, but true to form had tossed the weapon away. This gave the soldier the sadly mistaken impression that he could duke it out with Brick for the championship. He cascaded to the floor right next to Bullock. The man was lucky. I knew Brick hadn't even returned a half-power punch.

The fight, such as it was, was over. Matt politely asked his man, the last one standing, as it were, to kindly take the handcuffs off Maggie. He seemed happy to comply.

Bullock was regaining his senses. "How in the bloody hell did you get out of the cuffs?" he asked with amazement.

"Old police trick," I muttered.

His shirt pocket began to ring.

"Is that your phone?" I asked.

"No—it's yours," he answered.

"Then hand it over," I replied. "Don't you know it's not nice to take other people's stuff?"

He did. I took the call and walked away from the group to talk. After a couple of minutes, I returned.

I addressed Bullock. "Where's the rest of our belongings?"

"In my office."

"Well, we're all going to go get them. Real nice and friendly like. Brick, would you please be so kind as to unload all three weapons and give them back to these gentlemen?"

"What's your plan, Johnny?"

"Just head over to the COs office, re-arm ourselves and do a short plan re-assessment."

"Like what?"

"You have any bull-pups over at your office, Bullock?" I knew the short-barreled 9mm sub-machine guns would probably be standard issue armament for his unit under the circumstances.

"Sure," he answered.

"Seven?"

"A lot more than that."

"Ammo?"

"Plenty."

"You're being mighty co-operative, all of a sudden, Bullock." I thought he was being a hell of a good sport, ignoring as he was, the blood beginning to trickle out of his nose, along with his two rapidly blackening eyes.

"All of a sudden I'm getting an idea that you all probably aren't the bad-guys."

"Evidenced by?"

"The fact that the three of us are still alive."

"Smart-man," I observed.

"Sometimes," Bullock agreed. He held out his hand. I thought it over for a second or two, and then helped him to his feet.

What's going on?" he asked.

"Plenty, Bullock. But it's not going on in Detroit. What happened here was nothing but an elaborate smokescreen, and the tip of an ice-berg. You're right, Commander—we aren't the bad-guys. But we need to stop them. And I don't have a world of time to do that, so I need an honest, straight-up answer from you. Will you help us?"

It took Bullock a few seconds to think it over too. I had to change my mind about him. He was a hell of a lot smarter than I had first given him credit for. He did his own quick set of mathematics—and came up with the right answer.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"O'Brien," I answered. "Johnny O'Brien. Just Johnny to my friends."

"Well, Johnny, sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusions," he said.

"That's okay, Bullock. I know you guys have been through hell here."

"I'm going to trust you, Johnny, and I'm putting the rest of my career in your hands as well. From what I just saw, that might not be such a bad place for it to be." He hesitated for a couple of more seconds—and then he smiled. "Let's go get you guys _properly_ outfitted."

We did.
CHAPTER THIRTY

Detroit

Present Day

When we finally got out of the fairgrounds, we were a whole lot better equipped than when we arrived—to say the very least. I had been hoping for seven standard issue UZIs. Major Bullock did better than that. Seemed his unit was near the top of the priority list when it came to being issued cool toys. Bullock had a few connections upstairs, as he explained. His outfit was kind of the "testing" unit.

What they were testing right at the moment was the micro UZI, or as it was called much more commonly—the UZI pistol. They were semi-automatic, instead of the fully auto capability of the full-size submachine-gun. That was just fine by me. In my experience, fully automatic machine-gun fire was very impressive—but not very effective. One bullet discharged per pull of the trigger tended to work out a lot better. They were usually much more accurately aimed, and were a hell of a lot easier on the ammo supply.

The micro UZIs came equipped with standard twenty-five round magazines, to keep the profile as compact as possible. Again, fine by me—as long as we had the option for more firepower. We did. Bullock came up with three more thirty-two round magazines for each of us—profile be damned. That was a hundred and seventeen rounds each, about as fast as we could pull the trigger, plus our own belt guns. Not bad. I didn't see the need for additional armament. If we couldn't accomplish what we had to do with what we had, we were likely to be in a hell of a lot more trouble than we could shoot our way out of anyway.

The ammo consisted of hundred and twenty-four grain full metal jacketed bullets. They would not have been my first choice, but beat the hell out of throwing spit balls or blowing air-kisses. They weren't going to expand inside our opponents like hollow points would do, but did have the advantage of being highly penetrative, and were likely to be as smooth as silk functioning in our pistols. I didn't anticipate any jams. And the truth of the matter is simply this; no bad-guy I had ever come across enjoyed have thirty-eight caliber holes punched in their bodies very much.

Tended to take the fight out of them pretty fast.

After all the hardware was passed out, I was left holding two extra sets. Brick had refused his, just as I knew he would. Old dependable. That was all right. I had another use in mind for him anyhow. Bullock offered us grenades, but I declined. They require a fair amount of expertise in their use that I didn't think we had, and I felt they might be a greater danger to us than they would be to our opponents.

I asked the Major to give us a few minutes alone. He seemed happy to comply. He had turned out to be a hell of a good man. I intended to write a letter of commendation for him after all this was over— _if_ I lived through it that was. I liked my chances. From what I had just learned, I was pretty sure that the odds would be on our side, outnumbered though we might be. And of course, we did have the element of surprise in our favor.

But as I've always said—no future for me as a fortune teller.

My five gathered around me. With all our new hardware dangling from our belts, we looked formidable indeed. The fun part was over. Now the little gang wanted answers.

I hoped I had some.

As usual, Howard led off. "Okay, O'Brien. What you got?"

"Well, I know where Faris is."

"The phone call?" Brick asked.

"Yeah. She was calling to leave a voice message. She was surprised as hell when I answered. Up to that point, she wasn't too damned awful sure Brick and I were alive or not. She was even more surprised to learn that the two of us had grown to six. It went both ways. She's picked up a little help. There's two of them now—her and a DC cop by the name of Weeks. She didn't want to stay on the line for long and suggested we meet up."

"District of Columbia?" Maggie said.

"Yup."

"Looks like we've hit the big-time. Where?" Matt asked.

"The Washington Monument."

"Not exactly a private location."

"Exactly why she wants us there. She's baiting a trap. She says she knows Moradi's plan, but didn't want to chat about it on an open line. I guess I had to agree."

"When?" Matt continued.

"As damned fast as we can get our asses over there," I said.

"Well," Matt said, "no problem getting there in a hurry, but we aren't exactly going to go un-noticed on the National Mall."

"It's a risk all right," I agreed. "But it's one I think we need to take. If she's right about drawing Moradi in, her and Weeks are going to need all the help they can get—and fast."

"Agreed," Matt, Brick, and Howard said, almost in unison. " _Really_ fast."

"What are we getting ourselves into?" Linh asked.

"What we get paid for," I said. "Taking in the bad-guys. Taking them out if we can't."

"We're not taking these in, are we?" Maggie said.

"No," I confessed. "We're not."

Maggie looked grim, but not sad. I was happy to see that. The woman had steel in her.

"I don't think I know enough about the National Mall landscape to guide us in," I said. "I've actually never been to DC."

"I'm surprised," Matt said. "I'd a thought a high-powered writer guy like you would have been decorated by the President once or twice in his life."

"Well you would have thought wrong," I replied a little testily. "There's not exactly a Pulitzer Prize category for dime-store detective stories."

"Well don't worry, Johnny," Matt said. "I've been there before."

"For what—a Civil War reunion?"

"Very funny, Johnny."

"Thanks, Matt. I try."

Linh spoke up. "Hate to break up the laugh-fest, but shouldn't we be going?"

She was right. We should. So we did.

Go—that is.

Washington, DC

Present Day

I noticed the cherry-blossoms were really pretty this year as we came in for our "landing." Wise-ass Matt had been to the Washington Monument before all right, but he had forgotten about the ground slope. Instead of setting down on solid terra-firma, we came in a couple of feet high. We hit hard. And rolled for about a dozen paces. Our UZIs and extra clips were jarred loose, and rolled with us.

So much for not being noticed.

An old tourist couple stared wonderingly at us as we gathered up our stuff and made our way down the rest of the hill. Hey, they had come for a good show, and I guess we were only too happy to provide one. I tipped my homburg politely to them.

Now to find Faris and Weeks.

Taking a quick look around, I spotted a nice little stand of trees near the visitor's center. I thought it might be a good spot to regroup. Seems I wasn't the only one to have the idea, as we had barely entered the little woods before Shahida Faris and a young man I took to be Weeks walked up on us.

"Hello, O'Brien."

She was trying to be formal, just like a good bureau agent should do, but I wasn't having any part of it. We had all been through too much together to not be just a little touchy-feely, so when she tried for a handshake, I pulled her in for a brief hug. I saved the handshake for Weeks. He looked like he had had a couple of passes through a meat grinder himself, with his well bloodstained undershirt and slacks. Weeks had pulled a police jacket over it all, but it wasn't doing a very good job of covering up the fact that this young man had recently seen a world of trouble.

I couldn't help but notice that all the department patches had been pulled off his jacket. Clearly this guy was not advertising his profession.

"Officer Weeks, I presume?"

"Yes sir, Mr. O'Brien."

"If we're going to be friends, young man—you can drop everything except 'Johnny.'"

He smiled. Didn't look like he'd been wearing a lot of them lately. "Thank you, Johnny," he said. "I'm Dallin."

"I understand you saved Agent Faris' life. Is that correct?"

"Yes, I guess it is. Me and my partner Trey Wiggins."

"Well, thank you, Dallin, for everything you did. I also understand your partner and friend has been killed."

"Yes sir. And his grandfather Harold severely injured."

I was still holding his hand in a handshake. I drew him a little closer and looked him straight in the eye. "Last warning, my friend. Drop the 'sir.'"

He grinned a little more easily this time as he replied. "Yes sir."

We both smiled a little at that one. "Well, Dallin, I used to be a cop myself. I just want you to know that I understand what you're feeling right now. Not much more in the world that hurts like hell than losing a partner. The only way I know of to ease the pain at all, is to get your ass in gear and go kill a few of the dirt-bags that were responsible for it."

"That sounds like a plan, Johnny."

"It is, son. And I'll give you the opportunity, and damned soon, to do just that. Are you in, Dallin?"

"Yes."

"All the way?"

"Yes."

"Unto death?"

"Unto death."

"Then I make you a member of our little group of madmen, Dallin. I'd knight you, but I forgot to bring along my broadsword, so you'll have to settle for this." I pulled him into me and hugged him hard. Like a long lost brother. I whispered in his ear. "We're going to go and kick some terrorist ass, and we're likely going to die for our efforts. I've only known you for a couple of minutes now, Dallin, but sometimes that's long enough. I'm proud to serve beside you, and I'll be proud to die there as well, if it comes to that."

I finally let him go. He took a step back, and just wordlessly nodded his head yes. It was settled then. We were all family. Just like we had been born that way—like blood—blue blood.

One for all. All for one.

"Welcome to the Kung-Fu panda village," I said with a grin. I handed him his UZI and clips. He stashed them under his jacket.

Our group closed ranks then as introductions were made all around. Weeks volunteered to bring the gang up to speed with all that had happened. I figured I'd get my updates from Shahida as we walked a short distance off. She sounded like a scorned lover catching me red-handed and cheating, as she spun around and shot me an accusing look.

"You were in Detroit when I called?" she said.

"Yes."

"And now you're here in DC. That doesn't quite compute, Johnny. Not nearly enough time. Not even by super-sonic transport, even if that still existed."

"Hey, I'm a no nonsense kind of guy—and fast."

"Not _that_ fast."

"Yeah, Shahida. That's a little something I need to talk to you about."

"I can hardly wait. How about dropping the bull-shit and starting with the truth?"

I hesitated a few seconds, then waded in. "Okay, Shahida. I have certain abilities. So does Brick and McCabe. That's the only reason I was selected for this assignment. The rest of them just kind of tagged along with me."

"Your abilities, Johnny—or your extra-special, handy-dandy, magic pocket watch?"

"You're a quick study, Shahida."

"Not really. I had the President of the United States explain it to me."

"How detailed?"

"Not much. Pretty much he said you had the watch—and therefore he wanted you. So what's the deal?"

"It's a time machine. Also a pretty damned good mode of instant transportation." There—I said it.

She looked at me like I had just stepped off a spaceship.

"And you seriously expect me to believe that."

"Yeah—pretty much."

"Let me see it."

"Can't."

"Why?"

"Don't have it anymore."

"Lose it?"

"Nope. Hid it."

"Where?"

"If I told you that, Shahida, it wouldn't be a secret anymore."

"How you been doing your time and space traveling without it?

"Been getting a lot of practice recently. Don't really need it anymore."

"Have you seen a doctor lately?"

I laughed. "Matter of fact, yes I have. He said he couldn't help me."

"I don't doubt it."

"You think I'm insane."

"You bet I do."

"Then how do you think we got here so fast?"

"Don't know. But it sure as hell wasn't a magic pocket watch."

I smiled—thinking back to the days when I felt exactly about Matt McCabe as she did about me right at the moment. Matt had rather rudely jerked me out of my disbelief, knowing that I didn't have a lot of time to waste. I decided to do the same with Agent Faris.

"Where were you born, Shahida?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Humor me."

"Tehran."

"Been back lately?"

"No."

"Want to go?"

" _Hell,_ no."

"Fine then," I offered cheerfully. "Let's do it then." I took her hand. She was too taken by surprise to pull it away in time.

We traveled.

Far—and fast.

I was able to bring us into a large green area. Since I didn't have an idea in the world where I was going, I considered myself to have done well to not plow us into a tree. Instead, it was a wide open area of a city park. And a beautiful one at that. Ab-o-Atash park as I would learn later. I didn't know if it was anywhere near where Shahida was born, but nonetheless, there was no way she was not going to recognize it as being Tehran, with so many spires reaching for the sky all around us, of a decidedly Middle-Eastern design.

Shahida fell hard on the ground as she finally was able to jerk her hand loose. She stayed where she fell. She reminded me a lot of Capone, as her head swiveled around and her eyes grew big.

Hell of a lot better looking though.

"Where are we?" she nearly shouted.

"I think you know, Faris." Seemed like a good time to get formal again.

"Who the hell are you anyhow—Captain America?"

"Not quite. O'Brien. Just Johnny O'Brien."

" _What_ are you?"

"Just a low-paid government employee—same as you."

"Is what you're doing some kind of secret government program or something?"

"Not exactly," I deadpanned impatiently. "We might not want to stick around here for a very long time, Shahida. Are you satisfied I can do what I say?"

She looked around again. "Yes."

"Then I promise I'll tell everything to you in extremely excessive detail in the very near future. That is, I'm alive to explain, and you're alive to listen."

"Sounds like a deal," she said. "Now let's get out of here—fast. You're right, I'm not especially welcome in this town."

We did.

We were back in a moment—looking at the Washington Monument.

"What do you want me to do?" she said, a complete believer at last.

"Walk with me," I answered. "And tell me everything you know."

"Where do you want me to start?"

"With the President."

"He's a bastard. And a treasonous one at that. He thinks Moradi works for him."

"Thinks?"

"Yeah, Johnny. Moradi was hired to stage a fake Islamic terrorist attack. Several in fact, in DC and New York. The President then calls a joint emergency meeting with Congress, and before you know it, most everybody gets dead, courtesy of Mr. Moradi. The President is supposed to survive though, but the whole things gives him the legal right to declare martial law and hang onto the big desk and brass name plaque in the Oval Office."

"But there's more to it than that—right?"

"You know it. Moradi's going to kill the President too."

I whistled softly. "Double, double-cross. Sweet. Why all the trouble of the children's academy smokescreen?"

"To get you here. _And_ your watch. Now I know why. That thing could give the President the world. You say you got it hid?"

"Yes."

"Hid good?"

"Yeah, pretty good."

"How long?"

"Going on a century," I said. I figured it was time to try to focus her. "Where's he going to hit them? The Capitol Building is way too well protected."

"It is," she said. "But not the tunnels going out of it."

"Tunnels," I replied. "Pretty low-tech."

"Yeah, but they work. They run for about a quarter of a mile and come out under an unused parking garage. There's a helicopter pad on top."

"Complete with a bird?"

"Don't know for sure, but I'd bet on it. It's for the personal use of the prez—as in allowing him to escape in case of an attack. You know, like in a war or something."

"That could be a handy fact to know."

"You fly?"

"No. But neither will the President if I can get my hands on that bird."

"I like it, Johnny. The President almost gave me a fatal case of lead poisoning. I owe him something in return."

"Always nice to repay a debt," I agreed. "Let's see what we can do to make that happen."

Before she could answer, her phone went off. She hesitated.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"It's not my phone, Johnny. Belongs to Harold Wiggins."

"Why don't you answer it, Shahida? I'm pretty sure Moradi already pretty much knows where we are."

"You want to add to that information?"

"Yeah, I do. If it's him—let him know _exactly_ where we are and exactly what we're up to as well."

"Ballsy."

"Thanks—I get that a lot. Let's get it over with. If we're standing between him and what he wants, he has no choice other than to try to roll over us."

"Can we stop that, Johnny?"

"We can give it a damned good try."

