Then he pulled out his Spyderco, flicked open the four-inch combination blade, and crouched behind the garbage cans to wait. If the mark was preoccupied or looking somewhere else, he'd miss the bait. Jack was betting a recently out-of-work janitor wouldn't.
He didn't. Jack heard footsteps stop at the mouth of the alley, then move closer. He hid the knife and let his head fall forward on his knees.
The footsteps stopped in front of him. He felt a poke and heard a voice say, "Hey, buddy. You all right?" Another poke. "Hey."
Jack remained immobile until he felt a hand worm its way into his jacket pocket. Then he moved, grabbing a handful of the guy's lanky hair and yanking him down. The janitor landed on his knees, face inches from Jack's, eyes bulging as the knife point pressed against his throat.
"Hey, I was just checking if you was all right!"
"Shut up!" Jack kept his voice menacingly low. "You have something of mine."
"No, I ain't! I never seen you before in my life!"
Jack pressed the point deeper. "Shut up! You speak when I tell you to, otherwise you'll never speak again. Got that?"
The guy nodded as best he could. He'd bought the threat and looked scared. Jack thought about this creep snatching the book—most likely from right under the unconscious professor—and taking off without letting anyone know the old guy was in trouble. He could almost see himself following through with the threat, slicing through his larynx and—
He shook it off.
"What's your name? Speak."
"M-Marty."
"All right, M-Marty, listen up. There's a book missing from the museum where you used to work. That book wasn't the museum's, it was mine, and 1
want it back. And since you stole it, I've come to you to get it." Jack had been watching his pupils. They suddenly constricted. Yep. He was the one. "Now, I don't want to hear any denials, like you telling me you don't know what I'm talking about, because I know you do. The cops are looking for you and you probably thought it would be a bad thing if they found you. But something far worse has happened. / found you first. The cops don't care about getting the book back. I do. Very much."
Had he laid it on thick enough? Yeah, probably.
"So, when I give you permission to speak, you'll tell me where it is and then we'll decide how you're going to get it back to me. Got that?"
Another nod.
"Good. Now speak."
"Look, I swear I didn't—ow!"
Jack gave him a little jab, just enough to break the skin.
"Remember what I said about denials."
"I know, I know. I was just saying that I didn't know it belonged to anyone. I thought it was just the museum's."
Jack refrained from getting into the basic distinction between mine and not-mine, but it might prove too esoteric for Marty.
"I saw it and I don't know what came over me. I only boosted small stuff before. I knew there was gonna be trouble, but…"
"But you saw the Kicker Man and just had to have it, right?"
The eyes widened along with the pupils this time. "How'd you know?"
"Where've you got it stashed?"
He flinched. "I… I gave it away."
"I know—to Hank Thompson."
The eyes widened further. "How do you know this shit?"
"Be surprised what I know."
Easy to figure, what with Marty and Thompson in the same building.
"Now—"
His phone started ringing. Who—?
Probably Levy again.
"You gonna get that?" Marty said.
Jack shook his head. "Later. Now, as I was saying, the question is, are you or are you not going to return my book to me? Think carefully before you answer."
"I'd love to, mister, I really would, but Hank ain't gonna part with it. He loves that book."
"You know where he keeps it?"
"Yeah. In his room, on the top floor."
Thank you for that tidbit.
"Well, steal it back. You stole from me, now steal from Thompson." He hardened his voice. "You're not going to tell me you won't do that, are you?"
"No-no-no! I'll do it! I'll do it!"
"Great."
Jack rose, pulling him to his feet. He put the knife away, straightened Marty's clothes, then pushed him toward the sidewalk.
"Get to it. I'll be waiting."
Marty looked as if he couldn't believe his luck. He rubbed the back of his hand against his throat, glanced at the smear of blood on his skin, then back at Jack.
"You're letting me go?"
"Yeah. How else are you going to get me my book?" He shooed him away. "Move-move-move. I'll be waiting."
Marty moved.
Jack peeked out the mouth of the alley and watched him dash back to the Lodge and up the steps. As soon as he disappeared inside, Jack stepped out onto the sidewalk and hurried the other way.
Yeah, he'd be waiting, but he hadn't said where.
4
Back at the Indo-Pak shop he grabbed a window seat and watched the street while listening to a pair of forever-virgin college kids at a nearby table argue whether Spider-Man could beat Wolverine in a fight. He checked his phone, recognized Levy's number, and called him back.
"Where are you?"
"On Centre Street. Where are you?"
"I moved." He glanced at the menu and gave Levy the address. "Meet me outside."
He watched the Lodge. In less than a minute Thompson appeared leading half a dozen men—Marty among them—wielding two-by-fours and other im-provised clubs. They charged down the sidewalk and into the alley. A few seconds later they reemerged and stood in a group, talking and looking up and down the street.
Finally they all trooped back into their building. Thompson was the last to go in. He stood on the steps and scanned the street one more time.
Upset, Mr. Thompson? Rattled?
Hope so.
Levy's Infiniti showed up shortly after, pulling in by the fire hydrant in front of the coffee shop. Jack hurried out and jumped into the passenger seat.
Levy looked at him. "Where do we go from here?"
"We stay put."
"But the hydrant—"
"If there's a fire, we'll move. A meter maid comes by, we'll move. Otherwise we stick. I'm watching for someone."
"Who?"
Jack wondered if he should tell him. Hell, why not.
"Hank Thompson."
Levy's eyebrows shot up above the frame of his glasses. "Isn't that interesting. Just the man I want to talk to you about."
Damn right it was interesting, but Jack wanted to talk about someone else.
"First tell me how Bolton slipped past the NYPD? Didn't they print him?"
Levy nodded. "Of course they did. But when they ran those prints they came up empty."
"How is that possi—?"
"The agency had Bolton's record removed from ViCAP and the Atlanta PD and anywhere else it might be."
Jack whistled through his teeth. "You said they were connected, but… man."
"Yeah. That's why you don't want to get on their wrong side."
Amen to that, brudda.
He swallowed his disappointment—his perfect fix had flopped—and moved on.
"What've you got on Hank Thompson?"
"I looked up his file last night. He'd been strongly positive for oDNA in our earlier tests. So I had the lab dig out his old blood samples we've kept frozen all these years and run them through our latest quantifying protocols."
"And?"
Levy smiled. "Through the roof."
"As high as Bolton?"
The smile broadened. He was starting to look like the Cheshire cat. Jack wondered whv.
"His equal. They're neck and neck. Plus Thompson has the trigger gene as well."