Jack's gut knotted. "Berzerk."
"Right—or Eliminator, Predator, Killer-B. It had a bunch of names. In my dream it came from one of the surviving monsters from the first novel. The editor liked that idea because it was a sequel of sorts, so I went with it."
"When was this dream?"
"Last May."
Just when those real-life events were going down.
"How about your next book? Any ideas for that?"
"Way past the idea stage. I just handed in the finished manuscript."
"Already?"
"The publisher's pipeline is long. If I want this one out next spring, it's got to join the queue now. This one's called Virus!—and yeah, it's got an exclamation point. Our buddy Jake has to call in some favors from the CDC to stop a mind-controlling bug."
A wave of sadness swept over Jack as he thought of his sister Kate.
"Any more dreams?"
He smiled. "Plenty. I had one about a haunted house last summer that I think will become my next."
This was sick—this guy's dreams connected to Jack's life. He wondered if any of them saw into the future.
"What's the latest nightmare?"
Winslow smiled and winked. "Can't tell you that. Trade secret."
Jack fought the urge to reach across the table and grab him by his chicken neck.
"Just a hint?"
"All I'll say is it involves a stolen book and a stick figure like that Kicker Man you see all over the place. It's still developing. I don't know yet if I'm going to be able to use it."
That just about did it for Jack. As disturbing as all this was, none of it was helpful. And he wanted away from this guy with the creepy dreams. Somehow, some way, he and Winslow shared a circuit. Why? Some cosmic accident? Or did it mean something? He didn't know. Maybe he'd never know. But either way, he hated it. Wanted no one with a periscope on his life, but didn't see how he could stop it.
Who knew? Maybe Winslow would come in handy one day.
He signaled Sally for the check and started gobbling the lox.
"My treat," he said.
Winslow looked up. "Don't you want to know about my childhood?"
"Why would I—?"
"Because anyone who writes weird stuff is assumed to have had some sort of childhood trauma."
"Okay, I'll bite: What was yours?"
He smiled. "Nothing. I had a completely normal childhood."
"So did I."
"Yeah, but nobody thinks you're weird."
Jack didn't comment.
3
Jack arrived at Work about three o'clock and surveyed the spigot handles behind the bar: Coors, Coors Light, Bud, and Bud Light. Depressing. So was Work, kind of. Dark paneling, booths along the wall, scattered tables, pool tables in the better-lit rear section.
Yesterday, as she'd driven him along Queens Boulevard, Christy had pointed out this place, making fun of the name, and saying Bethlehem tended to hang here most afternoons.
Wanting to appear to be a regular schmoe, Jack ordered a draft of the lesser of the four evils from the bleached-blond barmaid and carried the Coors to a nearby table.
He pulled the latest model PSP from his backpack and began to play the brand new 3-D version of DNA Wars. If Bolton was half the gamer Levy had said he was, he might be intrigued by a guy wearing 3-D glasses as he played a game. Intrigued enough to come over and check it out.
Jack wanted him to do the approaching. If Jack wandered in and struck up a conversation at the bar, he might get suspicious. But if Bolton made the first move…
After forty minutes and two carefully nursed brews, Jack was beginning to think he'd wasted his time. Maybe Bolton had decided to skip Work today and, oh, say, drown someone.
At least the game was interesting and challenging—different game play and design from the console version—and it made the time go fast.
And then Jeremy Bolton walked in—sauntered was more like it—wearing a denim vest, faded jeans, and light brown cowboy boots. The rustler look. Add a black Stetson he could pass for Kevin Kline in Silverado.
Jack peeked at him over the top of the 3-D glasses. Until now he'd seen only photos and long views through a windshield and across a parking lot. Neither had conveyed the man's presence. Here was a guy who was comfortable in his skin. He radiated something. Jack couldn't put his finger on it, but he had a definite aura about him.
The barmaid lit up as she spotted him. She grinned as they shared a few words while she poured him a Bud Light. Beer in hand he turned and leaned against the bar, surveying the room.
Jack focused on the game and let loose a few grunts of frustration as his thumbs pounded the buttons. After a few minutes of this he noticed a pair of booted feet stop next to his table.
"Whatcha playin?" said a voice that dripped the deep South.
Jack gave a little jump, as if startled, then looked up at Bolton through the 3-D glasses. They were the polarized type, rather than the red-blue, but still they made the room look a little strange. He took them off and rubbed his eyes.
"DNA Three-D. Played it?"
"Didn't even know it was out. Thought you had MG Acid-Two. That's three-D too, you know."
"Yeah. But only the cut scenes. This one's three-D all the way through."
"No shit? Tell you what: How's about I buy you a beer and you drink it while I take a look at that."
Jack gave that two seconds of thought, then said, "Deal."
Bolton waved the empty pint glass toward the bar, saying, "Laurie, honey. You wanna get this fellow another on me?"
Just then a sloppily dressed guy, maybe forty, stepped up to the table.
"Need any party supplies?"
Bolton jerked a finger over his shoulder. "Beat it, Danny. You know better."
Danny looked at Jack. "You?"
"Git!" Bolton said.
Danny got.
Jack watched him slouch away. "I assume he's not in the paper-hat and blow-out horn trade."
Bolton smiled. "Not exactly. You just met Dirty Danny. Specializes in E and such. I ain't into that shit. You?"
"Not lately."
Jack figured Bolton wouldn't want to get caught holding if Danny drew heat and got pinched.
He sat opposite Jack and grabbed the PSP. He put on the glasses and attacked the game. He didn't look up as Laurie arrived with Jack's beer. Gave no sign that he noticed. Total immersion.
Jack studied him as he played, watched the Kicker Man tattoo on his left hand dance as his thumbs worked the buttons. He couldn't read Bolton's eyes through the glasses, but he could see the facial muscles twitch under his beard, saw smiles—by turns rueful or delighted—twist his lips now and then.
Didn't look much like a stone killer.
Finally he put it down, pulled oil the glasses, and slid everything back toward Jack.
"Totally awesome. Gotta get me one of them."
Totally awesome… yeah, he'd been hanging with an eighteen-year-old.
They exchanged names—both lying. Jack wasn't sure how he came up with the name Joe Henry, but that was what he used. They hung out and talked about video games. No question about it, Bolton was a hard-core gamer. They swapped tips and stories about MGS, Halo, Grand Theft Auto, and others. Jack had played^ them all, but not to the levels Bolton had reached. Then again, Jack had had more to do in his adult life than sit in a cell and push buttons.
And all the while they talked, Jack's gaze kept drifting back to the Kicker Man tattoo. Bolton must have noticed. He held up his hand, palm inward, and stretched his thumb and index finger apart.