She looked at me for another second or two, and then she answered the phone. After about a full minute, during which time she said nothing at all, she slowly lowered the phone to her side. She did not wear a happy expression on her face.

"It's Wiggins. He's in the hospital. He says the tooth-fairy has paid him a personal visit, and he didn't bring good news."

"The what?" I said.

"An FBI snitch. That's his code-name."

"Will Wiggins talk to me?"

"That's what he wants to do," Shahida said, handing me the phone.

I took it. "O'Brien here."

"Harold Wiggins, O'Brien. Good to speak to you."

"Same," I replied. "Who's the tooth-fairy?"

"If I told you that, O'Brien, I'd have to kill you. Then I'd have to kill myself."

"I hear Moradi almost did that for you."

" _Almost_ only counts in horseshoes. I'll survive, minus a couple inches of leg bone. Bastard got my grandson though."

"I heard. Sorry."

"You want to make me feel better, arrange for me to go to Moradi's funeral."

"I can do that, Wiggins. What news you got?"

"Three items—and they're all bad."

"So what else is new?—story of my life. Talk to me."

"You guys are out of time. There's bombs going off right now in New York City. Attacks in DC are probably only hours, or maybe minutes away. The country's going nuts."

"I don't doubt it. What else?"

"Calvert Cliffs is melting down."

"What the hell is Calvert Cliffs?" I asked.

"A nuclear power plant. About forty-five miles upwind from where you're standing right now. Someone blew up the water pumps that suck water out of Chesapeake Bay and keep the damned thing cooled and all in one piece. It's Mount St. Helens in a couple of cheap tin cans. The President has already called the joint session. They'll be meeting within the hour."

"That's fast for a bunch of politicians."

"For once the weasels have got a good reason to be in a hurry. In a total melt down, the Cliffs will kill everything stone-cold dead within a fifty-mile radius."

I whistled softy through my teeth. This was just getting better and better all the time.

"There was no emergency plan for a nuke plant that close to the nation's capital?"

"Kind of, O'Brien. The Cliffs has a pretty rock-solid containment building around the cores. It's designed to hold the worst of it, but the engineers are still going to have to bleed off a lot of deadly radiation."

"You said there were three things."

"I'm saving the best one for last."

"Just spit it out, Wiggins."

"Okay—I will. It looks like Moradi has a nuclear bomb of his own."

Man—I sure wished he hadn't said that.

It was turning out to be a real shitty day.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I made arrangements to meet with Wiggins at the hospital as soon as I could get there. There were certain things that neither one of us felt comfortable discussing over the phone. I spent a brief minute and a half or so with the group going over what was likely to happen next. I felt we had some extra time before the action would commence, but at what cost I shuddered to think. Moradi with a nuke was something that certainly wasn't on my radar screen just a few hours ago when I was thinking we were pretty well set-up with just UZIs.

It was clearly time to go back to the drawing board.

Moradi was one smart son-of-a-bitch. There was little doubt about that. He always seemed to be ahead of us, and he always seemed to know exactly what we were up to, and what we were likely to do next.

It was almost as though he were watching us from an eye in the sky. Creepy, although I didn't believe for a second that he was either omnipotent nor omnipresent, so I was starting to suspect something a whole lot closer to earth, _and_ the mortal realm. Like a kick-butt spy network. He could have the backing of a good sized terror cell, I reasoned— But still, it was pretty damned sophisticated for that.

What it could be kept niggling at the back of my brain, but I just couldn't seem to get my head wrapped around it.

I still expected the assault on congress, but didn't think anymore that Moradi was going to play a personal role in it. He was clearly up to something else—and he _was_ somewhere else. He had another target in mind, and God only knew what it was. The master of smoke and mirrors had created yet another grand illusion, in three different places; New York City, Washington, DC, and Calvert Cliffs. The Cliffs were on the verge of producing a nuclear disaster all of its own, so I didn't expect him to linger there. There, he had done his damage and moved on to greener pastures. He was likely going to use his newfound toy to destroy one of two major cities.

My job was to figure out which one. Laying waste to DC would certainly be symbolic enough—the seat of power of the free world—and it would certainly take out the President as well. But then, New York, with its large Jewish population was always a terrorist's favorite. A bonus was the fact that Wall Street was the financial nerve-center of the United States. It would take a generation to overcome the damage that its destruction would create. Symbolism counts for a lot, so I tended toward thinking it was going to be the district—but what the hell did I really know.

I hoped Wiggins could help to sort it out.

Telling the gang I'd be back shortly, I left them cooling their heels in the little grove of trees, and walked in on Wiggins in his hospital room about a minute later. I announced who I was and flashed my identification to prove it.

For some strange reason he seemed surprised.

"How the hell did you get here so fast, O'Brien?" he said. "I barely just got off the phone with you."

"Traffic was pretty light the way I came, "I explained. "And you must have drifted off for a while."

"Yeah, I guess so," he shrugged. "Damned pain meds are hell."

"How bad's the leg?"

"They say I'll keep it, but that's about all they're promising. Looks like a stint in a wheelchair for me."

"I'll try to make it worthwhile for you," I said. "Tell me the stuff you couldn't say on the phone."

"Starting where?"

"Start with the tooth-fairly. Who is it? We're alone now."

Wiggins sighed. "Oh, why the hell not? My career is over anyhow. After this, I'm taking up permanent residence in a rocking chair."

"Yeah, I'll bet. I've got a police-chief friend that keeps telling me the same thing."

Wiggins grunted for a reply. "The tooth-fairy is the Vice-President."

"The hell you say. Watkins?"

"Yup—the same."

"I'm surprised."

"Don't be. He's a damned good man. I wasn't a bit shocked when he walked into this room. He's been keeping an eye on the President for a long time now."

"All by himself?" I asked.

"Not quite," Wiggins replied. "The FBI director too. They work together."

"Well, come to think of it, it makes a lot of sense," I said. "There's an old saying about vice-presidents."

"Yeah," Wiggins agreed. "The two main duties of the vice-president of the United States are; first—attending the funerals of heads of state and dictators all over the world."

"And second," I continued, "enquiring after the health of the president daily. I guess that includes his political and criminal health as well."

"Exactly," Wiggins agreed. "Watkins takes down the crooked President, he gets to step into his shoes. Instant promotion, and no sticky little details about having to go through the voters to get there."

"He may wish he wasn't in either the President's shoes or his own if Moradi blows up the whole city."

"Moradi can't blow up the whole city," Wiggins said.

"Why not?"

"The bomb he has isn't that big."

"You said it was a nuke."

"Nukes come in all sizes, O'Brien. This one is battlefield size. What they call a tactical nuclear weapon."

"What does that mean, Wiggins?"

"It means it fits into a suitcase—that's what that means. It's a mini-nuke. Maybe fifty pounds, tops."

"Shit."

"Yeah, O'Brien—and big piles of it. Pretty hard to detect."

"I'm guessing he didn't exactly get this from the local Nuclear Bombs R Us?"

"Nope—Soviet made."

"You say Soviet—not Russian?"

"Right. This particular bomb is almost longer in the tooth than we are—at least in dog years."

"How much longer?"

"Plenty—probably built in the eighties. It's an old bird that's come home to roost. Only it's picked out a new nest—the States."

"Tell me it's history—short form," I said.

"Okay. They were created during the cold war. The Soviets made theirs, called RA-115s, and we made ours—called W-54s. Another name for the American made were Davy Crocketts. I've often wondered what old Davy would have thought of one if he were able to see it."

"He would have probably have wished he had it at the Alamo," I replied. "Would have been the end of his little problem with the Mexican army."

"Sure enough that," Wiggins replied.

"How small?"

"Like I said, small enough to fit into a rather large suitcase. Rumor has it that Israel has made a few that will go into a backpack—or even carry-on sized luggage. In intelligence circles, they call them pocket-nukes."

"Lord help us," I said.

"He seems to be on an extended vacation sometimes, doesn't he, O'Brien?"

"Johnny—to my friends. And yes he does—sometimes."

"Johnny then," Wiggins replied softly. "I'm Harold. Quite a number of the Soviet bombs disappeared at the end of the Cold War. Disseminated to terrorist groups—like several ones in Iran. Like I said, now they're coming back. There's been a Russian submarine parked off the East Coast for a few days now. No doubt waiting to deliver a certain deadly something."

"How far off the coast?"

"Far enough to be legal, but a short chopper ride."

"The President has one of those."

"He does—but it's a pretty good guess this one is Iranian."

"You sound sure."

"That's what the VP said. I guess they found a fairly well know Iranian pilot and terrorist stone-dead on the beach. Had several slugs in him. Three-fifty-seven size."

"No bird?"

"Nope. But Moradi's a pilot."

"I hate to repeat myself," I said, "but shit again."

"Yeah," Wiggins agreed.

"How powerful is the nuke?"

"Well, generally speaking, they're around six kilotons. That's roughly a third the size of the atomic nukes that took out Hiroshima and Nagasaki."

"Bad enough."

"It is," Wiggins agreed. "But at least it's not hydrogen. In either DC or New York, no matter where it actually detonates, it's going to kill a hell of a lot of people instantly, and God only knows how many more due to radiation."

"The crime of the century," I said.

"The crime of the century," Wiggins repeated.

"That's what motivates Moradi, Harold. He doesn't care much about anything else."

"I agree, Johnny."

"Who knows?"

"You, me, Watkins, and a few others in the intelligence community—starting with the FBI Director and the CIA head."

"Anybody in favor of going public?"

Wiggins shook his head negatively. "Not unless you want to start a blind panic like this country has never seen. Wouldn't help a damned bit either. Nobody can run _that_ fast."

"So what's the plan?"

"We don't have one, Johnny. The Air Force has been alerted to look for an unknown helicopter over both cities, and airports have been ordered to keep local birds on the ground. But still—it's a needle in a haystack, and the sky over two cities of that size is a pretty damned big haystack."

"Do we absolutely know he's going to fly it in?"

"Not for sure, Johnny—but it seems likely. It's the only edge we've got."

"Could be another red-herring too. Moradi doesn't seem likely to have made as big a mistake as leaving an identifiable pilot on the beach. Why not just pick the body up after he kills him and drop it in the ocean?"

"Can't we just hope for a mistake, Johnny?"

"Yeah, we can hope. But we can't depend on it. Tell me this—if the fly-boys are lucky enough to spot him before he gets to the target—can they shoot him down without detonating the damned thing?"

"That's affirmative, Johnny. The package goes off via code. Probably delivered by satellite and cell phone. All nicely updated for the twenty-first century. Nothing else will set it off. We can drop him if we can see him in time."

"I don't know, Harold. Sounds way too easy. I think he's creating another illusion. While we're watching the skies, he may sneak into town in a car."

"Got any better ideas?"

"Not right off the top of my head I don't. But I'm working on it."

"Better work fast. That joint session is almost underway. Which party you planning on attending, Johnny?"

"Both—if I can swing it. I'm known for getting around pretty fast sometimes."

"Well this should be one of them. You better get your ass out of here."

"I'm on my way. I hope we meet again, Harold."

"Me too, my friend. Me too."

Leaving Wiggins room, I turned left and headed toward the elevator. I knew there was a smallish supply room on the first floor where I would be able to disappear without a lot of attention. I had used it just a bit earlier. Stopping at the elevator door, I stood poised with my finger over the down button.

And there it stayed.

A little voice in my head spoke up. Oh, not a burning bush moment, and not even a still, small voice. Not actually a voice at all—but a clear and distinct feeling that my business with Harold Wiggins was not quite at an end yet.

I was in a hurry. A really damned big hurry. Washington, DC was just about to come apart at the seams, and my friends, not to mention my brand-new wife to be, were going to be needing my help very soon. I didn't have a moment to lose. And yet I remained where I was, standing in front of the stupid elevator, frozen, unable to move, unable to shake the deadly sinking feeling that all was not right. That I was missing something.

And that something was for all the marbles.

. . . And then, suddenly—I knew.

I returned to Wiggins room. He was on the hospital phone. He looked up at me with annoyance. "What the hell are you still doing here, O'Brien? The entire congress is session. Bombs have already gone off at the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, not to mention at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Crowded places. There's nearly a hundred dead. Moradi's men will be getting into place. As soon as they attack the Capitol Building, everyone inside is going to be heading into the tunnel. It'll be a killing field if you don't get between them and Moradi's men. There's no time to waste."

"There's always time, Wiggins. Always time enough to die," I deadpanned.

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

"Just another shell-game. Just another puppeteer. That's what I'm talking about. Who's on the phone?"

Wiggins looked at me like I was insane. "Watkins—that's who. I'm getting updates in real time."

"Ask him where the sub was."

" _What?"_ Wiggins nearly shouted.

"Just do it, Harold. Just do it."

I watched him as he spoke into the phone. In a few seconds he pulled it away from his ear and answered my question. "Off the New Jersey shore."

"Where— _exactly_?"

Wiggins spoke into the phone again.

"Cape May Beach."

"Bingo," I said. "Moradi's finally made his mistake."

"What mistake?"

"Hang up the phone, Harold."

He did.

"What's Cape May closest to to—New York or DC?" I asked.

I could see Wiggins doing mental calculations. "About the same either way. Maybe a tad closer to DC."

"What's closer yet?"

Wiggins looked puzzled.

I continued. "What's a short helicopter ride due west across the rather narrow state of Delaware?"

"Chesapeake Bay."

"Yeah, and what's on Chesapeake Bay?"

Wiggins still looked puzzled.

I waded forth. "Calvert Cliffs."

"The Cliffs are contained. They've got it under control, Johnny. It's probably never going to come back on-line, but it's not going to kill anyone either."

"Contained by what?"

"A big-assed containment building. It's one of the few nuclear plants that have one. It was the one concession they made to building the damned thing so close to DC."

"How tough is the building?"

"Plenty. It's made to withstand a naval bombardment. Even a bunker-buster bomb won't breach it."

"How about a six-kiloton nuke?"

Wiggin's eyes locked with mine, beginning to show a trace of panic. More internal calculations.

"Probably, Johnny. It probably would, _if_ he could get it close enough."

"What would the result of that breach be?"

"The world's biggest dirty bomb. Everything dead within fifty miles. Everybody dying within a few hundred more. Half of the eastern seaboard and half of the Midwest, gone in the twinkling of an eye, or dead shortly thereafter. It would make post-war Japan look like the site of a Sunday school picnic. Those bombs didn't have a fraction of the radiation of the Cliffs reactors. God Almighty, Johnny—that is some of the heaviest populations inside the United States."

"How do you suppose he got to the underground water pumps?"

"The sub, of course. The intakes are outside of the sea wall. Low-yield torpedoes. It'd take divers to know for sure, and that takes time."

"What would it take to get a suitcase nuke up close and real personal with the seaward side of the containment building?"

"A rowboat. A damned rowboat would do it. And pass right under all the sophisticated security out at the cliffs. Pretty damned low-tech way to commit the crime of the century."

"World War III, Harold. The crime of _all_ the centuries," I corrected him. "Moradi and the Russians—all snuggly and warm in bed together. And he the beneficiary of their spy network. Small wonder he keeps ahead of us."

"I see it now, Johnny. First, the sub takes out the pumps. The authorities out there have been too damned busy trying to contain a nuclear disaster to stop and take a good look at what caused the damage to the pumps. Second, Moradi flies the chopper across Delaware before anyone is even aware there's any danger and parks it somewhere on the shore. There's some pretty rocky cliffs out that way where it could go a while unnoticed. Third, he rows in the nuke, places it, rows back out to the bird and flies away clean. Detonates by cell phone."

"I'm guessing there were two subs just off Cape May," I said. "One parked on the water, and another that never surfaced. Probably sitting just under the other. The surface sub sails away, while the other works its way silently up Chesapeake Bay. Works its magic on the pump inlets and before leaving, off-loads a boat for Moradi. Probably a heavy-duty rubber raft, complete with outboard, instead of a rowboat. Fast, quiet, mighty hard to spot—black rubber on a night sea. A perfect plan."

Wiggins continued on. "With DC and most of the government dead and the country in disarray, Russia moves in for the kill. As you said, World War III—over in just a few days, and unlikely even a serious shot fired in return. After all, by the time the overburdened and overwhelmed military gets a clue as to where all this is coming from—it's pretty much all over."

"All over but the shouting, as they say—and the surrendering," I added.

"Jesus." Wiggins said.

"Can your guys stop him?" I asked.

"Probably not, Johnny. Like we said, he's a tiny needle in a great big _wet_ haystack now. And not much in the way of assets in the area either—they're all concentrated on what we all thought were the two prime metro targets. My guess is that the cliffs will blow within the hour. While the attacks are going on here and in New York."

"You ready to die, Harold?"

"Not especially, Johnny. I still owe Moradi a pay-back for Trey."

"Well, I'm not either. And I'll deliver the pay-back for you. I'm the only person in the country that has half a chance of getting there in time to stop him. This time I'm really leaving. Get back on the phone with Watkins. Tell him everything that's happening. See if he can do an end run around the President and get some assets in the air over Russia fast. If we can't stop Moradi, at least we can give Mother Russia quite a few really big smoldering craters of her own. They won't be seeing it coming."

