“Don’t touch him,” Maya said. The men laughed and she took a few steps forward, moving into the killing zone.

“What country are you from?” Silver Buckle asked. “Sounds like England or something like that. Around here, women let their men do their own fighting.”

“Hey, I want her involved,” said Big Arms. “She’s got a nice little body.”

Maya felt the Harlequin coldness overcome her heart. Instinctively, her eyes measured distances and trajectories between herself and the four targets. Her face was dead-unemotional-but she tried to make her words as clear and distinct as possible. “If you touch him, I will destroy you.”

“Oh, I’m real scared.”

Shaved Head glanced at his friend and grinned. “You’re in big trouble, Russ! Little Missy looks mad! Better watch out!”

Gabriel turned to Maya. And, for the first time, he seemed to be in control of their relationship: like a Traveler commanding his Harlequin. “No, Maya! Do you hear me? I order you not to-”

He was half turned toward her, ignoring the danger, and Shaved Head raised the baseball bat. Maya jumped on a stool, then onto the counter. With two long steps, she ran past the ketchup and mustard containers, jabbed her right leg forward, and kicked Shaved Head in the throat. He spat and made a gurgling sound, but still held the bat. Maya grabbed the end of it and jumped down, wrenching it out of his hand with one motion, then swinging the bat at his head with a second motion. There was a loud cracking sound and he fell forward.

At the edge of her vision, she saw Gabriel fighting with Silver Buckle. She ran toward Kathy, holding the bat with her right hand and pulling out the stiletto with her left hand. Fat Boy looked terrified. He raised his arms like a soldier surrendering in battle and she drove the point of the stiletto through his palm, pinning his hand to the wooden paneling. The citizen gave a high-pitched scream, but she ignored him and continued toward Big Arms. Fake to the head, but swing lower. Break the right knee. Crack. Splinter. Then follow through to the head. Her target fell forward and she spun around. Silver Buckle was on the floor, unconscious. Gabriel had finished him off. Fat Boy was whimpering as she marched toward him.

“No,” he said. “Please, God. No.” And with one swing of the bat, she took him out. As he fell facedown, he ripped the knife out of the wall.

Maya dropped the bat, leaned over, and pulled out the stiletto. It was stained with blood, so she wiped it off on Fat Boy’s shirt. When she straightened up, the extreme clarity of combat began to fade away. Five bodies lay on the floor. She had defended Gabriel, but no one was dead.

Kathy stared at Maya as if she were a ghost. “You go away,” she said. “Just go away. Because I’m calling the sheriff in one minute. Don’t worry. If you go south, I’ll say you went north. I’ll change your car and everything.”

Gabriel went out the door first and Maya followed him. As she passed the coyote, she undid the latch and opened the door of the cage. At first the animal didn’t move, as if he had lost his memory of freedom. Maya kept walking and glanced over her shoulder. He was still in his prison. “Go ahead!” she shouted. “It’s your only chance!”

As she started up the van, the coyote walked cautiously out of the cage and surveyed the dirt parking lot. The loud roar of Gabriel’s motorcycle startled the animal. He jumped to one side, recovered his nonchalant attitude, and trotted past the diner.

Gabriel didn’t look at Maya as he turned back onto the road. There were no more smiles and waves, no graceful S curves across the broken white line. She had protected Gabriel-saved him-but somehow her actions seemed to push them farther apart. At that moment she knew with absolute certainty that no one would ever love her or heal her pain. Like her father, she would die surrounded by enemies. Die alone.

Wearing a surgical mask and gown, Lawrence Takawa stood in one corner of the operating room. The new building at the center of the research quadrangle still wasn’t equipped for a medical procedure. A temporary installation had been set up in the basement of the library.

He watched as Michael Corrigan lay down on the surgical table. Miss Yang, the nurse, came over with a heated blanket and folded it around his legs. Earlier that day, she had shaved all the hair off Michael’s head. He looked like an army recruit who had just started basic training.

Dr. Richardson and Dr. Lau, the anesthesiologist brought in from Taiwan, finished preparing for the operation. A needle was inserted into Michael’s arm, and the plastic IV tube was attached to a sterile solution. They had already taken X-ray and MRI images of Michael’s brain at a private clinic in Westchester County that was controlled by the Brethren. Miss Yang clipped the film to light boxes at one end of the room.

Richardson looked down at his patient. “How are you feeling, Michael?”

“Is this going to be painful?”

“Not really. We’re using anesthesia for safety reasons. During the procedure, your head needs to be completely immobile.”

“What if something goes wrong and this injures my brain?”

“It’s just a minor procedure, Michael. There’s no reason for concern,” Lawrence said.

Richardson nodded to Dr. Lau and the IV tube was attached to a plastic syringe. “All right. Here we go. Start counting backward from a hundred.”

In ten seconds, Michael was unconscious and breathing evenly. With the nurse’s help, Richardson attached a steel clamp to Michael’s skull and tightened the padded screws. Even if Michael’s body went into convulsions, his head wouldn’t move.

“Map time,” Richardson told the nurse. Miss Yang handed him a flexible steel ruler and a black felt-tip pen, and the neurologist spent the next twenty minutes drawing a grid on the top of Michael’s head. He checked his work twice, then marked eight separate spots for an incision.

For several years neurologists had been placing permanent electrodes into the brains of patients suffering from depression. This deep-brain stimulation allowed doctors to turn a knob, inject a small amount of electricity into the tissue, and instantly change a person’s mood. One of Richardson’s patients-a young baker named Elaine-preferred setting two on the electronic meter when she was home watching television, but liked to turn her brain up to setting five if she was working hard to create a wedding cake. The same technology that helped scientists stimulate the brain would be used to track Michael’s neural energy.

“Did I tell him the truth?” Lawrence asked.

Dr. Richardson glanced across the room. “What do you mean?”

“Can the procedure damage his brain?”

“If you want to monitor someone’s neurological activity with a computer, then you have to insert sensors into the brain. Electrodes attached to the outside of the skull wouldn’t be as effective. In fact, they might give you conflicting data.”

“But won’t the wires destroy his brain cells?”

“We all have millions of brain cells, Mr. Takawa. Perhaps the patient will forget how to pronounce the word Constantinople or he might lose the name of the girl who sat next to him in a high-school math class. It’s not important.”

When he was satisfied with the incision points, Dr. Richardson sat on a stool beside the operating table and studied the top of Michael’s head. “More light,” he said, and Miss Yang adjusted the surgical lamp. Dr. Lau stood a few feet away, watching a monitor screen and tracking Michael’s vital signs.

“Everything okay?”

Dr. Lau checked Michael’s heartbeat and respiration. “You can proceed.”

Richardson lowered a bone drill attached to an adjustable arm and carefully cut a small hole in Michael’s skull. There was a high-pitched grinding noise; it sounded like the machinery in a dentist’s office.