"Well, you'll have to come down to the city."
"It's Sunday. My wife—"
"If it's important enough you'll find a way."
A pause, then, "I suppose I could take a few hours… where will we meet?"
"I'm outside One Centre Street at the moment."
"But I don't know the city."
"Christ, you must have a GPS in that Infiniti. Use it."
"Oh. Yes. Right. Forgot about that."
"Set it for One Centre Street and go where it tells you. There's no traffic this hour on a Sunday. You'll be here in no time."
He thumbed the END button and returned his attention to the building entrance, but his thoughts were on what Levy had said.
Bolton free on bail… how the hell could that be? Somebody might have the pull to clamp down on the news, but nobody had enough to keep the Atlanta abortionist assassin from going back to finish his sentence.
Someone somewhere had screwed up big time.
And then this other thing… startling, amazing news that had to be seen to be believed… what was that all about?
Half an hour passed while he mulled these as-yet unanswered questions. He was debating a fifth cup of coffee when he spotted Thompson popping through the entrance and stepping to the curb. He flagged a taxi and Jack did the same, giving the driver a follow-that-cab line. The guy, whose name was Mustafa, looked like he was just back from the jihad. He didn't even blink.
2
Jeremy lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. He couldn't believe they'd let him go. When they'd slapped those cuffs on him at Work he had that same lost, helpless, panicked feeling he'd had way back in his teens when they'd cornered him for the Atlanta killings.
What had happened? Had they screwed up the prints? Did the computer burp while it was processing his and not recognize them?
Or had it been a higher power, guiding his fate?
Whatever the reason, he was glad he was out.
He stretched out his hand, expecting to touch Dawn. Instead he found an empty bed. Then he heard the toilet flush and Dawn stumbled into the room, looking pale.
"Somethin wrong, darlin?"
"Feel crummy." Rubbing her arms she crossed the room and closed the two windows. "It's freezing in here!"
He repressed a flash of anger. She hadn't even asked.
"You know I like fresh air."
An open window… no such thing at Creighton. Ever since he got out he'd kept one open in every room. Now, even though the window had been closed only a few seconds, he felt closed in. But he couldn't tell Dawn that.
She tumbled into bed and pulled the covers over her. Jeremy reached under and rubbed his palm over her ass.
"Too crummy for a little lovin?"
She pushed his hand away.
"Totally."
"Hey, you mad at me? That fight wasn't my fault. I was just—"
"If you were home here instead of hanging out at a bar while I'm working—"
Anger flashed through Jeremy but he controlled it.
"Hey, now, darlin. I told you to quit that job."
"And I did. I gave my notice but I can't leave them totally high and dry."
"Fuck "em."
Truth was, he didn't want her or anybody else around all the time. Back at Creighton, day and night, twenty-four/seven, someone had always been around. Even though he craved his own time, needed to be able to drop into a place like Work and just hang, he had to act like the devoted, protective, take-charge boyfriend. He thought of playing that guy Joe Henry's video game yesterday—most likely wouldn't have been able to do that with Dawn along.
That guy was all right—a gamer and a Kicker to be.
"They've got two weeks, then I'm so gone. But what happens last night while I'm there? I get this call that you're in jail and need to be bailed out and I have to leave work and I'm a wreck and now I feel like shit so just let me sleep."
He gave her butt a gentle pat instead of the hard slap he wanted to.
"Will do. Sleep tight, darlin."
He returned to staring at the ceiling, wondering why he wasn't in shackles on his way back to Creighton, when her words came back to him.
… I feel like shit. . .
Could it be? Could she have morning sickness? If she did it meant for sure that a higher power was watching out for him. Freed from Creighton… released from jail last night… and now this.
He suppressed a giddy laugh.
Oh, please, yes. Pleasel
Oh, Daddy, wherever you are, this could be it!
3
They wound up on the Lower East Side, some side street off Allen, just uptown from Delancey and Chinatown. An old, old part of the city. That writer Winslow lived down here. Coincidence? Yeah, well, a lot of people lived down here—mostly Asian.
Thompson's cab stopped before an old stone building stuck amid brick-fronted tenements. A bedsheet had been strung between two second-floor windows. Someone had spray-painted the now too familiar figure of the Kicker Man on it.
This had to be one of the clubs Thompson had mentioned.
Jack had his driver cruise past and drop him around the corner.
Now what?
Was Thompson just visiting, or was this where he was crashing while in the city? He certainly could afford a hotel room, but maybe he wanted to maintain proletarian cred. Was this where he kept the Compendium?
Jack was staring at the building when a breeze caught the Kicker Man banner and flapped it up. He stiffened when he saw the carving beneath it: the Escherish seal of the Septimus Lodge.
The Lodge… that's what they'd called the one in his hometown… a secret society that supposedly predated the Masons and made them seem like an open book. Jack had sneaked into the local outpost as a kid and had a vague recollection of being unsettled by what he'd seen. Nothing like the fanciful tales whispered in the kids' underground, but definitely strange.
He hadn't known of a chapter here in New York, but why not? Should have expected one in this old part of the city. But what was their connection to Thompson? Was he a member? Or had some Lodge high-ups become Kickers? Jack doubted the latter. But for the Lodge to open its doors to outsiders… that spoke of an intimate connection.
Curiouser and curiouser.
He looked around for a vantage point with a view of the entrance. He figured a surveillance of Thompson was warranted by the Bolton connection. Probably best to set up on the same side of the street, where he wouldn't attract the attention of anyone looking out a window.
One building west he found a spot near the mouth of a narrow alley—a dead-end passage populated by half a dozen battered, empty garbage cans and most likely a colony or two of rats. But it offered a good view, and even a little sunlight. He'd worn his bomber jacket to ward off the chill of the early morning, but the day was beginning to warm.
As he waited his bladder started sending him the full-tank signal. All the coffee that had gone in wanted out, so he risked a quick trip to an Indo-Pak coffee shop down the street. Since the restroom was for customers only, he ordered some curried naan and a Pepsi.
Seated by the window, he had a narrow-angle view of the Lodge. He could have stayed but he needed to be out on the street if and when Thompson reap-peared. So he made a quick trip to the head, then scooped up his food and headed back outside, hoping he hadn't missed Thompson's departure.
He was just polishing off the Pepsi when someone appeared on the steps of the club. He was disappointed to see it wasn't Thompson, but the guy did look familiar. It took him a few seconds before his face clicked. He had bed head and a few days' worth of facial stubble, but yeah: the missing janitor from the museum.
And he was coming this way.
Jack ducked back in the alley and rearranged a couple of the garbage cans, disturbing a trio of rats in the process. They squealed and fled toward the far end. Then he yanked a small wad of bills from his pocket. He dropped a couple of singles near the mouth of the alley, a fin a few feet in, and another even farther in.