"Agreed, Johnny. End run, hell. I'll tell him to shoot the son-of-a-bitching President himself if he has to."

I laughed. "Moradi's men may do that for him. And I may actually make sure a few get through to do it."

Wiggins laughed then too. "Take care, Johnny. I don't know what you have in mind to stop Moradi, but whatever it is, I kind of feel you'll somehow make it work. You got Brick with your group?"

"Yeah."

"Well, take him with you. He's a hell of a good man."

"He is," I agreed. "But he's a man that doesn't like guns."

"You know what he can do?"

"Yeah, Wiggins—I know."

"Then take him. He hardly needs them. A man with his skills could come in mighty handy, guns or not."

I though it over. The fact of the matter was that Wiggins was right. "I'll take him," I said.

"Good."

My phone rang. I jerked it to my ear and listened for a few seconds and then turned it off. "Show time," I said. "Moradi's men are at the parking garage. They'll be in the tunnel and set up in a matter of minutes."

"It's already too late then," Wiggins said resignedly. "Too late for the poor schmucks in the tunnel. And too late for everybody else as well."

"Hell no it's not," I cheerfully offered. "They don't call me the flash for nothing."

"Why you, O'Brien? Why you and your watch? Who the hell are you anyway?"

I smiled broadly and answered. "Captain America. With a _real_ bad back and mighty sore heels." No more time to waste, I simply stopped talking and disappeared—right before his eyes.

Sure wish I could have seen the expression on his face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

My gang was not where they were supposed to be when I got back to the Mall. It was just the first of many surprises I would have this day. A quick cell phone call to Matt cleared up the mystery. Together, they had decided to find the parking garage that was the exit point of the tunnel on the House Chamber side of the Capitol Building. They had followed a long line of trees on the north side of the Mall going toward the building, wisely staying out of the open. Then, they again cut north about a quarter of a mile and easily located the garage.

Oddly, it was called "Congressional Parking," although it had never sold a parking voucher—congressional or otherwise. It was strictly a cover, "temporarily" closed for business as a sign stated. Locals must have wondered on occasion why it never _, ever_ re-opened. I instantly transported myself over to them. I had given up trying to mask my comings and goings. We were all way too far beyond that for it to matter anymore. Time, and nothing else, was of the essence now.

Fact of the matter was—I was running damned short of it.

I filled Matt and Shahida in on what was going down—short form. They both sighed deeply. I didn't figure their computing of the odds were coming out any better than mine.

I had wondered just how Moradi's men were going to get into the garage without a fire-fight on the surface. Now I knew. We watched them from across the street. There were probably thirty or more men in all, arriving in three large utility trucks, and all dressed as District road construction men—right down to the bright orange safety vests and hard hats. The vests were covering their guns. I could just make out the black straps around their necks, positioned to keep the barrel of their rifles pointing down and less visible. I was pretty sure I knew what those guns were too—most likely fully automatic, short-barreled Russian made rifles, caliber 5.45X39mm. Formidable, with a hell of a lot of power and lethality. They were going to be spreading a whole lot of lead—fast. The speed in which they were likely to be firing was my one advantage. That and the heavy-duty steel girders I was hoping and praying were going to be in the tunnel. If they weren't, it was going to go badly for us.

It was time to find out.

"We need to get in there fast," I said to Matt, as I watched the men start to work on the steel door lock with a torch. "Ideas?"

"Well, we better not go for the tunnel," he replied. "It'll be too narrow for us to try for, never having seen it. Better take us into the parking structure itself, and then look for the tunnel exit, and go in from there. Can't be far inside."

I nodded my head in agreement. "Just on the other side of the big roll-up door?"

"Looks good to me, Johnny."

Our group gathered together and joined hands. In an instant we were inside, looking at the same door from the other side. I could hear the cutting torch just the other side of the roll-up. I was surprised at the amount of light inside the garage, supplied from probably a dozen large sky-lights. Further evidence of the fact that the garage was nothing but a front was the fact that there were absolutely no parking bays or painted traffic lines anywhere to be seen. What was plainly visible was a stairway, leading both up to the roof and the chopper pad, and downward to what I was sure would be the tunnels.

Hurriedly, we made our way to the doors. Not that it mattered, but surprisingly, they were unlocked and opened easily. They were large and double wide, meant to allow a high volume of people to flow through them fast. I locked them as we passed to the other side. The fact that the bad guys were going to have to work some to get through them was going to buy us a little more time to set up.

The lighting inside the tunnel was electric. Dim and soft, but we were able to see easily. My heart quickened as I saw what I was looking for. Steel girders—and just exactly the right kind. They was no way we were going to come through this without causalities, but I was beginning to think we might just live. As the tunnel ran under several very busy streets, I had been pretty sure that it would be well shored up.

It was. And it was a thing of beauty. Two-and-a-half-inch thick steel "I" beams ran up the vertical sides of the tunnel, spaced about fifteen feet apart. The same ran horizontally across the ceiling. The beams were about eighteen inches wide. Not a lot—but enough cover I hoped, to keep our body and souls together. The sides of the tunnel were cinder block. The girders butted up tight against the blocks. No space for a bullet to slip through. It was all I could have hoped for, environmentally speaking.

The rest was going to be up to us.

Hurriedly, I assigned our group their places, reminding myself again of the Alamo analogy. Sure hoped our results were going to be better. I put Howard and myself behind the first set of girders—one on each side of the tunnel. We would be about ten feet from each other—again, near to ideal. Howard was an artist with a pistol, and I didn't feel like I was a slouch either. Behind us went Matt and Linh. Although nearly eight months pregnant, there was no way she was going to accept a spot in the rear, so I didn't even bother to try. Brick and Maggie had the last two sets of girders. Maggie because she was the least experienced among us, and Brick because he was unarmed. Brick was going to be batting cleanup, a role which he immediately seemed to understand—and could do bare-handed.

He accepted the position with a grin.

I had a special assignment for Dallin and Shahida. Intercept the congressmen entering the other end of the tunnel and stop them cold. Shahida's FBI credentials would do a lot to legitimize their interception. And a few rounds from the UZIs fired into the tunnel ceiling would also be impressive if they didn't.

After stopping the stampede from the House Chamber and making sure the congressmen knew to stay put inside the tunnel, Dallin and Shahida were to hot-foot it back to us, working girder to girder as they got close. By then we were more than likely to be needing re-enforcements, and pretty damned fast.

I didn't think the President was going to be exiting with the congressmen, for fear of catching a stray bullet. I was pretty sure he had already mapped out a much shorter and safer route to the helipad on top of the parking garage, via Secret Service escort. Moradi didn't much care if his gunmen got the prez or not—he, along with the rest of the city, would perish all at once in any case. It made me smile a little bit inside to think of Moradi's gunmen. They probably thought they were heroes—soldiers in an army. What the fools didn't know was the fact that they were nothing more than cannon-fodder, entirely expendable, right along with their own victims.

I was jolted out of my musings by the sound of many feet quickly descending the concrete steps just the other side of the locked double doors. The lock was not going to stop them for long. We all assumed our positions, as Dallin and Shadiha disappeared, hurriedly making their way into the tunnel at a trot.

Matt was keeping contact with the surface and the latest news via his cell phone. He informed me that there had been an attack on the Capitol Building. Several bombs had gone off very near the entrance, along with many shots fired. The building security team was engaging an enemy of unknown strength at the moment.

I could guess pretty accurately I supposed, that there no more than probably ten or so gunmen carrying out the ruse attack on the building. Mostly it was another case of smoke and mirrors, ala Saal Moradi. The congressmen were a hell of a lot safer just to stay put, but they didn't know that. Any moment orders were going to be given by the security team for the congressmen to head into the evacuation tunnels—and certain death.

Along with all the other attacks both in DC and New York, Moradi's men were giving a pretty damned good illusion that they were of much greater numbers than was actually the case. As soon as the senators and representatives were in the tunnel, security would mount a last stand defense at the entrance, thereby unwittingly blocking a retreat by the congressmen.

It was all going to be up to Shahida and Dallas, and us, to stop a bloodbath—or at least create another one—this one among the bad guys.

At last the doors opened, the simple lock having been broken by the application of a crowbar. I could see them beginning to file in. We all leaned in as far as we could behind our individual girders. I would give the signal to fire, at the last possible moment, by the simple expedient of opening fire myself. I wanted to let as many as possible through first though, and I wanted our surprise to be as total and complete as we could possibly make it.

There were approximately twenty or more men finally in the tunnel and milling around waiting for orders to move forward. I was sick at what I was seeing at closer range. Very few of the men looked as though they were of Middle Eastern descent. Most were fat, pasty white-faced Americans—recent converts to a cause and a cult—one of death. Once again my thoughts turned to Rowling and Tolkien. Didn't know what kind of a Gandalf I was, but these mutts were sure as hell not going to pass. Not while I was alive anyway.

I thought party time was getting close. I could hear Brick behind me softly whistling _Careless Love_ , almost under his breath, getting ready for action. While I hated to deny a man his nervous tics, there was simply too much of a chance that one of them would spot or hear something out of place. Several had removed their orange vests and taken their rifles off their shoulders and had them in their hands. Too handy. Time had just run out. I wanted the first few seconds to belong to us. Time to open the ball. I stepped out from behind my girder and greeted them with a friendly hello.

Then I opened fire.

Myself, I was a double-tapper—meaning I fired two shots at each individual. The second shot was insurance. Howard tended to fire once in the chest, and then move on—a habit probably developed from the fact that he favored larger caliber handguns with a lot more knock-down power than my little thirty-eight. It was just what we did now, when we had them at a total disadvantage for a few seconds. I hit my first man with two in the boiler-room, and then plowed the guy to his left with another pair. Howard did the same—one shot each being the only difference. Should have resulted in four dying men, better than ten percent of our problem solved. Wasn't that way though. The four just stared back at us, stunned wide-eyed by our sudden appearance, but not coming anywhere near to falling over as they should have.

Not even close.

And in the split-second that followed, I realized my mistake. And I also knew that my blunder was likely going to cost us all our lives. Now I knew why they were disguised as construction men with heavy coats and vest. The men weren't fat. It was the flak jackets under their shirts and vests that were making them look that way. We were facing major league body-armor with pop-guns.

And they were turning high-powered full-auto assault rifles on us even as we watched in mounting horror. Matt and Linh had also stepped from their cover, preparing to back Howard and I up, and engage their own men. I now screamed for them to dive back behind their girders, just as Howard and I were doing as I spoke. It was just a little too late. Howard took the first Russian slugs. I thanked God as I saw him make it behind steel, clutching his profusely bleeding leg as he did so.

The tunnel was filling with Russian lead as the gunmen finally got into full action. We couldn't move—pinned behind our lifesaving steel girders as leaden twenty-two caliber bees zipped by, and into our precious cover, splattering lead and copper jacketing everywhere. Acrid smoke began to fill the tunnel, partially obscuring all. I tried extending my UZI around my girder and firing blindly—but I knew it would have no effect. Nothing we could do was going to stop these fully protected and utterly professional gunmen from over-running us and shooting us dead as they went by.

And then they would move on to the congressmen—and then Moradi to the world.

One of the gunmen rushed us and made it past me. Linh, always the quintessential cop, stepped out again from her girder to take better aim and try to stem the tide. Brave but foolish girl. It was hopeless. As she engaged the man, I saw her take three in the chest and go down hard. The bile rose in my throat as I realized she could not have survived that. Matt had not seen her fall. I was glad for that.

My foolishness and hubris was costing lives.

I had just killed my friend and god-child—and made another a widower.

I stepped out from behind my girder to face them all. My life, and indeed the world—be damned. I would stop them here, or die. Simple as that. Funny thing happened then though.

All of a sudden, I wasn't alone anymore.

Suddenly—I had an army.

Ghostlike, Weeks and Faris appeared beside me. They had abandoned the congressmen to forge for themselves, and returned to fight to the death with their friends. Just to my right I caught a glimpse of Brick Wahl surging past me, and another of a flash of gray coming in from the left. It, and Brick plowed into the terrorists and sent several of them flying. Matt had gone into a crouch and was firing head-shots as cool as a cucumber. Even Maggie had moved forward through a hail of bullets to support us.

I shook my head to throw off my despair at having seen Linh killed and began firing head-shots too. My homburg was shot off the top of my head. I could feel bullets traveling through the loose folds of my jacket and slacks, but still none had touched my body. Finally, I could see some effect of our shooting as several of the terrorists hit the concrete hard. Something, or someone was sawmilling their way through them as well. I couldn't see Brick anymore, but I could see the effects of his efforts as more and more of the enemy fell.

Weeks went down. Maggie too. I had no idea if they were killed or not. I just kept pumping lead into the enemy. Matt, still uninjured, did too. Howard was pitching in from the floor of the tunnel. I could clearly see his mangled leg from the corner of my eye, shattered and twisted at a crazy angle. Our rate of fire was falling as they began to simply overwhelm us. The result was going to be a foregone conclusion. I waited for the killing bullet to hit me as my UZI ran dry. I dropped it and picked up Weeks. Maggie was still firing one handed from a sitting position.

What a woman. What a wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime, and one-in-a-million woman. The last I would love—here at the end of everything. I rammed in my last magazine and charged forward, the closer the better to kill a few more, firing as I went. More fell from the closely aimed headshots. Sadly, Brick became visible to me once again as he crumbled to the floor, shot in the face and dead as he went down. A bullet with his name had at last found him.

The firing pin of my UZI snapped on an empty chamber, finally out of ammo. I dropped it and drew my little Smith and fired my last five rounds.

And then the double doors blasted open as a SWAT team of FBI agents and District Police flooded in. All at once the bad guys weren't shooting at us anymore. They were turning to a new threat, and they began to fall in numbers.

Harold Wiggins and Vice President Watkins had worked some damned fast magic. Wiggins from his hospital bed and Watkins probably from the Oval Office. An office I hoped he would soon occupy full-time.

It was over fast—the agents and cops quickly rounding up the few terrorists left standing. I spun around to do a quick assessment of our causalities.

It wasn't good.

Shahida stood beside me—uninjured. We had something in common. No bullet had touched me either. Maggie sat a few feet away, holding her hand over her right side. She had been creased, but I could tell at a glance that it was not life threatening. Howard was severely injured. It looked like a couple of slugs had got him. One splintering his lower right leg. Another had shattered his knee on the same side creating an ugly wound. It was going to take a miracle for him to walk again. Weeks wounds were much higher up on his body. He sat on the floor, his back propped against the tunnel wall. One round in the upper chest, and another in the area of his collar-bone. Bloody bright red foam flowed freely from his nose and mouth, a sure lung hit. His breathing was shallow and labored, the color gone from his face. His left arm hung useless. He had lost a lot of blood, but paramedics were streaming in now and would be to him in a matter of seconds. He stood a chance.

My eyes traveled further down the tunnel, to the second set of girders. Matt, himself uninjured, had just reached the prostrate form of his wife. She had fallen face down into a pool of blood. It was easy to see how she had died. She had stopped the gunman who had rushed passed us. He was dead, riddled with bullets. So was she. As Matt turned her over and into his arms, I could clearly see the three holes in her blood-soaked blouse. Her head lolled back, and dead eyes looked vacantly at the ceiling of the tunnel. There was nothing to be done. Matt laid her gently back down and simply stared at her lifeless form.

I turned again to where I knew the body of Brick would be. Just to the right of the double doors. It was darker there, and gun smoke hung thick like fog. It was hard to see his form on the black and blood soaked concrete. Finally, I saw some movement. Sadly, it wasn't Brick—but another man gently lifting him into his arms. It was a man in an old-fashioned gray three-piece suit. A man's man. A man by the name of Norman Selby. The Kid had returned, one last time. And with the help of his great-grandson, pretty much saved our lives.

I knew what he was doing, and I wasn't about to stop him. He was taking Brick home. The Kid looked up and our eyes locked for a few brief seconds. Those eyes held sadness—but they also held joy. He was on his way to a family reunion. The Kid raised his right hand and waved. Just a short salute to me. I returned it, as I silently mouthed the words, "thank you."

And then he was gone. And so was Brick. Just as though he had never existed. He had spent much of his life as a Mossad ghost. And in the end, a ghost he would remain. Also, a legend. And my friend—for the rest of all time.

Matt walked up to my side. I turned to look at him and met eyes of steel. The killer in him, never long dormant, had returned.

"Let's go," he simply said.

"No, Matt. Not this time."

"You going to kill him?"

"Gonna try my damnedest."

"Then I need to be a part of that."

"You need to get Linh to the hospital.'

"She's dead, Johnny."

"Maybe her baby isn't."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean get her to the hospital as damned fast as you can move your ass. Maybe they can take the baby."

I saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Do you think it's possible?"

"Hell, I don't know, Matt. Neither do you. _Try._ Try for her."

"Okay, Johnny. I'll try."

I reached up and took his face in both of my hands. I stared into his eyes. I looked into his soul. "I am so sorry," was all I could say. I didn't have anything else, or anything more, for the best friend I would ever have in my life.

"Kill him, Johnny," he said. "Kill him once for you, and then kill him again for me and Linh."

"I will," I replied. "I will."

I looked at Maggie. She had overheard us. "Go," she said. "Both of you go _now_. And God go with you both."

