Levy seemed prepared for it. His face was as expressionless as a DMV photo, and half as happy.
"Who told you he's out?"
"Your face did a few moments ago."
"Sorry. I'm not responding to that."
"You said you'd answer one question."
"And I will. But I didn't say any question."
"If you want to play word games—"
"I hope you're not going to threaten me, because you'll be asking for a world of trouble."
Jack sat down—figured it was time for Levy to start getting used to the fact he was going to be here awhile.
"Really?"
"I did a little background on you, John Robertson, private detective." He flashed a mirthless smile. "You look awfully good for a dead man."
Uh-oh.
Jack smiled. "That happens all the time. There's another detective with the same name…"
Levy was shaking his head. "Someone is paying the dead man's annual license fee. And that would be you. So let's have you answer a question for me: Who are you?"
"The man who saved your life."
Levy looked annoyed as he dropped into the chair behind his desk.
"Do you have to keep bringing that up?"
"I will till it works. Now spilclass="underline" Why's Bolton running free and nobody knows about it? Check that: / know about it. And I know he's posing as Jerry Bethlehem."
Levy raised his hands. "For the love of God, keep that to yourself. I don't know who you are, but I do feel a debt to you. So unless you want your life turned into a living hell, forget what you know."
The genuine distress in Levy's voice disturbed Jack.
"Who's going to bring the hell? Bolton?"
He shook his head. "No. Look, this is big—bigger than you can imagine. You're dealing with a powerful government agency with roots in the Pentagon, congress, and ultimately the White House. This is important to them. You interfere with their plans and they'll comb through your life for every little—"
"Got to find me first."
"Oh, they'll find you. You may think you're hiding behind this John Robertson persona, but they'll rip through that like tissue paper. Everybody leaves tracks. They'll find yours and follow them and make you wish you'd never been born."
Jack's stomach turned sour. Yeah, he'd gone to elaborate lengths to insulate himself from scrutiny, but a motivated organization with enough manpower, access to all sorts of databases, the power to twist arms… he wouldn't stand a chance. They'd haul him up from underground and hold him to the light. And have a field day with what they'd find.
But he couldn't let Levy see that he'd touched a nerve.
"So that's why you didn't want to call the cops."
He nodded. "I'm not immune from their wrath. Nobody is."
"What if I've got nothing to hide?"
Right.
"Everybody's got something to hide. But just in case you're that rara avis with a spotless life, it won't remain spotless for long. If they can't find something, they'll manufacture it."
Jack knew in his case they—whoever they were—wouldn't have to manufacture a thing.
Still, he had to know.
"Heard and understood. Now, back to square one: What's he doing running around free?"
Levy stared at him. "Are you insane?"
"It's sort of the general consensus."
Another long stare, followed by a sigh. "All right then. It's all legal—legal in that the agency in charge of Creighton has designed a closely monitored, special-circumstances release."
"Whoever's in charge of the monitoring sure as hell dropped the ball. Where was his monitor when he drowned Gerhard? Or shoved you into your trunk?"
"Not that kind of monitoring. Nobody's got binoculars on him all the time. And besides, who says he killed Gerhard? When did it happen?"
Jack could only guess. "Tuesday night I'd guess."
Levy gave a quick, nervous smile. "There you go. All day Tuesday—day and night—he was at Creighton for testing. It's his blood we monitor."
"I don't get it."
Levy hesitated, then said, "Considering what you already know, I can't see what difference it makes to tell you. This release program is a clinical trial of sorts. We're testing a special medical therapy developed for a certain subset of violent criminals."
"What kind of therapy?"
"That is off-limits. All I can say is that it is designed to suppress violent tendencies. The subject shows up for a weekly injection and blood tests to monitor the level of the drug in his system."
"Got a medical bulletin for you: It's not working."
"It's a clinical trial. We don't know the proper dose yet. We expect a setback or two in the early—"
"Setback? Torture and murder—"
"I can assure you he did not lay a finger on Gerhard."
Jack would need more than just Levy's word.
"What about kidnapping? Just a 'setback'?"
"You keep blaming him without proof. And he has an alibi. The attempted abduction was… unfortunate. But it doesn't mean the trial is a failure, it simply means we need to adjust the dosage. Which we have. I'm sure nothing like that will ever happen again."
Jack stared at him. "You're not sure at all."
Levy looked away—confirmation enough.
"We'll make you the same offer we made Gerhard."
"Who's 'we'?"
"Why…" He seemed flustered for a second. "Why, Creighton, of course. We'll pay you whatever you might have received from Mrs. Pickering and—"
"Gerhard took your offer?"
A nod.
Crook.
"And true to his word, he said nothing to the Pickering woman. So you can see there was no need for Jeremy to even talk to him, let alone kill him."
"Speaking of Mrs. Pickering, what's the story with Bolton and her daughter?"
"Well, he's a hetero male, she's a female the same age he was when he was locked up. What more story do you need?"
Keeping in character, Jack said, "Yeah, I suppose the first thing I'd do once I got out of stir was hook up with some poontang."
"Well, it wasn't the first thing. The very first thing he did was get himself tattooed." He held up his hand and pointed to the web between his thumb and forefinger. "Right here, of all places."
Jack remembered the Kicker in the bookstore yesterday.
"Tattoo of what?"
"Some ridiculous little stick figure."
Jack felt a chill ripple across his back.
"With a diamond-shaped head?"
"Why, yes. How did you know? You've never been that close to Bolton." His eyes narrowed. "Or have you?"
Jack didn't answer immediately. His brain was too wrapped up in all the unfolding connections. Connections… not coincidences.
Jeremy Bolton was a Kicker.
"Excuse me?" Levy said, waving a hand. "Are you there? How did you know?"
Jack shook himself. "That figure is all over Manhattan. Followers of a book called Kick."
Levy snapped his fingers. "Right. Bolton once had a book with that figure on its cover. What's it mean?" He grimaced. "Working at Creighton tends to insulate you from the Zeitgeist."
Jack wished he could escape the Zeitgeist. He didn't know what the figure meant, but knew he had to find the connection.
"The author, Hank Thompson—"
"Did you say Hank Thompson? That's the author who's been interviewing Bolton."
Jack felt as if he'd been kicked.
"What? Why? How?"
"Research. His next book is going to be on the Atlanta abortionist killings."
Funny… just a few hours ago he'd said he hadn't decided yet. But he might simply be keeping the topic under wraps.
That didn't bother Jack anywhere near as much as the way two supposedly separate parts of his present-day life were intersecting.