Aaron smiled with pride at his foresight. He'd known biotechnology would progress by leaps and bounds, so he'd planned for the future. He might never have a chance to examine these subjects again in person, but he'd have their DNA at his beck and call.
He flipped through the documentation and was surprised to see his signature on the order to transfer him to Creighton. He shook his head. So many inmates over the years. Couldn't remember them all. But why Thompson? What had brought him to Creighton's attention?
A couple of more flips and he found it. The charge had been GTA. Not the typical Creighton-worthy offense. Then he saw it. Seemed young Hank had become violent when the cops pulled him out of his stolen car. Took five of them to hold him down so he could be cuffed, and even then he'd kicked and screamed and struggled. Had to put him in leg irons. Seemed they'd found a liberal application of the baton necessary to subdue him. His mug shot showed swollen cheeks and blackened eyes.
Yes, that sort of violence would trigger a look. Blood had been taken, he'd reacted with a strong positive, so off he'd gone to Creighton.
Only one admission, which meant no further convictions—because once a Creighton inmate, always a Creighton inmate. Any further convictions brought you straight back. Somehow Thompson had learned to control or sublimate his violent tendencies, or had managed to escape arrest and conviction. Or perhaps he didn't carry the trigger gene. They hadn't known the existence of the trigger at the time he was here. But Aaron would check for it now.
Vital statistics. Hmmm. Born January of the same year as Jeremy Bolton. Eleven months older. Interesting coincidence. Born in Selma, Alabama, to Diane Thompson. Father unlisted. No sibs. Another paralleclass="underline" Both Thompson and Bolton grew up the only sons of poor single mothers.
Aaron made a note: Check sib rate of high reactors. Does high oDNA level inhibit subsequent sibs?
He'd just turned to the last page when his cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and saw no name. Robertson? He took the call.
"Yes?"
"/z'.s me. Our mutual friend was just led away from a bar in cuffs by the TSYPD. Seems he got into a bad fight. He's being processed now at the hundred-and-twelfth precinct.""
And then the caller was gone. But Aaron knew who it was.
He's done it!
Somehow, someway, Jack had succeeded in getting Bolton arrested. And making it look like Bolton's own fault, it would seem.
Amazing.
The routine fingerprint check at the precinct would set off alarms in Vi-CAP. The resultant firestorm would cause a PR nightmare for Creighton, but that wasn't his problem. The agency would have to handle it. One thing for certain: Jeremy Bolton was off the street for good.
Aaron leaned back. Thank God! Maybe now he'd be able to get a decent night's sleep.
As he sat there his gaze fell upon Hank Thompson's file and the discharge photo he'd opened to. Something familiar about his eyes…
And then it came to him.
Aaron felt his jaw drop as a cold wave of shock swept through him. He knew why young Hank Thompson looked so familiar. At least he was pretty sure. Had to confirm.
He lit up his computer terminal and tapped in the access code for Jeremy Bolton's highly restricted file. He paged down till he reached the intake photo, then leaned forward, staring.
Oh, yes. Oh, yes! This was wonderful. Not only would Bolton be back in custody, but Aaron had thisl
Absolutely wonderful!
SUNDAY
1
Jack used a piece of toast to guide the last bits of his Everything Omelet—bacon, sausage, ham, mushrooms, onions, and hot peppers—onto his fork. Gia was at PT and Vicky had gone along with her. Abe slept in on Sundays, so he'd wandered over to the Highwater Diner in the West Fifties—so far west it was practically in the Hudson. He loved diners and the Highwater still sported its original chrome trim from the 1940s. But it and its kin were becoming an endangered species in Manhattan. He missed the old Munson on Eleventh Avenue—it closed in 2004. He liked the Cheyenne on Ninth down in the Thirties as well, but sensed its days were numbered too.
Figured he'd better enjoy the survivors while he could. Diner coffee, bacon, toast, two eggs over easy—was there a better meal in the world? And George Kuropolis, owner and chief cook, knew how to fry them with just enough easy on the over. But this morning Jack had celebrated with an EO.
He nursed his third cup of coffee at the counter while bald, chubby George fiddled with the radio, flipping from station to station, looking for who knew what. Not much happening radiowise on Sunday mornings.
Especially today. Why no story on Bolton? The one-twelve must have run his prints by now. The airwaves should be screaming the news about the life-imprisoned Atlanta abortionist assassin being arrested in a bar fight in Queens. But nothing. Maybe the cops were keeping it quiet till they double-checked the prints and called in the feds.
Sometime today it would hit. Had to. And then Bolton would be toast as far as the clinical trial was concerned.
Such a simple solution. He hadn't thought of it until Sam had started hassling him. With all that violence just bubbling under Bolton's skin, getting punched by some drunk was more than enough to set it free. After that—
"Whoa!" he said, waving to George as he heard a lamiJiar voice. "Turn back. What was that?"
George gave him a look. "Since when do you care, Jack?" But he turned it back.
"There!" he said when he heard Hank Thompson's voice. "What station is that?"
He squinted at the dial. "Eight-twenty. Why?"
WNYC—the NPR station.
"Can we listen just a moment?"
"Usually we keep news on, but for you…"
Jack had done some work for George a while back.
"Just a few seconds."
He listened to Thompson's now-familiar rap, then heard the host say that he was "live in our studio"—as opposed to dead?—and would take some calls.
"Thanks," Jack said as he gulped his coffee, threw a ten on the counter—enough for the food plus a big tip—and headed for the door.
Where the hell was WNYC?
He called information and learned it was on Centre Street. Down by City Hall Park. He flagged a cab and headed downtown.
One Centre Street turned out to be a mini-skyscraper. He didn't know where WNYC was in the building and didn't care. All he needed was to spot Hank Thompson leaving.
He didn't feel properly caffeinated yet, so he ordered yet another cup of coffee from a street cart.
"To go," he added, just for fun.
The cart guy gave him a look. "It's way too early on a Sunday morning to fuck with me."
Whistling "I Love New York," Jack found a spot across the street where he could watch the entrance. He was just settling in when his phone rang—possibly the last phone in the city that still had a bell tone instead of music.
He checked the caller ID and saw a 914 area code.
Levy.
"We've got to meet," he said without preamble.
"We met yesterday. Any word yet on that matter I called you about last night?"
"Plenty. That's one of the reasons we have to talk."
Jack didn't like the sound of that. "Meaning?"
"He's out."
"Out?"
"As in free on bail."
"What? How the hell—?"
"1 know how, and that"s one of the reasons we need to meet again."
"That one's plenty. We don't need another."
"We do." Levy sounded exeited. "I have startling—no, amazing news."
"You've already given me that."
"This might top it."
"Give."
"Not on the phone. Besides, you'll have to see to believe."