We did. He to try to save an unborn soul. And me—like the wind. Like the light. Maybe even faster.

On the trail of Moradi.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I had taken my bearings quickly from Google maps before I left the tunnel of the dead. I wanted to come in on the beach, where it was devoid of obstructions like trees, wall, fences and so forth. Of course, I had totally forgotten about tides. I ended up in about three feet of surf. The fact that it wasn't over my head was the one positive fact that I had to cling to. On the negative side, I was wet—and damned cold.

As Howard had said; some superhero.

I waded ashore. I guess it was all right though. The water had washed away a lot of blood splatter that I had picked up in the tunnel slaughterhouse. And brought me wide awake and alert—an alertness I was going to desperately need facing Moradi.

Once up on the beach, I could easily see my path to the reactors. There was only one double security fence in my way—no problem for me of course. I could see the sea-wall to my right. That would be the way Moradi would have approached by boat.

I made my way there now through the twilight, dripping red water.

And building a controlled hate. I imagined Linh, walking by my side.

I hoped he was still there. I hoped I wasn't too late—to kill.

After getting through the fences, I made my way to the stone sea wall and began to climb. Once on top, I would be able to follow it inward nearly to the containment building. But before I did, I wanted to confirm the presence of Moradi. To do so, I ventured out onto the seawall. I wasn't too worried about attracting attention. The Cliffs' personnel were all busy much further inland. The chill evening was wearing on, soon to full darkness. The Sea-wall, the ocean itself, and me, were all dark in color.

So was Moradi's rubber raft, moored about a hundred yards out.

I had guessed right. Even down to the outboard motor. What did puzzle me was the fact that I could clearly see a person inside the raft. Sitting rear and leaning against the motor. My heart skipped a beat as I realized I might already be too late. It certainly looked, at least at a distance, that Moradi was about to cast off. If that were true, it meant the bomb was already programmed to detonate, and not much to be done about it. I could go back a bit in time for sure, but my nuclear device de-activation skills were absolutely nil. I pulled Howard's forty-cal Glock with the cyanide bullets and hurried forward to the raft.

I needn't have worried.

The female sitting in the raft wasn't Moradi, and she wasn't alive either. I could see down into the raft from my perch on the sea wall. The body between the motor and the side-wall was stuck, and wasn't about to move. She had been manning the motor and tiller until the last moment of her life. Several bullets from a .357 magnum had ended her life, and the slit throat hadn't done her any good either. The Ice-Queen was dead. As she had lived—by the sword; almost literally.

Again, lifeless eyes stared at me.

Her usefulness to Moradi was over. So, he had simply disposed of her. Remembering the ravaged homeless guy's body hanging from a meat-hook in a Detroit warehouse, it was difficult for me to screw up much sympathy for her.

What worried me a hell of a lot more was the fact that Moradi hadn't bothered to take his revolver or knife with him. I could see both plainly as the Queen's blood washed over them as the raft tossed in the gentle surf. She had lost a lot of it. Looked like about an inch in the bottom of the boat.

Apparently Moradi didn't feel a need for his usual armament. I guess he was right. After all, he now had a nuclear bomb. He hadn't left that behind. _That_ he had taken with him. Now I needed to find out where he was—fast.

I retraced my steps back along the sea-wall and started up a gentle slope toward the huge containment building. It was a long building, but I figured him to want to place the bomb right about in the middle.

I was right.

I could see his figure slowly making his way along the base of the building, bent over slightly from the weight of his suitcase.

I worked through some nearby trees, hoping to get close before he spotted me. He stopped precisely in the middle.

I wormed my way a little closer, moving up a slight slope. I was within a dozen steps when he spoke. Far from thinking him clairvoyant, I could clearly see my reflection in the shiny side of the large suitcase he was working into place against the wall. Moradi, and the suitcase were on a fairly narrow ledge at the base of the wall of the containment building. I was slightly above him now. A shallow marshy area about ten feet wide separated us.

"You took a little longer getting here than I would have thought," he said.

"I'm not as young as I used to be," I replied.

"You're as old right now as you will ever be, Mr. O'Brien."

"Seems like a good night to die," I quipped.

"Seems that way to me too, Mr. O'Brien. Glad you agree."

Now I knew why he had abandoned his precious weapons. "Such a long way to come, Moradi—only to die with your own bomb."

"It _has_ been a long way," he said. "Since I was a small child."

"One that enjoyed pulling wings off flies?"

"No, I was never like that. I was always quite kind to animals, Mr. O'Brien. It was humans I detested."

"Why?"

"Not necessary for you to know," he replied. He turned to face me. Black eyes burned from the sockets in his head. I could see his left hand, handcuffed to the carry handle of the suitcase—he and death finally forming an eternal partnership.

"You killed your partner in crime."

"She was going soft in her old age, O'Brien. Next thing you know she would have been contributing to the widows and orphans fund—and baking cookies for the Church."

"She helped create enough of those widows and orphans, she should have," I observed.

Moradi laughed. It wasn't a good sound. "Agreed, O'Brien. But I couldn't have that. It would have been," He pause, searching for the right word. "Unseemly," he finished.

"And dangerous," I added, "if she had turned."

"Exactly! Couldn't have allowed a soft heart to upset the old apple cart this late in the game," Moradi said.

"You're not a real good man to be partners with, Moradi."

He laughed again. "Precisely," giving a tiny bow as he said it. "Speaking of partners, where is your precious Mr. McCabe and Mr. Wahl, O'Brien? I fancied they would be with you tonight—here at the end of all things."

"McCabe's busy. Wahl's dead, Moradi. Your men did manage to at least accomplish that."

"And, did they accomplish anything more?"

"Yeah. They managed to kill a young woman and her unborn child too. Thanks to her, Wahl, and a kindly old man though, not a single congressman was hurt."

"It was a poor trade then," said Moradi.

"I agree. The woman was a personal friend of mine."

"Did she have a name?"

"She did, Moradi. McCabe. Linh McCabe."

"That's her married name," Moradi said. "I meant her _real_ name."

"Zhou."

"I am glad that Wahl is dead. He vexed me for a long time."

"And Zhou?"

"I'm glad that the slope bitch is dead too, O'Brien. Her and her wretched little slope fetus."

I raised the pistol and pointed it at his head. "My godson."

He grinned. "All the better. So shoot, Mr. O'Brien. By all means, shoot."

"I wouldn't have taken you for a martyr, Moradi."

"Hardly. But at this point it doesn't matter anymore. Cancer, it seems, is no respecter of gods—or demons."

"What kind of cancer?"

"Not the nice kind, O'Brien. I smoked American cigarettes for years. Another good reason to hate you candy-assed bastards."

It was my turn to grin. "A lunger then, going out in a blaze of glory," I said. Hate flashed in his eyes.

"And a glorious one it will be, O'Brien. You, me, the foolish President, the United States, and eventually, all the rest of the world, dominos falling one-by-one. I may die—but the world dies with me."

"The world's survived a few like you."

"The world's never seen one like me."

"The President set things up for you."

"Indeed he did. His plan was fairly small at the time. A simple gambit to remain in power a little longer. But when your Howard Carter and Harold Wiggins called him and spilled the beans about the watch, the President upped the game by quite a few notches and brought in the master."

"You?"

"Me. The President is, as you Americans always say—small potatoes. A crook, a terrorist in his own right, and a—what is it you people say?—a grifter."

"But you are more, right?"

"I, am the greatest criminal mastermind of all time."

"Humble. And to think that at first I mistook you for an Islamic jihadist."

"Hardly."

I have to admit though, Moradi, you've upped the ante quite a bit over your regular plain old suicide bomber strapped with simple dynamite."

"You think small, O'Brien. That's why it was so easy to lure you."

"Why? It wasn't for the watch."

"No. The President wanted that. I couldn't have cared less."

"Why me then?"

"The challenge, O'Brien. And the pleasure. The pleasure of seeing a legend fall. I had an embalming table in Detroit all set-up for you. It was a real shame that I couldn't locate you. We could have visited together and chatted pleasantly for hours—until you ran out of blood that is."

"Your idea to involve the Russians?"

"Yes it was. I had a lot of friends in their spy network. They did the job of keeping tabs on you for me and freed me up to attend to more important matters. I convinced the President that they and he had the same basic agenda. The Russians wanted the United States. The President didn't give a shit about it. A perfect match—made in heaven."

"Or hell," I said.

"Depends on your point of view, O'Brien."

"They're waiting for the Cliffs to go up."

"Real-life Mongol hordes at the gate."

"No detonation, they go home empty-handed, right."

"That's right, O'Brien. Like thieves in the night—but no worries there."

"You think I can't stop you now, don't you, Moradi?"

"Matter of fact, I don't think you can."

"What about my watch?"

"If you had it, you would have used it by now."

Well, he had me on that one. "How 'bout I just wade over there and take that damned suitcase away from you? Doubt a dried-up and cancer ridden little lunger like you could stop me."

"Doubt I could either, O'Brien. That's why I took a few extra precautions. This bomb is set to go off in just about five minutes, give or take a minute or two. There is nothing you can do to stop it, even if you had the expertise—which I'm pretty sure you do not. The code changes several dozen times per second. Not even your damned watch is that fast. No matter how quickly you moved back in time, you could never catch the newest code. The last code, the one that will detonate the bomb, will be delivered by satellite. And not even Johnny O'Brien can fly— _that_ high."

"Did you arrange for the McCabes to be all together in Arizona?'

"To a certain extent. Joshua McCabe was crazy enough in his own right. He needed very little encourage from me to go totally off the deep-end, as you Americans like to say. He had a score to settle with his dear old grampa. Far be it from me to not help a man along on his quest."

"You've got an extra little trick up your sleeve, don't you, Moradi?"

He laughed his dry-rattle laugh again, ending it with a slight cough. "Of course. My left hand is depressing a pressure switch in the handle of this suitcase, Mr. O'Brien. All I have to do to blow it immediately is relax my grip. So, to make a long story short, O'Brien—you either die in five minutes or so—or in the next split-second. You could never reach me in time to stop me. You could shoot me dead—it stills goes off. You take it away from me—it still goes off. I believe that is called checkmate, Mr. O'Brien—is it not?"

He was starting to really piss me off. "Ever wonder why you couldn't find me in Detroit?"

Moradi looked bored. "Now you will wow me with the fact that you never left the city—isn't that correct Mr. O'Brien? You time-traveled to a distant past or future and hung out in just about the same spot, invisible to my eyes—correct?"

"Correct."

"I'm not that impressed."

"You might be, Moradi, if you knew where I was, and when I was. And _who_ I was with."

"Illuminate me."

"1940."

"So what?"

"So, I met an old prize-fighter by the name of McCoy."

"And this is important to me how?"

"He taught me a few things."

"I wasn't intending to fist-fight you."

"And neither was I. McCoy taught me what a man is. He taught me that a man makes sacrifices—for the people, and for the _things_ he loves."

For the first time, I could see a shadow of doubt cross Moradi's face. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about a guy that made a big mistake—I'm talking about _you_ , Moradi."

"I don't make mistakes. I lured you here. I _intended_ for you to be here, in this place, at this moment—for you and I to be blown to dust together."

"Oh, I'm not talking about that."

"What then?"

"I'm talking about the day you blew up the hotel."

"That was simply meant to strike fear into your heart—and kill a few more Americans, as a bonus. The fact that you fell for it and were almost killed yourself, surprised me a little, to tell you the truth."

"It did a lot more than _almost_ kill me, Moradi."

"What did it do?"

"It _did_ kill me."

He looked at me like I was a lunatic. His mouth was smiling.

His eyes weren't.

"What are you saying, O'Brien?"

"I'm saying you made me immortal."

"You look pretty human to me, O'Brien, standing there shivering in the cold and dripping swamp water—and plenty alive."

"Looks can be deceiving, Moradi," I said as I transferred Howards pistol to my left hand.

"Looks to me like you're getting ready to make your move."

"I am. I'm just about tired of hearing your mouth, and I'm just about ready to close it."

"I'm faster than you, O'Brien."

"You are not."

"We all die then."

"No, Moradi. Not all. Just you— _and_ me. I can't stop you from blowing that bomb—but I can sure as hell stop you from doing it _here_."

I watched his eyes and knew the moment had come. I could sense his grip on the pressure switch relaxing. I said a silent prayer and moved. I backed up a single second in time and crossed the short distance between us. I was up in his face with my hand closing over his before he even knew that I had moved. I don't like to brag, but it was a thing of beauty. The Kid would have been proud.

I was about to win the biggest, and last fight of my life.

Moradi was taken completely by surprise. He tried to relax his grip, but it was hopeless. He was a smaller man than me, and cancer ridden. It was no contest. We looked into each other's eyes from mere inches away, and in his eyes I could see his defeat. I thought quickly where I wanted to go—and as always, in just a twinkling, I was there. Just me, Moradi, and his cursed bomb.

In the Wastelands.

Unlike my previous trip to the same place with Scarface Al Capone, this time I couldn't quite keep my feet under me. Moradi and I both fell and rolled. He struggled with me as hard as he could. He tried with all his might to relax his grip and tear his hand away. I squeezed his hand onto the pressure trigger with all my might. The bomb was going to kill me, but it sure as hell wasn't going to kill him.

I was going to do that one all by myself—the last act of my life.

We stopped rolling. I ended up on top. Appropriate. Moradi was about to get screwed by one of his ugly Americans. Moradi's right hand was locked on my left arm. Despite that, I was able to twist and turn Howard's Glock toward his body. I looked into the eyes of Satan. I could feel and smell the rancid breath that roiled out of his mouth. I could see the panic and fear on his face. I was glad that I had been the one to put them there. I pushed the barrel of the pistol up and into his diaphragm as hard as I could. I angled it toward his head. I felt him squirm with pain. Adrenalin filled, I pushed even harder as I listened to the pleasant sound of his ribs and sternum breaking.

He howled with agony—music to my ears.

I paused for a full five seconds just to let him absorb the fact that he was about to die, and then I calmly said; "This is for Linh, Matt, and Albert McCabe—you son-of-a-bitching, cockeyed son, of a mother-loving whore."

And then I pulled the trigger. Sixteen times. All of them. Sixteen cyanide tipped and hollow-pointed bullets coursed through his body, literally chopping it into pieces. One tore off the top of his head. It was a really good look for him. Granted, it was a lot of overkill, and a total waste of good ammo, but given the circumstances, I was more than okay with it. Finally, the gun was empty. The echoes ceased. It was silent. Just me, the bomb, and Moradi's soulless corpse—under a dark and lurid red sky.

The rather shocked expression on his face indicated to me that perhaps he was more than a little surprised by what had just greeted him on the other side.

The slide was locked back. I tossed the pistol aside. Moradi's dead eyes still looked up at me. That teed me off. I picked up a rock with my left hand and turned his face into a bloody pile of hamburger. Took me a good minute to get it just the way I wanted it.

"That's from me," I said simply.

I broke the handcuffs with the same bloody rock.

Finally, I was done. I carefully pried his hand away from the pressure switch, keeping it depressed as I did so. I frantically looked around for something to jam into it, or wrap around the handle to keep it depressed. Of course, here in the wastelands, there was nothing. Just me, the suitcase, and the biggest stinking pile of human garbage I had ever seen.

The bomb was about to go off anyway, so I stood up—a little shaky. I looked into the blood-red sky. Fitting. One last look around at the world. Or what was left of it. What it would become. I didn't know what had happened, or even when. I did know though, that whatever it had been, it hadn't been Moradi that had done it. Some other perverted lunatic perhaps, but not him. I had stopped that. I had stopped him. It gave me a little warm glow inside, here at the end of my life.

Just a little sense of personal satisfaction.

I sucked in my breath. I stiffened my upper lip. I said a short prayer. I stood up as straight and tall as I possibly could. I tried to think of Jan, the woman I had loved more than life itself. Funny thing though. I couldn't bring her face, and what had been, up before my mind's eye. What I saw instead was my Maggie, and what _might_ have been.

"Goodbye, Maggie," I said. "Goodbye, my love."

Then I relaxed my hand and dropped the suitcase.

My world turned bright burning white.

And then black.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Going home, going home

I'm just going home

Quiet light, some still day

I'm just going home

There's no break, There's no end

Just a living on

Wide awake, with a smile

Going on and on

Going home, going home

I'm just going home

It's not far, just close by

Through an open door

I am going home

I'm just going home . . .

Going Home

Annie Haslam

Quiet. And darkness. Not quiet, as much as an absence of sound. Not dark, as much as an absence of light. I floated—and, for the lack of a better word— _rotated_ , in the void. Just myself, and my thoughts. And yet I did not know how I had thoughts. I had no body, no brain, no eyes or ears. And yet I could hear, and see—with my spirit. I waited for a brilliant light. I waited for a tunnel, or my stairway into heaven. Or even a descent into hell. I waited for the voice or welcome of those dear souls of my life that had gone before. Or perhaps the unwelcomed embrace of beings of the underworld.

But there was absolutely nothing.

Just me. Slowly rotating in blackest space. But then again, not even space. Space is a thing. Here there was nothing. No thing.

Only, again for lack of a better word—void.

I had no fear. No hunger or thirst.

Just my thoughts—and my life memories. I went over and over them in my mind, or more precisely, in my spirit.

Minutes turned into hours, hours into days. Days and weeks and months into decades. Centuries. Eons. And still I rotated in the void—thinking. Remembering. The good. The bad.

Everything. Every single little tiny thing. Every breath of my life. Every word. Every pain. Every sorrow. Every joy. Every comment. I saw the faces of those I had uplifted. Of those I had helped up. Of those I had hurt.

And those I had disappointed and let down. Lots of those. Almost an endless succession.

And at the end—my own.

I thought that this was my personal hell. My own personal punishment. To float forever in the black and the void, remembering.

And then I was back.

And I was on the floor. I could feel the solid surface under me. At least my clothes were completely dry. I guess after a half a million years or so, they should have been.

I looked up, and into the face of an angel. The face of the woman I loved.

Maggie peered down at me through the metal slats of a hospital bed. She spoke. When she did, I knew I was _really_ home.

"You don't look so good," she said.

"You're one to talk," I replied. "At least I'm not the person in a hospital bed."

"From the way you look, you should be," she responded.

Having just returned from one eternity, I was ready for another—with this good lady.

I smiled. She smiled back.

"Did you kill him?" she asked.

"Yeah. I killed him."

"You get hurt?"

"Not where it shows."

"The bomb?"

"Exploded—somewhere. Some _when_. Not here."

"Thank you, Johnny."

"Welcome, Maggie. How bad did they get you?"

"I lost half a rib on my right side, and about a quarter pound of flesh the hard way. All said, I'd rather have just gone on a diet. Gonna have a nice scar for you to have to look at, Johnny."

"It'll just make you even sexier," I grinned.

I slowly got to my feet and kissed her gently on the lips.

"The others?"

"Howard's out of surgery. Shattered knee, but he's already bitching about not being able to get out of bed to pee. He'll be okay, Johnny—but it's going to take some time. Officer Weeks was hurt worse. He's out of surgery too, but he's in critical. Maybe a day or two before the jury is in on him. Touch and go until then. He'll probably never be a cop again."

"If he lives, Maggie, he'll never need to be. He'll have a job with me until the end of time. That's if he wants one, of course."

"Thanks, love. I think that'll make a big difference for him. Sweet kid."

I nodded my head in agreement. "How long was I away anyhow?"

"Maybe twelve, fourteen hours, Johnny. Don't you know for sure?"

"Seemed a little longer for me, Maggie," I hedged.

"How'd you get back?"

Tears welled in my eyes. I didn't try to cover them. "I came back to the last thing I thought of before the bomb went off."

"What was that, Johnny?"

"You," I replied.

Now her eyes filled with tears too. For once, I was happy that I was the cause.

It was time to ask the big question. I dreaded the answer. I steeled myself.

"Little Albert—could they save him?"

Maggie smiled a little. It gave me hope.

"Why don't you take a short trip, Johnny. One floor down. Room 311. Meet your godson."

I let out the breath I had been holding. "Thanks, Maggie. I'll see you in a few."

"Take your time, big-guy. I'm not going anywhere."

I walked to the door and paused. "I love you, half-rib."

"I love you too, singe-face," she replied. I touched my cheek with a finger. She was right. I had picked up a bit of a sunburn some darned place.

I made my way to the end of the hall and started down the stairway. It seemed to go on and on, and I wobbled a bit as I exited the stairwell and made my way toward room 311, slightly sick to my stomach. Halfway there, I could see Matt walking around outside in the hallway.

He had a small bundle in his arms.

He saw me coming and a slow smile crossed his face. "You look like hell," he said.

"Shut up and let me hold my godson," I said.

Matt passed him over. He was a beautiful kid, combining the good looks of both of his parents. He smiled up at me. It was a good start.

"I'm sorry, Matt."

"Sorry for what, Johnny—saving the world?"

"For getting Linh killed. I loved that girl like she was my own flesh and blood."

"I know you did, Johnny. She loved you too. What would you have to say to her, Johnny? If she were standing right here next to you."

I choked up slightly and my voice cracked a little. "I'd tell her what I wished I had told her while she was still alive. I'd tell her that she was the finest human being that I ever knew in my life. I'd tell her how sorry I am that's she's gone, and I'd tell her that I'll miss her for all the rest of my days on this earth. That's what I'd tell her."

Matt grinned wider. A woman's voice spoke behind me.

"Thanks, Johnny—I'm gonna remember you said that."

I spun around, nearly dropping little Albert as I did so. Linh stood before me, grinning, dressed rather fetchingly in a floppy hospital gown, and pulling an IV line on a rolling stand along with her.

Matt quickly grabbed the kid. "Better let me take over again, Johnny."

I enveloped Linh in my arms. I hugged her. Very long, but not very hard. Finally, I turned her loose and took a step back.

"How is it possible?" I asked.

"A lady saved my life," she said. "A sweet little middle-aged lady security guard out at the airport by the name of Katy, that loaned her bullet-proof vest to Howard for me to use."

"I knew about that," I said. "But it wasn't enough. It was just a little light-weight vest, rated for maybe four or five common non-magnum handgun rounds. It would never have stopped those high-powered rifle loads. I saw them hit you. I _saw_ you go down, Linh. I knew you were dead when you hit the ground."

"It was close, Johnny. Those three rifle rounds in the chest knocked me out good, and caused little Albert's early birth. But they didn't go through the vest. It saved our lives."

"How?"

"Mithril, Johnny—or at least Katy's version of it. She never really did trust her little vest to save her life if it came to it, and she didn't want to wear a heavier one, so she simply sewed another couple of panels of Kevlar onto the back. Right over the heart area—just in case."

"And that was enough?" I asked wonderingly.

"No, it still wouldn't have been enough," Linh said. "But Moradi's men wanted to do more than just kill a few American lawmakers. They wanted to make a big bloody statement. They wanted to make a real mess. They were shooting hollow-pointed rifle ammo. That's why Howard's leg was shattered so badly, and why Weeks is in such bad shape from his chest wounds."

"Anyway, the tips of the bullets began to deform when they hit the first layer of Kevlar; just enough to tip them. And that was enough to stop them when they plowed into the panels sewed into the back of the vest. They came in sideways. Plenty enough remaining energy to knock me flat on my butt, but not enough to exit the back of the vest. Katy saved my life."

"A miracle," I said.

"Any way you slice it," she agreed. She held out her hand, palm open. She was holding the three flattened rifle rounds.

"I'd like to show you the bruises these things left, Johnny. But I can't. I'm a married woman now you know," she whispered.

I smiled and hugged her again. And again, I hugged her long. My stomach tightened suddenly, and again I felt an odd sensation of sickness—deep in the pit of my stomach. I winced.

"You look like hell, Johnny. You okay?" she said.

"No, not so much," I answered. "Would you mind if I borrowed your husband for a few minutes, Linh?"

"Not at all, Johnny. I'm not supposed to be out of bed anyhow."

"Thanks, Linh."

Matt took my cue and walked a short distance down the hall with me. We found a dark and quiet corner near the waiting room and faced each other.

"Where's Shahida?"

"At the bureau. Tying up loose ends. She said she was probably the only junior agent in bureau history to put out an APB on a sitting president."

"I don't doubt it. I wish she was here."

"Why?"

"To watch things _here_."

"I can watch things here. Faris, Watkins and Wiggins are trying to round up bad guys."

"You're lying to me, watchmaker."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. I kind of have a special insight into things like that these days. You're planning a little trip, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe, hell. I remember what you were doing when you decided to rejoin our little group in Detroit. Now you're going back to finish it, aren't you?"

"Yeah, Johnny. I left my father, grandfather, and a half-crazy grandson back on that mountain. It's time I went back and finished the thing we were all up there for."

"And you're going alone." I said it as a statement of fact.

"Yeah, Johnny. I'll be going alone. I'm ending what happened up there, so long ago. I'm ending it tonight—one way or the other. I've got a wife and a new son. I don't especially want to see my boy and the woman I love grow older than I am—again. I had enough of that the first time around. I'll end this curse, and grow old together with Linh, or I'll leave her a widow."

"And your son fatherless?"

"Yes, if need be. I won't go through it all again, Johnny. I won't."

"I'm going with you, Matt."

"Why?"

"You have to ask?"

"Yeah."

"Because I'm your friend—that's why."

"Then be a friend and stay and watch over my family—tonight, tomorrow, and in the years to come if need be."

"I'm going to be with you to bring you back to your family."

"Dead or alive?"

"Yeah, watchmaker, exactly—dead or alive. Or anywhere in between."

He hesitated a few seconds, rolling it around in his head. "Okay. All right. I guess that's what friends are for."

"We need to go tonight, Matt. We need to go now."

"Why?

"Because—well, let's just say—I've got some issues going on."

"What kind of issues, Johnny?"

"I'm sick. Maybe real sick. Like maybe I don't have a lot of time."

"You dying, Johnny?"

"Maybe. Don't know for sure, Matt. And that's the plain truth."

"What happened?"

"I killed Moradi, and I killed him _hard_. But his bomb went off—a long way away from here. I was up close and personal with it for a micro-second or so though when it did. Long enough to give me a little case of sunburn as you can see, and long enough I think, to give me some radiation poisoning as well."

Matt's eyes bore into my own. "We need to get you checked into the hospital, Johnny."

"Yeah, but not tonight. You can check me in tomorrow. Assuming either one of us is still alive, that is."

"Yes. Assuming, that."

"We can't run off either and just suppose that we can get back before they wake up. We may not come back at all. We need to tell them that it's not quite over yet. We need to make them understand there's a final chapter."

"I'll talk to mine, Johnny. You go talk to yours."

"Meet you at the front door in fifteen minutes, Matt?"

"Yeah, Johnny. That'll do. It's time, isn't it? You said we would get to this point, back when we formed our partnership. The day when all things would be made right. And here we are."

"Yes, Matt. Here we are. Same as always. I look out for you, and you look out for me. It's what friends are for."

He nodded in agreement. "See you in fifteen," he said.

"See you in fifteen," I repeated.

We parted company. He walked down the hall toward Linh's room. I headed back up the stairs. They seemed to wave a bit and move under my feet. My stomach heaved again. I knew I should be in the hospital. Didn't really know if they could do anything for me or not, but I knew I wasn't going to find out this night. This night I was going with my friend. Back to the place of his death. Back to where it had all begun.

Back to the mine.

This night I was going to bring him back home, one way or another. A free man. A man liberated of an age-old curse. A free man—or a dead one. One would come back with me.

We met back at the front door in fifteen.

And then we stepped outside together—into the night.

Southern Arizona

Present Day

We smelled the body even before we saw the circling vultures.

The road to the old Carson Mine, or more precisely, what was left of it, ran for about a mile and a half, winding its lazy way along the side of McCafferty Canyon. It was weed, mesquite, and cactus choked. Not to mention lots of loose rocks—ankle breakers every one. Matt told me that it wasn't a whole lot better back on August 8th, 1952—the date of the time-travel accident that would cause so much tragedy in his life. The Carson Mine was ancient even then, dating back to the late eighteen eighties gold rush days. It was named not for the famous western hero, but for a much lesser known local Tucson business mogul; Victor Carson.

A gentle breeze blew in our direction. On it was carried the unmistakable scent of rotting human carrion. The giant birds had picked it up as well, as their lazy circles in the sky grew lower and lower. The odor was coming from a place not far from the recent campsite of the four McCabes.

We made our way there now.

A dead man lay sprawled over the recently dug grave of another. The murder weapon, a shovel, lay to one side. Even though the body was beginning to blacken and bloat, Matt was easily able to identify the man as his now very late grandfather, Aedan McCabe. We couldn't know for sure, but it seemed likely that the grave was for his son Roan.

Their long lives, and time-travel days, were at last over.

Joshua McCabe was nowhere to be seen. It wasn't hard to imagine him as the perpetrator.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I should have guessed," Matt said. "The mental illness in him was never as easy to see as it was in his sister. But it was there. I just refused to admit it."

"Where do you think he is?"

"Who knows?" he said sadly. "What I do know is that he won't be gone for long. He'll be back."

"What now, Matt?"

"How you holding up, Johnny?"

"Been better, Matt. But I'll be okay." In truth, I felt like I was about to vomit up the breakfast I hadn't even eaten. My body was beginning to sweat in the morning sun, although I was chilled to the bone.

"I'd like to keep going, Johnny. I'd like to end it this morning. I'm glad the watch is gone. Promise me you'll never get it back. It drove these two men mad. Both of them, and myself as well, meddled in things they shouldn't have. You're looking at the wages of their sin. Hell, Johnny— _I'm_ the wages of their sin—and my own."

"Let's end it then, Matt. Let's drive a stake right through the middle of its heart."

"The mine is about a mile or so. Can you make it that far?"

"Yes. I can make it."

We started up the road. It was still fairly cool, but it was plain to see that the morning would heat up fast, just as it had all those years ago. We walked on in silence. For some reason, it didn't much seem like a time for small-talk. I could see the bleak entrance in the distance, just above a rock cliff.

At last we were there. The mine looked ominous enough at a distance. Up close, it was nothing less than foreboding. The entrance formed a mouth—with teeth. Above that, two smaller and shallow glory-holes formed eyes. Not friendly ones either. This place looked like a Halloween jack-o-lantern. Made of stone. My stomach lurched again as I thought of my friends bones slowly rotting away for years in that airless ossuary. There was a flat area on the outside, maybe half an acre in size. Barbed wire tried unsuccessfully to block the way in.

Matt asked me if I wanted to see the inside. He sounded like a tour-guide. I would have loved nothing more than to say no, but I knew we had to check the interior for Joshua. I drew my little Smith. For the first time, I noticed that it was empty, and had been since the tunnel. I had a couple of speed-loaders along with me and used one to recharge the little revolver as we entered the shaft. Matt still had his forty-five, but didn't pull it. Looking back, I realize now that perhaps he was already beginning to see his fate, and just didn't care.

Once inside, the temperature dropped sharply, as did the light-level. There was an additional hole in the roof of the shaft that provided minimal illumination, and our eyes quickly adjusted. I could make out the small room to the left, just where Matt had depicted it in his stories of that day. The door was long gone and a quick glance proved that it was unoccupied. Ahead, and to the right, the shaft opened up a bit, forming another slightly larger room. There, in the middle, was the vertical shaft that had once become a small mass grave. Someone had tried to cover it with plywood, but it had been recently kicked aside. I could easily make out the fresh scuffs in the wood. Somehow I didn't relish the idea of checking out the interior very much, but I forced myself close enough to peer over the side.

It was empty.

I turned to look at Matt. A slight rueful smile played on his lips as he slowly pulled off his shirt, exposing his bare torso. He wrapped the arms around his waist. My eyes were pulled immediately to his upper chest and shoulder area and its mass of scar tissue, courtesy of Kylie Blakely's butchers knife. I hadn't seen it before. The woman had done quite a job.

He was re-creating that horrible day in 1952, almost to the letter. One little difference though. This time he re-tucked his pistol _outside_ of the knotted arms of the shirt. Matt was ready for action.

And the time had come.

He held out his hand.

I took it.

And once again, it was August the eighth—nineteen hundred and fifty-two.

And there were voices outside.

I looked around. A door had magically appeared on the entrance to the old arms room. The padlock lay on the floor. The plywood over the hole disappeared. The temperature dropped a few more degrees. I was back at the beginning—with my friend. A friend with which I had stopped a serial killer and a madman, faced Jack the Ripper in a narrow passageway of Hell, and much more recently—saved the world.

But now, this time, I could do nothing.

He looked at me. He didn't have to ask the question that was on his mind.

I nodded. "I know the rules," I said.

He placed his hand gently on my shoulder. "See you in a few," he said.

"See you in a few," I repeated. Matt turned then and walked out into the sunlight. I stood stupidly, listening to the muted sound of voices outside the mine—one was Matt's. Others I did not know. I knew what was happening. I Had heard the story many times before. This time I simply waited for the outcome. I waited for the jury to come in. I waited to find out if my friend lived or died.

The shooting started—a lot of it. Full automatic fire, spaced with short bursts of pistol rounds. Each one wounded my heart. Yet I remained frozen where I was, unmoving—waiting.

Finally, it was over. I could smell gunpowder as it drifted into the mine. There was nothing—no sound. Not a voice. Nothing. Stone, cold silence. I waited, hardly taking a breath. Finally, after the space of perhaps a minute, I heard footsteps approaching.

Matt McCabe appeared before me. Alive. Whole. And unharmed.

He tossed his empty pistol on the floor or the mine. His eyes met mine, unspeaking. And then he simply said, "They're dead, Johnny. All three. The third man was just behind me, about twenty feet away. I got them all."

"What about the watch?" I asked. I could plainly see it in his left hand. It, just like Matt, was uninjured. Matt tossed it on the floor too. Right next to the pistol. Then he kicked both into the hole in the floor.

"Let's go home, Johnny,"

"Let's go home, Matt," I agreed. "I think I'm just about ready for that hospital now."

Again Matt placed his hand on my shoulder, and we returned. We were back in the present. I glanced in the hole again. No sign of either a watch or a gun. But then, over the years a lot of debris had been tossed in, no doubt burying both. It was a good place for them.

We walked outside.

"What about Cindy Matthews?" I asked. "What about Lucas McCabe?"

"I honestly don't know," Matt replied. "I don't know how that all worked out. I can't even guess. I know Cindy's dead now. I know I attended her funeral. All the rest? Well, Johnny, that I'm leaving in the hands of God. Now—right here today, in this place and time, I'm going home to my wife and child. Linh and Matthew Albert McCabe."

Wordlessly, I shook my head yes. We both walked out to the edge of the cliff. It was going to be a beautiful day. It was good to breath fresh air. I could see light traffic on the Arivaca road heading into town a few miles away. I looked at the face of my friend. For a long, long time he had been torn between two worlds, and between two times. Not any longer. He was finally a free man. Free of the past, free of his curse. No longer a time-travel freak. Just a normal man.

Heading into the future.

And then it happened. Way too fast for me to be able to stop.

Joshua McCabe had been hiding in the bushes, just outside the mine. Now, enraged that his grandfather had survived the shootout, he charged. Matt didn't see him in time either, as Joshua screamed the word "bastard" and crashed into him, both men sailing over the edge of the cliff, tumbling soundlessly in the air. I reached out reflectively to try to grab them—much too late.

I heard them hit the rocks below, with a sickening thud, and then sliding noises. I tried to look over the side, but was unable to see anything. Hurriedly, I worked my way around the stone cliff and down to where I thought they would be. My stomach lurched hard with the exertion and my legs once again were trying to give out on me. My condition was worsening fast.

I found Joshua first. He was dead—his neck plainly broken. There was no pulse. Blank, lifeless eyes looked at me. Matt was just below him. At a glance I could see his fractured leg with a long piece of bone protruding from it. An arm was also grotesquely turned behind his back. I suspected a hip fracture as well, from the twisted aspect of his torso. Much worse than that was his grossly split head, just behind his hairline. He had landed on the rocks hard. Blood poured out as well from his nose and mouth.

I didn't know how it was possible, but I found a faint pulse when I checked his wrist. I knew I needed to get him help as quickly as I could if I were to have a chance of saving his life. I tried my cell phone, but there was no signal. I ripped my outer shirt off and wrapped it around his head to try to staunch the blood flow.

Unbelievably, he regained consciousness for a few moments and opened his eyes.

"Joshua. Where's Joshua?"

"He's dead, Matt. I'm sorry—he didn't survive the fall."

His voice was faint, and halting. 'Three of them, Johnny. Two grandchildren, and my son. Three times I have been there at their deaths."

"It's not your fault, Matt. You didn't do this. You didn't put them on the paths they took. You can't blame yourself for this."

"Tell that to God for me. Will you do that, Johnny? Please tell that to God for me." His voice faded out.

"You aren't meeting him today, Matt. I'm getting you out of here," I said. I placed my hand on his forearm. I tried to will us away with all my strength. I tried to transport us to safety. I willed us to be gone with all my heart, mind, and soul. And nothing happened.

Not one single thing.

Matt was going out again. "Matt—I can't get us out. It's not working for me anymore. It must be the radiation. You're going to have to do this, buddy. One more time."

"Not today, I'm afraid, my friend. Not this day. Please, Johnny, drag me away from the mine. Don't let me die at this hellish place—again."

At those words, he passed completely out.

No cell phone, and no ability to transport us, I looked around in disbelief. We were near the bottom of the cliff. There was a fairly steep slope of loose shale, and then a space of maybe two-hundred yards of cactus and weeds to get back to the mine road. I thought that I might be able to pick up a signal there, but there was no way I was going to leave my friend behind and go for help alone. His final words haunted me. We were either going to get out together, or he was going to die with me.

I would keep my word. I wouldn't leave him alone—at the mine.

I pulled his body down the rest of the slope. It was easier than I thought it would be. At the bottom, I bent down to pick him up and hoist him over my shoulder. My stomach heaved hard again, and a sharp pain radiated up my spine. The world darkened around me as my legs turned to mush, but somehow I wrestled his body over my shoulder. I ignored the grinding sound of the bones of his body, and the sloshing sound of his blood as it poured over my back.

I stumbled about half way to the road. I'd never be able to explain how I was able to make it that far by myself. But that was it though. I could go no farther. I sank to my knees and lowered his body to the stony ground as gently as I could. His face was as white as snow. The blood wasn't going there anymore. Again, I felt for a pulse and detected a still present heartbeat.

I told him how sorry I was. I said to him that I hoped it was far enough from the mine. I told him that here at the end, I wished I had been a better friend. I apologized that I was not going to be able to bring him home like I had said I would.

I told him I was sorry that I had failed him.

I told him that I loved him.

And I said goodbye.

And then I passed out too.

Then I lay still—dying in the desert—beside the best man I had ever known.

And at last the stars came out—and the cold comforting darkness enveloped us. There were voices in the dark, speaking softly—saying things I did not understand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The days after the mine passed quickly as they also dragged by—in a complete contradiction of terms. Days full of hope, and lots of love and laughter. Also, a fair amount of sorrow and sadness. A lot of blood had been spilled, and a lot of life lost in the pursuit of the madman Saal Moradi.

So much of it had been innocent.

I woke up in the hospital. Saint Mary's in Tucson, to be exact. A couple of days had passed. This time, no visits to the afterworld for me. The entire space of time was just a complete blank.

And no more visitors from the netherworld either. The voices that I had heard below the old Carson Mine had belonged to real enough people. Two men who, like us, were attracted to the sight of the vultures and the smell of death. Local retired gentlemen, they loved to spend their mornings panning for trace gold in the many dry washes of the area. When they had ventured into McCafferty Canyon that day, they had gotten a lot more "fun" than they had bargained for.

They had made a possible connection in their minds with the body they had discovered near the road, to the mine on the canyon wall above them. Once up there to check it out, they were fortunately able to spot Matt and I on the desert floor below. The fact that we had survived, was in the end, mostly just plain dumb luck, rather than our own so-called superpowers. That was often the case with Matt and me.

It was good though, that I had been able to carry Matt the short distance that I did. Without that, we would have never been visible. Apparently, we two had the old guardian angels working a lot of overtime—as usual.

I guess Matt and I couldn't really fault ourselves too much for finally running out of gas. It had, after all, been a rough couple of weeks.

They had found us in late morning. The darkness, and the cold that I had experienced, was only in my own mind. Part of my extremely ill body and brain beginning to shut down—according to the doctors. We had been air-lifted in to the hospital, none too fast for either of us, as they had explained.

Things were going well for me. It took them a while to figure out exactly what was going on with my body while I was out. Radiation poisoning, it turned out, was not all that common in southern Arizona. Finally, they were able to get the right mixture of drugs into me to begin to dissipate the poison. I was going to make it all right, but they warned me of the possibility of long-term bone-marrow damage. One specialist said that he thought it would probably come back to haunt me in my old age. Another said that I would probably die _of_ that old age long before that happened.

Doctors—what the heck do they really know anyhow?

The docs all asked me how it had happened. I simply replied that it was a _really_ long story.

I would carry a couple of keepsakes of the experience. One, my time-travel abilities were gone—and they looked likely to stay that way. Hard as I tried in the hospital, I couldn't move even a second in time. The other was that somewhere between Calvert Cliffs and the old Carson mine, what was left of my rapidly thinning hair had turned snow-white. Maggie, echoing me, said it just made me look even sexier. I was pretty sure that was not the total truth, but I loved her for the lie.

Maggie, Linh, and newborn little Albert joined us a few days after we were rescued. Maggie, to try to look after me, and Linh to care for her husband. I had gotten pretty lucky, considering some of the long odds I had been up against at the Cliffs.

Not so much with Matt McCabe. He had been hurt very badly.

All of the injuries that I had observed when I found him at the bottom of the cliff were in fact true. Plus a few more. Fortunately, his neck was all right, or my moving him might have finished killing him. Along with two fractured hips though, was also a rather badly broken back. It was in all likelihood, going to put him in a wheelchair they said. That was, _if_ he woke up from the coma he had slipped into.

They were wrong on all counts, as it turned out. But then of course, the doctors didn't know what a determined son-of-a-gun they were dealing with. Matt did come out of the coma after only about ten days. And he also came out of the rehab center they sent him to, about four months after that. And he came out on working legs, albeit piloting an old-guy walker.

The three of us made no end of fun about that to him. He didn't care, because he knew, as did we, that it was only temporary. He finally threw it away a couple of months later on. Matt would walk, and speak, a little haltingly for the rest of his life. But walk and talk he would. And, he and his lovely wife, would remain my dearest friends until my last day on earth.

Matt would continue on, aging from where he was, for the rest of his life. He always retained his most excellent good looks, but when he and Linh showed up months later for our double marriage vow renewal ring thingy ceremony with Maggie and me, I was happy to note just a sprinkling of gray hair mixed with the black on the top of his head.

Dashing.

The cow-lick, along with his own time-travel abilities, were gone forever.

My boy was growing up. He blamed the head injury for the fact that he couldn't "travel" anymore. Me, I thought it probably had a lot more to do with a higher power. One that had been watching over us both for a very long time. I had some proof of that fact. The two men that had found us said they had started out for another famous area mine, out on Ruby Road. But for some strange reason, they both said, they were at the last minute, attracted to the Carson diggings, a place they hadn't visited in months, and a place that had never been very productive for them.

The re-commitment ceremony was sweet. Back home in Bellevue, and out on Lake Washington. Behind my house on Mercer. On a fine cloudless summer day. All four of us lined up in a row—smiling idiotically. It made for some great pictures.

Maggie and I had been married as soon as I was released from the hospital, in a small private ceremony. We both decided that we had waited just about long enough to be with each other in the biblical sense. I still wobbled a little walking down the aisle, and Maggie was still hurting plenty from her wounded side, but we did just fine on our wedding night, albeit very carefully.

And it was well worth waiting for. Waking up for the first time with Maggie the next morning was just about the finest moment of joy I had ever experienced in my life.

We were able to join with the wheelchaired Harold Wiggins about a month later back in DC for a joint memorial service for both his gallant grandson Trey, as well as the equally brave and stalwart Brick Wahl. It was a pleasure to be there to honor these men, and another one to be asked to speak and tell the world what I thought of the two of them. Wish I could tell you I got through it without tears—but why lie.

Shahida Faris, recently promoted to special agent, was there too, along with Dallin Weeks. He had survived his wounds, but had lost quite a bit of one of his lungs. He was also still in a wheelchair the day of the memorial service, but indicated that he didn't intend to stay there for long. He was happy to accept my offer of employment with my detective agency. I convinced him that I was intending to expand it greatly on my return home, and would benefit from another skilled special investigator.

And as a bonus, that even turned out to be true.

Weeks was with his very pretty girl-friend. Her name was Colleen, and I could tell after just talking to her for a minute that she was a keeper. Dallin agreed, and they both informed me that by the time they joined me in Seattle, they would be husband and wife.

Howard Carter had returned home to recuperate from his leg wounds, and was finally making good on his old threat to retire. The city council of Bellevue was only too happy to comply with his request to appoint his suggested replacement. It sounded good too.

Bellevue, Washington Chief of Police, Linh McCabe.

I'll never forget the first meeting I had with him when I got home. He was in rehab learning how to walk on his brand-new stainless steel knee. He wanted to know just what had happened to his pistol. I told him I had accidently dropped it somewhere—just before the atomic bomb went off. I said that I had slightly more important things to worry about right at that particular moment. Old Howard didn't consider that to be much of an excuse though, and made me buy a brand-new replacement for him. I was happy to do so, and right while I was at it, got a second one for myself. Howard had been after me for a long time to upgrade my armament. After the Moradi affair, I had to confess he made a good point.

Besides, I had to admit it looked pretty darned good on me in a spanking new leather shoulder holster. My homburg was a total loss with the holes and bloodstains, and as I didn't want to admit to Sam McCabe and his girlfriend that I had accidentally destroyed their Christmas present, I simply bought another exact copy for a replacement.

They never knew the difference, and I intentionally left that part out of my many retellings of the story.

The President made it out of the country, but he wasn't about to be coming back. He _emailed_ , of all things, a resignation to the new United States President, Jonas John Watkins. America was in good hands again. And the old President? Well, those in the know, didn't really believe he was going to last all that long in the bug and malaria infested dark corner of South America that he had ran to. He was wanted for high treason, and had made a lot of well-placed enemies. It also seemed that Shahida Faris was able to file a criminal complaint with the US Justice Department against the man that had once been the most powerful person in the world—for the murder of her housekeeper. Probably wouldn't have held up in court—but the President didn't know that.

Poetic justice in action.

Like I always said; Karma—she can be one nasty lady.

I was also pleased to note that not a single solitary American-Muslim person, outside of the mercenaries hired by Moradi, had a thing to do with all that had transpired—radical or otherwise. They had simply been a fall-guy. Or more accurately, I guess—a fall-people.

The good lady at the Detroit Airport that had loaned her bullet-proof vest to Linh never did get it back. Linh decided to keep it as a souvenir of the occasion. She did send a brand-new replacement though. Along with a heartfelt thank you card. And a check for the old vest.

Large enough for the good lady to buy a new car.

And a new house.

And college educations for her two children.

And a month-long vacation for the entire family.

Like I said—Linh had some kind of class, and some kind of grace. One of a kind. And the only one that would ever exist. We had come pretty close to losing her. Her miraculous survival was enough to make me rethink myself on bullet-proof vests. You can only tempt guardian angels so much, and I thought mine must be getting pretty darned tired.

So, I bought myself one too.

I purchased the old Carson mine. It turned out that it had always been on private, not public land, and was owned and held as an investment by a Mesa real-estate developer. That fact made the deal easy. He told me he long considered the property to be pretty much a dog, and was only too happy to part with it for a more than fair price.

Before the ink was even dry on my new deed, I hired a construction company to go up there and blast the thing shut. The ugly face was now gone, and no human being would ever go inside of it again. The land would never be used again either, and I would hold the deed forever to make sure that was true. The history of that place of sorrow was closed for good, and the hellish pocket-watch buried and gone for all time.

Or was it?

I knew that I was going to have to make sure.

Roan McCabe was exhumed from his crude grave, and along with the bodies of Aedan and Joshua, air-shipped overseas to the McCabe family vault in Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin, Ireland. Aedan and Roan were back home where they belonged. And Joshua, we figured, in a place where he could rest comfortably. He had become a madman. But not all of that was completely his own fault. In the end, his remains were treated with the respect and dignity they deserved.

The long summer of recovery at last faded into Autumn and the first of the color was already showing in the trees out on Mercer Island. The time had finally come for me to make a couple of trips. The first was to the west coast—with Maggie. California to be exact. The warm, sunny, and very pleasant city of San Diego. To see a lady, as it were—about a girl.

A girl by the name of Jennifer Joyce Ames—the daughter of the woman Brick had accidentally killed years before in Deadwood, Colorado. It hadn't been too terribly hard for my newest crack investigator Dallin Weeks to come up with the name and address. I remembered that Brick had told me that he regularly sent money to the kid's aunt to help out with things. It was a tradition that Maggie and I intended to keep up.

We weren't nearly prepared for what we found when we finally got there.

We walked in on a funeral. That of the aunt. Turned out that she had been sick for quite some time, fighting cancer. I felt more than a just a little out of place and uncomfortable as I described who I was, and what my relationship had been with their late financial mentor, Brick Wahl.

Maggie, with her amazing and disarmingly wonderful women's ways, helped considerably in breaking the ice.

The girl, Jenny, as everyone called her, was everything and more that Brick had said she was. Bright, articulate, wise, poised beyond her years, and cute as a button to boot. Both Maggie and I fell in love with her instantly. Turned out she didn't have a lot of options facing her at the moment, with her dear aunt gone. She had been entertaining an offer from a relative in distant New York, to live with them for the next two years, until she reached the age of majority.

Jenny was a sixteen-year-old at the moment; legal, according to California law, to make decisions concerning her own future, on her own behalf. After only a couple of hours talking with Maggie and I, she decided to accept an employment offer on our part with Watchmaker Enterprises, my detective agency. She would be joining Emily Hatcher, as yet another under-worked, but very much over-compensated employee of the firm.

Hey, it was a tradition with me, the world's dumbest and most overly-generous boss of all time. Truth of the matter was, I loved the role, and played it to perfection. Part of Jenny's compensation package would include her own nearby apartment and transportation—just as soon as she learned to drive, that was.

For her part of the bargain, she was only required to finish her high-school education while she did part-time secretarial work for the company. If she wanted to go on to college after that, she would most certainly be encouraged to do so, fully paid for by the "firm," of course.

We were so happy that she accepted. Jenny would never be made to feel like a charge, or a burden. Although she would become as close to Maggie and I as a daughter, she would be supporting herself, and paying her own way in life—while at the same time, Maggie and I would be keeping a good close eye on her.

We both thought Brick would be happy with the arrangement.

I had my attorney draw up the necessary papers and contract. Jenny would be returning to Bellevue with Maggie.

Me, I had one more journey to make. I talked to Maggie about it, and she agreed.

This one, I had to do alone.

This one, was just between the watch—and myself.
EPILOGUE

The taxi came to a complete stop. I took a look around before I finally opened the door, anxious and yet not, to see and to do the thing I had come to this place for.

I paid the cabbie off and started walking up Virginia Park Street, and to the house there that I remembered so well. I had been a guest in it once—around three quarters of a century or so before.

Now I owned it. The keys jingled in my pocket. It had been empty and on the market for some time. The purchase had been a piece of cake.

Finally, the old Victorian came into view. Surprisingly, little had changed in all those years since the days of Kid McCoy, and the spectral and ghostly love of his life, Theresa Mors.

I was sad that I hadn't been able to find out what had happened to their daughter. It would haunt me, and I knew that someday I was going to have to do something about that.

The house, unlike so many in the once great and now fallen city of Detroit, had been well taken care of. Sadly, the Kid's hardwood floors were now carpeted, and the stylish wallpaper had turned to paint.

The color scheme wasn't all that great, but it was all fixable—and would provide a little employment to a local home improvement company. My small contribution to rebuilding the economy of the city.

The house itself would do the same. I intended to rent it out—dirt cheap—to the first young, deserving, and hard-working area family that I could locate. The local Salvation Army post was already helping with the search for just such a family. The fact that I intended to charge rent was not to benefit me, an already far too wealthy old guy. It was to benefit them. Always better to pay one's own way, and the money received would go straight back to the Salvation Army—to help many more.

But first, I had a job to do here this day.

I gingerly opened the door to the Kid's nursery—this time with little effort. Memories of that long-ago night, not all that terribly long ago, flooded my mind. It had been well cleaned and fixed up over the years.

It held no ghosts now—friendly or otherwise.

I made my way to the backyard, and to the stately oak tree that I knew would be there. I had already confirmed that fact from Google street view, at the time I decided to buy the property. It had grown considerably in all decades since the Kid, Brick and I had entombed Matt McCabe's magic pocket-watch into its interior.

In 1940, the oak had been a young tree. One that wasn't quite growing the way it was supposed to. The tree had developed a hollow—fairly unusual for a younger oak. Anyway, it was getting large enough, back in the year 1940, that left unintended, it was probably going to kill the tree. The Kid told us that day that he had been meaning to fill it with concrete. He said that generally saved the tree's life. Since we needed a safe place to stash the watch, the Kid had suggested that it go in the hole first.

So, that's just exactly what we did. It turned out to be a pretty good job. The old hollow had closed around the cement plug over the years. I could just now make out where it had been, an exposed bit of seventy-six-year-old concrete still visible. I had little doubt that the watch was still in there, just as it was also at the bottom of the old Carson mine—covered with thousands of tons of solid earth and stone.

Common sense would tell a person that a single object cannot exist in two places at the same time. But those who would say that did not know the pocket watch from hell. I had put it in this tree. Matt and I had buried it in a mountain. Where was it now? In one place, or the other? Or in both at the same time.

I intended to take no chances.

The tree removal service that I had hired arrived right on time. It was a big outfit, with a big job to do. It would take a large piece of equipment to do the job I requested—the complete removal of the old tree, and complete chipping of it, right here on the property, and right before my eyes. Even with the enormous rig, it was going to take several hours. It had cost me a fortune, but it was worth it.

The operator informed me that I need not be concerned about the old concrete in the trunk of the tree. He said that "Big Nellie," their chipping monster machine would happily digest it too, along with any old chains, nails, and/or screws that it might come across. They, and any other metal objects in the tree, would all come out in the end, tiny pieces—not one, larger than an eighth of an inch or so.

I made myself comfortable, sitting on the back porch with my feet up on the rail and quietly sipping soda as I observed the tree coming down. Again, as in days of yore—it was mighty pretty work. All the chips would be hauled away and dumped. Since it was bio-degradable matter, the operator explained, it was all going into the fast-flowing Detroit River.

I was a little sad about killing the grand old tree, but I consoled myself that it had died for a worthwhile cause. No one would ever possess the watch again. No one would ever use its powers—powers for both good _and_ evil.

You see, in the end I re-learned an age-old lesson.

It's not nice to fool mother nature.

And it's not good to play with time either.

By the time the afternoon began to fade to night, the oak was gone. It was time for me to be that way too. I packed up my few things, turned the key again in the front door, and headed back out to Woodward Avenue, there to catch an easy cab to the airport and my flight back to Bellevue. There were people waiting for me there.

People I loved. One of those was that infamous scalawag, Jack McGuire. I needed to get that guy back to work. Christmas was coming too, not far off. I had lights to string, and trees to decorate.

The house on Mercer Island would be empty, dark, and sullen no more. It would be airy and light, and full of love and laughter. It was no longer just a place to hang my hat.

It was home.

In the past months, I had changed a lot. Nothing was ever going to be as it had been before the wastelands with Moradi, but then nothing, or no one, ever really stays the same. I guessed it was going to be up to my family and friends to decide if those changes had been for the better or not. All I knew for sure was that the old Johnny O'Brien—well, that guy wasn't coming back.

The future lay unknown before me. And I was heading into it. And just like the old baseball player, Satchel Page, I wasn't about to be looking over my shoulder for things that might be gaining on me.

As I make my way up the street, I stopped and looked around once more for what would be my last time. First, I saw the street and the house the way it was at the moment. And then my mind drifted back to a cold rainy night in 1940, and the way it had been. And then the fifties, the sixties, and so forth—it constantly changing and the scene shifting before me. At first I thought it was just a trick of my mind. It wasn't. My body was going along for the ride.

My time-travel abilities were returning. And why shouldn't they?—it was never really much about the watch anyway. It was about my own mind. As the poison of the radiation slowly cleared from the tissue of my brain, the ability was slowly coming back.

Besides—I was still displaced.

Nothing was ever going to change that.

I wondered what to do with my re-found ability. I wondered who to tell. In the end, I decided to tell no one. I had absolutely no intention whatsoever to stop being an extremely annoying and crafty old white-haired private investigator. Such an "extra" little ability as was mine was sure to come in handy from time to time in that pursuit.

Besides—I had always thought that every man should have at least _one_ little secret that he kept all to himself. One _tiny_ little tidbit of information that was all his—and all his alone.

This was mine.

AFTERWORD

THE REAL KID McCOY

He fought often, and rarely lost. He married often too, and there he rarely won. He produced no children, either natural or step, and although he was a known cheater, he used the most conventional of means to do so. Time-travel was most certainly not among them. The Kid McCoy of The Reckoning is a product mostly of the writer's imagination, with some pieces of truth thrown in—just to keep the reader guessing.

Much like the real Kid did—all those long years ago.

He did kill his wife though. That was real enough.

The Kid McCoy of The Reckoning is just a very small part of what was one of the most intriguing and fascinating characters of the sports world of his day. His exploits deserve a book all of their own, but instead, this article by John Lardner (one of the best sportswriters of all time) will have to do. One thing about the Kid for sure. No one ever really knew him, and no one will ever know his real reasons for taking his own life at the grand old Tuller Hotel in Detroit in April of 1940.

My own guess is that finally, the Kid was worn out and tired of it all. And most of all, perhaps he was just tired with himself, and the larger than life persona that he had cultivated for most of his adult life. It must have been a tough act to keep up.

In the end, he quietly and alone returned to being a mortal man, and signed his death note simply . . . Norman Selby.

" _The Life and Loves of the Real McCoy"_

By John Lardner

Originally published in _True_ and reprinted with permission.

The hotel manager and the detective stood looking down at the man on the bed, who had killed himself during the night. "Norman Selby, it says on the note, and Selby was how he checked in," the manager said. "Wasn't that his right name?"

"It was his right name," the detective said. "But he was also McCoy. The real McCoy."

Kid McCoy lived by violence, by trickery, and by women. He fought 200 fights, and was beaten in only six of them. He married eight women—one of them three times—and shot another to death. For the murder, he paid a light price, lightly. There was vanity in him, and guile, and wit, and cruelty, and some larceny, and a great capacity for enjoying himself. Above all, there was self-satisfaction. At no time in his life—not when he was world's welterweight champion (with a strong claim to the middleweight title, as well), nor when he was a bankrupt, nor a jailbird, nor a Broadway favorite, nor a suspected jewel thief, nor a semi-professional adulterer, nor a mellow old pensioner, owing his job to a friend—at no time did he do or say anything that displeased himself. No one knows why, on an April night in 1940, he suddenly lost his contentment with Norman Selby, alias Charles (Kid) McCoy, and wiped it all out with one impatient gesture.

The Kid wasn't sick, or broke, when he checked in alone at Detroit's Tuller Hotel that night. He had work. He was 66 years old, but in good shape, still with a lot of gray but curly hair over his fair-skinned, boyish face, and still nearly as neat, trim, and supple of body as ever. Registering with the night clerk, he had left a call for 10 the next morning. It was when he failed to answer the call that the manager went up with a passkey, and found him dead. An overdose of sleeping pills had put him out, and away. There were two or three notes in the room. In one of them, he asked the paymaster at the Ford Motor Company, where he'd been working, to turn over such wages as were due him to his eighth and final wife. In the longest note, the Kid said, in part:

"To Whom It May Concern—for the last eight years, I have wanted to help humanity, especially the youngsters who do not know nature's laws. That is, the proper carriage of the body, the right way to eat, etc. . . . To all my dear friends, I wish you all the best of luck. Sorry I could not endure this world's madness. The best to all. (signed) Norman Selby. P.S. In my pocket you will find $17.75″

As to health laws—it was true that McCoy had invented, and tried to sell, a so-called health belt, or health suspender. As to "this world's madness"—most of the madness the Kid had known had been of his own arranging, and he had endured it well and gaily. As to helping humanity—the Kid had always helped himself. An old-timer, seeing the dead man lying there among his last words, would have reflected that never before had McCoy played so sweet, peaceful, and tender a part. The old-timer might have suspected a trick.

Once, in 1895, in Boston, a welterweight named Jack Wilkes was dismayed by McCoy's looks, as they climbed into the ring to fight. The Kid's face was as white as a sheet. There were dark hallows under his eyes. Every few moments, he put his left glove to his mouth, and coughed rackingly. When they clinched in the first round, McCoy whispered, "Take it easy, will you, Jack? I think I'm dying, but I need the money." Wilkes took it easy; he mothered McCoy. But in the second round, just after a cough, McCoy's coughing hand suddenly snapped out and pushed Wilkes's guard aside, and his right hand drove against his chin, and knocked him unconscious. For that bout, McCoy had made up his face with talcum powder, and his eyes with indelible pencil. The prop cough was from many dime novels of the time.

In Philadelphia, in 1904, McCoy fought a large, highly-touted Hollander named Plaacke. In the second round he began to point frantically at Plaacke's waistband. "Your pants are slipping!" he muttered. "Pull 'em up!" Plaacke reached for his pants with both hands. McCoy hit him on the jaw, and knocked him down. "Stay down, or I'll tear your head off!" he snarled. The Dutchman was terrified by the savagery that had suddenly come into the Kid's voice and by the cruelty that transfigured his impish face. He stayed down, and his American manager sent him back to Holland on the next cattle boat.

When McCoy ran a gymnasium in New York, in the early years of this century, he said to a new pupil one day, as the latter came in the door, "Who's that that came in with you?" The pupil turned to look. McCoy knocked him down. "That's your first lesson—never trust anybody," he said. "Five dollars, please."

The Kid got a lifelong pleasure out of teaching this lesson. Once, only a few months before he died, as he was driving along a road in Wayne County, Michigan, his car had a slight collision with a truck. Both vehicles stalled. The drivers got out, and the trucker came at McCoy, braying abuse. "I'm a little hard of hearing, Mack," McCoy said, cupping his hand to his ear. The trucker brought his chin close to the ear to make his point clearly, and McCoy, whipping his hand six inches upward, knocked him cold.

On the morning he was found dead, a true student of the ways of Kid McCoy, seeing the suicide notes, would have looked twice to make sure the Kid was there too. They were not the first suicide notes he had written. In 1924 McCoy was living with a divorcee named Mrs. Theresa Mors in a Los Angeles apartment. When Mrs. Mors was fatally shot by her lover, the police, investigating the crime, discovered near her body a message from Norman Selby which began—as his last one on earth was to do—"To whom it may concern." The message suggested that the Kid meant to end it all—but no dead McCoy went with it. In jail, a few days later, McCoy moved on to still another stratagem, feigning insanity to protect himself from the murder charge. A visitor found him walking around his cell with a blank look on his face, stop• ping now and then to lick bits of cardboard and stick them on the walls.

"What are those for?" the visitor asked.

"Quiet!" McCoy said. "I'm making a trap for that rat, her husband."

The law, to be on the safe side, called in a team of alienists to examine the sudden madman. "He's at least as sane as the rest of us," the scientists reported. He was. The state, in proving its homicide case against him later, said that the Kid had had no notion of killing himself. He killed the lady, it charged, for a very intelligent reason—she was rich, and she wouldn't marry him.

Of all the rich and beautiful women in the life of McCoy, she must have been the only one who wouldn't. It was curious, the way the pattern of the Kid's loves and marriages changed with the changes in his own career. When he was young, tough, and fight-hungry, scrapping first with skin-tight gloves and then by Marquis of Queensberry rules, first on turf and covered bridges and dance-hall floors, later in the ring, outboxing scientists like Tommy Ryan, the welter champion, mauling and knocking down heavyweights like the powerful Tom Sharkey—in those times his love affairs were brief. About his first marriage, at 22, to an Ohio girl named Lottie Piehler, McCoy once said: "A few months after l married her, I met a burlesque queen who finished me as a married man." He wasn't finished, he was just starting. But he had to keep on the move. There was less sense of investment, of security for McCoy, in those early matings. There was even romance in some of them. Certainly, he loved Mrs. Julia Woodruff Crosselmire, whose stage name was Julia Woodruff. Certainly, she loved him. He caught her eye by breaking up a free-for-all fight in a railroad car, one day in 1897 on a trip from New York to Philadelphia. In the next few years, they were married three times and divorced three times.

A change set in when the kid grew older, when he fought only when he had to and felt the pressures and hardships of life as a job-hunter and part-time con man. That was how it was in 1905 when he married Lillian Ellis, the young widow of a millionaire. Julia had recently cut him loose for the last time-as a matter of fact, he had divorced her, the only time it happened that way with McCoy.

"She ran away with a man named Thompson," the Kid used to say. "They took a tour around the world, and when they got back, I seceded."

On the morning his engagement to Mrs. Ellis was announced, the Kid was lying in his bed in the Dunlop Hotel, in New York, when the telephone began to ring. "Before I could get my shoes on that day," McCoy said, "the phone had rung a hundred times, and a hundred friends had touched me for a million dollars." Mrs. Ellis told the press that she knew what she was in for. "I know I'm not getting any angel, but I'm satisfied," she said. The Kid himself was so moved that he wrote a wedding poem:

"Dogs delight to growl and fight,

But let men be above them,

It's better to have a gal for a pal,

When he really knows she loves him."

In a sense, McCoy said, these lines were his farewell to the fight game. For now, at least, he was through—"Even though Jeff," he said, "is the only man alive who can lick me." He was referring to James J. Jeffries, the retired heavyweight champion of the world.

High-flown though it sounded, the last statement may well have been true. It's possible that for his weight, which ranged from 145 pounds to 170, McCoy was the finest fighter in the world, when he was at his best. " A marvel, a genius of scientific fighting," James J. Corbett called him. "Vicious, fast, and almost impossible to beat," said Philadelphia Jack O'Brien. It was a strange fact about McCoy that he did not need his tricks to be great. He cheated because he loved to cheat, just as, in the early days, he married women because he loved them. Fighting on the level, he would still have been the real McCoy.

The phrase which keeps his name famous was born in San Francisco, in 1899. At least, McCoy always said so; and while he was one of the most fertile and tireless liars of his generation, there's a good chance that he was telling the truth. The Kid went to the Coast in March of that year to meet the rough, hard-punching Joe Choynski. A little earlier, in San Francisco, a Joe McAuliffe had easily whipped a man named Peter McCoy. Kid McCoy, following this low-class act with a better one, gave Choynski a savage beating in 20 rounds, knocking him down 16 times. The press hailed him with gratitude: "Choynski is beaten," a headline said, "by THE REAL MCCOY."

As to how Norman Selby got the name of McCoy to begin with, there are two stories, both told by McCoy, and both plausible. He was home, probably in October 1873, in Moscow, Indiana, a little farmland crossroads northwest of the town of Rushville. The Selby family moved to Indianapolis when Norman was small. When he was somewhere between 14 and 16, he and two other boys ran away by train to Cincinnati. Cops met them at the Cincinnati station, alerted by their fathers. "Are you Norman Selby?" a cop asked Norman. "I'm Charlie McCoy," he said. The night before, through the train window, he had seen a sign, "McCoy Station." When he made his first prizefight it was under the name of Charlie (Kid) McCoy.

In a story the Kid told another historian, he once saw a burlesque act featuring the exploits of two real-life safe-crackers, Kid McCoy and Spike Hennessy. In the theater lobby, for a dime, you could buy a book on the lives of McCoy and Hennessy. The Kid read the book, was taken with the daring, aggressive character of McCoy, and borrowed his name. Either way, there's no doubt that he began fighting early in life as Kid McCoy. Some say his first bout, for $5 or $10, was against Charleston Yalla. Some say it was against Pete Jenkins, in St. Paul, in 1891. In St. Paul, the Kid, who was pausing there to wash dishes, joined the Baptist Church, because you had to be a member to join the YMCA, which had the only sports-training facilities in town. He beat Jenkins in four rounds.

After March 1895, the Kid was a fighter with a reputation; he was "the man who beat Shadow Maber." To Maher, he was "that bloody trickster." Shadow, an Australian fighting in the States and a boxer of note, met McCoy in Memphis. Near the end of one round, Maber heard a strong, clear voice say, "The bell has rung. Go to your comer." He started to turn for his corner, and McCoy, the author of the unofficial announcement, belted him in the jaw. McCoy went on to beat the weakened Australian in 10 rounds.

He had marvelous speed and elusiveness, the Kid did, besides his tricks and the cruel, cutting power of his punches. By practicing endlessly, he was able to run sideways, or backward, nearly as fast as the average man can run forward. "In a backward race, in fact," he said once, "I could probably beat any man in the world." He improved the use of his left hand by eating, writing, and throwing a ball left-handed. From every good fighter he fought or watched he learned something. Bob Fitzsimmons, then recognized as world's middleweight champion, was training for a fight in New Orleans while McCoy was down there for a bout of his own. The Kid picked up a few dollars sparring with Ruby Robert.

"You're a cunning bugger," Fitz told him after McCoy, feinting a left, drove his right straight into the pit of Bob's stomach, showing that he had mastered one of Fitzsimmons's favorite moves. "And you can hit almost as hard as I can."

"For the same reason," the Kid said.

"Wot in 'ell do you mean by that?" the Cornishman asked. He did not like to think he was giving away too much.

"You're knock-kneed, Bob," McCoy said. "I figured the reason you hit so hard is because your punch comes up from the knee instead of the waist or the hip."

"—-! " said Fitzsimmons unkindly. He considered that the theory was buncombe, and he may well have been right. It was a fact, however, as McCoy then demonstrated, that the kid had schooled his own knees to come inward by walking around for 20 minutes or a half hour at a time holding a fifty-cent piece between them.

Fitzsimmons (who was to win the heavyweight title from Jim Corbett in 1897) was too big and strong for McCoy who in those years weighed in at about the welter limit, 145. The welterweight champion of the world was Tommy Ryan, thought by many to be the most skillful boxer extant. Ryan and McCoy were matched to fight for the welter title in Maspeth, Long Island, in March, 1896. It was a match Ryan had no worries about. McCoy had sparred with him, too, a couple of years earlier, and McCoy had deliberately made a poor impression-chiefly by a kind of cringing timidity. Once, in a workout, he had asked Tommy not to hit him around the heart. "It makes me sick, Mr. Ryan," he had said. "And it gives me a sharp pain that scares me. I wouldn't fight if I didn't have to."

In their fight for the championship, Ryan did his best to hit McCoy around the heart-and every place else where he thought there might be an opening. But there were no openings, to speak of. And in the 12th round, getting impatient and beginning to swing wildly, Ryan exposed his own chin, and caught a straight right on the end of it that drained all the strength and science out of him and left him helpless. McCoy then slashed and mauled the champion until the 15th, when he knocked him out.

It was in Africa, the Kid used to say, that he developed the "corkscrew punch." The phrase, like others coined by this prince of phrasemakers, became known all over the world. The corkscrew punch, probably, was only a left hook to the head, like other left hooks. Like other hooks, it involved a turning of the wrist, just before impact. But McCoy declared, and the world believed him, that he gave his left wrist an extra, prolonged spin that increased its velocity and its power to cut and maim. "It was the principle of rifling," he said. "I learned it by studying a rifle in South Africa."

It was in South Africa, too, at Bullawayo, that McCoy fought a 250-pound Negro called the King of the Kaffirs. In the first round, McCoy, running backward, lured the giant into McCoy's corner. The King, in sudden pain and confusion, looked down at his bare feet, and the Kid, at the same moment, brought up his right hand and knocked the Kaffir senseless. The floor, as it happened—we have McCoy's complacent word for this—had been sprinkled with tacks by McCoy's seconds just as the fight began.

It was strange, the way the elements of human nature were mixed in this curly head, behind the bland, youthful face and the smooth, bragging tongue. The Kid could not help lying-his picaresque imagination worked day and night to add to his own legend. He could not help swindling-his fight with Corbett, in 1900, after Corbett had lost the heavyweight title, was called by contemporaries one of the most flagrant fixes in ring history. One reporter wrote, "It was the cleverest boxing match ever seen, as it should have been, considering how carefully it had been rehearsed in advance."

But there was far more than greed and deceit in McCoy; there was courage and ferocity. He could fight, against odds, like a tiger. Under such conditions, Maurice Maeterlinck, the playwright, who had seen the Kid fight in Europe, once described him as "the handsomest human on earth." McCoy must have been like that on the night he fought Tom Sharkey—after he had given up the welterweight title, had outgrown a brief claim to the middleweight crown and was fighting them as big as they came.

Sailor Tom Sharkey was not a giant—he was squat, but massive, and very tough. In 45 rounds of fighting, the great Jim Jeffries was never to knock him down once. Sharkey and McCoy met on January 10, 1899, at the old Lenox Athletic Club, in New York City. It was the biggest gate of McCoy's life; there was $46,000 in the square brick arena that night. The Kid was about Sharkey's height, but he looked like a thin, pale boy beside the Sailor. His legs were slender, his stomach was concave at the narrow waist. Such power as he had was bunched in big arms and low, sloping shoulders. Running like a burglar, he made Sharkey commit himself with rushes and lunging swings. Then the Kid let the gap close. He countered the swings. He hooked Sharkey's head with his left, and drove straight rights against Sharkey's teeth and cheekbones. Twice he floored the man whom Jeff could not bring down. By the end of the ninth, it looked like McCoy's fight for sure, and the patrons were screaming for him to finish it. The truth was, the Kid himself was finished. He had used up all his strength on a head like an oaken bucket; in the tenth, his legs went dead. Sharkey caught him in that round, first with a body punch that seemed to cave in the Kid's ribs, then with a smashing blow on the jaw. Paul Armstrong, the playwright who wrote "Alias Jimmy Valentine," was covering the fight. Of the Kid, at the very last, he wrote:

"He clawed the canvas like some deep-sea crab . . . rattled along on all fours . . . and then bobbled into a meaningless heap."

In 1900, the Kid ran a night club in the cellar of the Hotel Normandie, at the comer of Broadway and 40th Street. He ran it until a matter of what the police called "larceny from a customer" by McCoy came up—then the customers began to abstain from the Kid's saloon. In 1904, he filed a petition in bankruptcy, having $25,000 worth of debts and no assets. The debts included one of $320 for clothing, and another of $569 for repairs to a fast, red car. It was natural that the Kid should react to this slump by marrying Lillian Ellis, the rich widow. It was natural that when Mrs. Ellis detached him, after three or four comfortable years, he should marry Mrs. Edna Valentine Hein, the daughter of a silver miner. The Kid impressed Mrs. Hein favorably, before the marriage, by winning a street fight from Mr. Hein.

It was one of the few fights he had, in those years. When occasional spells of non-marriage, meaning poverty, overtook him, and McCoy was obliged to fight professionally again, he found the going hard. It was the flesh that was weak—not the two-edged brain. A lad named Young Jim Stewart climbed into the ring in New York one night, during these downhill days, to see what McCoy had left. He went to the Kid's comer before the bout to pay his respects. McCoy, waving to friends in the crowd, pretended not to see him. Stewart, hurt, but not mortally so, returned to his corner. When the referee called them out for instructions, McCoy tramped heavily on the youngster's feet and bumped him accidentally in the eye with his elbow. Next McCoy grabbed Stewart by the nape of the neck with one hand, pulled down his head, and cracked him two or three times in the jaw with his other fist. "What I want to know, Mr. Referee," said the Kid, deferentially, "is whether it's all right for him to hit me like this?" "No, it ain't," said the referee. Young Jim Stewart survived these preliminaries, and the fight got under way and went six rounds to no decision.

"Tell me, Mr. McCoy," said Stewart afterward, "did you expect to soften me up with that stuff with the referee?" "God knows, boy," the Kid said. "You can never tell till you try."

In the last fight on his record, McCoy met a British seaman, Petty Officer Curran, in London, in 1914. The bout was scheduled for 20 rounds—a long, weary haul for a man of forty. Three-quarters of the way through it, McCoy's feet had gone nearly flat. His nerves were snapping in his body like little twigs. Suddenly, the timekeeper, sitting by the ring in evening clothes, took a tall glass of whisky-and-soda from an attendant, and placed it carefully on the apron of the ring. A moment later, the Kid ran into a punch from Curran, fell to the floor near the timekeeper's seat, snatched up the highball and drank it off. The fight went the full distance. It was close, but McCoy, making his last post a winning one, got the duke.

Though he was still debonair, still a strutter, McCoy was plainly at the end of his rope, financially, when he beat his way home from London at the start of the First World War the U. S. Army bought his meals for the next few years. Enlisting in 1915—tired, played out, turning to the security of a uniform and steady pay as he had turned to marriage when he was younger—McCoy served on the Mexican border in 1916, and on the home front generally in the wartime years, mostly as a boxing instructor. There was another fling left in him, but in the Army, for a while, he charged his batteries, and marked time.

When his enlistment was up, the Kid headed for California. He got a few bit parts in Hollywood, but this career died quickly. In 1922, he became an official bankrupt again—assets: two suits of clothes. One way and another, he took the busy, hot town for a dollar here and a dollar there, and hung on. And in the summer of 1924, he found his way into the life of still another woman with money and a husband she did not like.

Theresa Weinstein Mors was on the point of divorcing Albert E. Mors when she met McCoy. She was in her late 30′s, and easy to look at. It is not known just how she came to meet the Kid, but on August 4, when their friendship became a matter of record, she described him to the police as her "bodyguard." The police had been called in by Mors, who complained that his wife and McCoy had used him roughly. The visit had been for the purpose of discussing the Mors' property settlement. The Kid, of course, had the habit of discussing things with his knuckles. In this case, however, it was Mrs. Mors who hit Mr. Mors in the mouth, while McCoy protected her.

A divorce followed, and the Kid and Theresa took an apartment together, under the names of Mr. and Mrs. N. Shields. There's good reason to believe that the Kid wanted marriage in more than name. Mrs. Mors, at least for the time being, did not. For this reason, and perhaps for others, it was a quarrelsome partnership. It came as no surprise to the Shields' neighbor, in the next apartment, when, on the sultry night of August 11, at a few minutes after midnight, she heard a woman's voice in the Shields' flat cry out, "Oh, my God, don't do that!" The cry was repeated. Then came a single gunshot. The neighbor investigated, but only to the extent of trying the Shields' door, which was locked. It was not till 10 a.m. on the 12th that the janitor found Theresa lying dead on the floor of the bedroom she had shared with McCoy. She had been shot once, in the left temple. A .32 pistol lay nearby. A photograph of the Kid had been placed across her breast. Also clearly visible was a suicide note signed Norman Selby leaving his estate to his mother.

At almost the same moment the police discovered the note and the body which did not match it, the Kid himself was running amok a few blocks away, with another gun, in an antique shop owned by his mistress. It was a wild scene he made there. Disheveled, apparently drunk, he burst into the shop with his gun out. He told the men there, mostly employees, to take off their shoes and pants. He put a dance record on the phonograph and, under cover of the noise, went through the pants pockets for money. Then, cursing with all the foulness he could muster from 51 years' experience, he went out the door again and, in the street, shot and seriously wounded the first three people he met, two men and a woman. The police caught up with him as he was running blindly through Westlake Park.

Had he been drunk? McCoy, though he'd taken some wine in his time, had never been given to drinking. Had he been faking madness, to set up a defense against a murder rap? Maybe. At any rate, his wildness, real or feigned, subsided after a few days in jail, and at his trial he told the jury in serious, sensible tones that Theresa—"the only woman I ever loved"—had shot herself to death in his presence. It was a story the Kid was to stick to for the rest of his life. The prosecution, in rebuttal, pointed out that Mrs. Mors, a right-handed woman, had been shot in the left side of her head. The prosecutor told the jury that McCoy had said to his sister, after the crime, "I had to kill that woman." It took the jurymen 78 hours to decide whom to believe. In the end, they disbelieved McCoy. He was sentenced to 10 years for manslaughter, and to two terms of 7 years each for the larceny and mayhem of his last daffy stand in Theresa's antique shop: a total of 24 years.

The rap seemed to mean that the Kid would die of old age in San Quentin. There was one way to escape such a fate—sweetness, light and good conduct on a scale such as McCoy had never before attempted.

When he came out in 1932, paroled after a little more than seven years, the Kid had established one of the purest records in the history of San Quentin—never a mark against him. With him he brought a canary named Mike, a prison pet as harmless as the new McCoy. His future life was to be mild and pastoral, too. Years before, he had given boxing lessons to a Navy fighter who used the name of Sailor Reese. In 1932, under his real name of Harry Bennett, the sailor had become personnel chief for Ford, in Detroit. Bennett gave the parolee a job as watchman in one of the Ford public gardens. The new line on the payroll read: "Norman Selby. Age, 59. Farmhand." The terms of his parole kept the Kid close to Detroit for five years. When, in 1937, he became totally free—the Kid used to say he'd been "pardoned," but it was really just the formal ending of parole—he went on living in Detroit and working for Ford.

He did make a few trips out of town after the papers came through. One of them was to Rushville, Indiana, near the place of his birth, where he took unto himself an eighth wife, Mrs. Sue Cobb Cowley. Another was to New York, where the Kid and an old fellow-wizard, Philadelphia Jack O'Brien, pottered around town together for a day, cutting up touches and reviewing the past. Wherever he went, the Kid seemed happy. His marriage went well. His job was for life. When he lied, he told contented lies that showed the old vanity, the old satisfaction with Norman Selby, alias Kid McCoy. One day a man asked him if he ever saw his former wives.

"You won't believe it," the Kid said smugly, "but I see them all, regularly. Every year I give a party, and every woman I've ever been married to come to Detroit to see me again."

He gave a roguish smile. "Why wouldn't they come, for me?"

The Kid was not crazy, or senile. He simply liked this lie and all the others that celebrated the glory, the beauty, the cunning of Kid McCoy. In everything he did, as his days dwindled down to the last and strangest one, his mind and his body worked smoothly and well.

And then, suddenly, smoothly and well, he killed himself. Perhaps there had been one special sin in his life that was too big for him to Jive with any longer. If so, nobody knows what it was but Kid McCoy.

**COMING SOON**

Due out in the Winter of 2017 . . .

INNOCENCE

A new Johnny O'Brien roman a clef novella, _INNOCENCE,_ finds Johnny and Maggie hot on the trail of a trio of young men, convicted of the grisly murder of three children years before, and now released from prison under a most rare, unusual, and controversial plea agreement.

An ultra-wealthy, successful, and mysterious motion-picture director has engaged the professional services of the recently married and semi-retired detective to find new evidence in the old, but still searingly red-hot cold case. One little catch though—this time Johnny is hired to prove the men _not_ guilty, and release them from an entangling web of suspicion and doubt that has kept them from moving on with their lives for years.

Johnny will soon discover dark worlds of dishonesty, deceit, sheer outright lies, and political intrigue aplenty on his strange mission, along with no small degree of clear and very intensely present danger. Danger that will dog both Johnny and his new bride, on their winding path of justice and exoneration for the innocent.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lee Capp was born in Detroit, Michigan in 1949, back when the Motor City was the crown jewel of the Midwest, and center of the manufacturing might of America.

Raised on motors and Motown and brought up in a tiny suburb called Walled Lake, he had a very misspent youth focused on rock and roll music, amusement parks, good friends (some of which were even girls) movies, golden age television shows and fortunately lots of really good books. Personal favorites among them were the popular anthologies of Alfred Hitchcock and Dorothy Sayers and the crime novels of Ellery Queen and Mickey Spillane.

In addition to being a life-long writer of what he calls "Unsold and un-sellable dumb stupid stuff" Capp has worked in many fields during his long career, including a short but very interesting stint as an apprentice embalmer in a Tucson, Arizona funeral home and a fish monger in Seattle, Washington. The fish selling he has said, was equivalent to an advanced college degree in the study of human nature.

Johnny O'Brien is a compilation of Capp himself, who descends from Irish, Scottish and English farmers, fishermen and lumberjack immigrants, and he says, a number of other (verbally at least) bad-assed friends of his youth. Capp says that "if we all were even a tenth as tough as we thought we were, we could have ruled the World."

Lee Capp and his wife Bea, retired at last from the workaday world, now reside among the pines, ponds and streams outside Seattle, Washington, where he continues to see just how much trouble he can get Johnny O'Brien into the next time around.

Please visit The Books of Lee Capp, and APROPOS OF NOTHING @http://larryleecaplin.com, as well as Larry Lee Caplin (Author) on Facebook.
