"Yeah," Griff grunted.

"Seems like every time the guy comes to Chicago it gets worse," Laymon went on. "That Bolan's like a blizzard. You hope for the best and wait for it to move on."

"I wish he had just left us alone," Griff said with sudden vehemence.

Laymon glanced sharply at his partner, then gazed across the room of ringing phones and men taking in new reports at the map of central Chicago on the wall, multicolored pins denoting the scenes of action since Bolan had made his presence known earlier that night at the New Age Center.

"At least he hasn't wasted anybody yet who didn't deserve it."

Griff reached for his roll of antacid tablets again.

"Ah, hell," he rumbled. "What does it really matter, anyway?"

Laymon had never heard Griff talk like that. There was a fatalistic tone in the older man's voice that surprised Laymon, and worried him.

"Uh, look Les," he ventured, "if something's bothering you, if there's anything you want to talk about..."

Griff cut him off with an abrupt wave of his hand.

"Nothing to worry about, kid. Everything's under control, really. Except for this damn Bolan situation, and there's not a whole lot we can do about that, much as we'd like to. You say it's like a blizzard. I say a whirlwind is more like it. There's no way in hell of knowing where he'll strike next, damn him."

"Right." Laymon nodded, trying to sound casual. "Say, who was that you were talking to on the phone a minute ago?"

Might as well ask it straight out, he thought.

Griff grimaced, trying to hide the expression.

"Uh, I was just checking in with Kathleen, making sure she was all right. Thought I'd better tell her it looks like we'll be here most of the night."

A plausible enough answer, Laymon thought.

It was also a lie.

He wasn't sure how he knew, but his gut told him that Griff was lying. Les hadn't been talking to his wife.

Laymon started to wonder if he should go downstairs and have a long talk with the guys in Internal Affairs.

But if he did, what would he tell them? Hey, guys, my partner's acting screwy? What cop didn't act screwy from time to time, especially an Org Crime cop with the Executioner chewing up everything in sight? There could be a good reason for Les's unusual behavior and not necessarily an illegal one, Laymon assured himself.

Laymon was not sure he wanted to place his life in Griff's hands anymore, not the way he had been acting, all moody and sullen and preoccupied during the past few weeks.

It was a hell of a thing to contemplate, all right, especially coming at the same time as all this Bolan trouble.

But it was a decision Laymon knew he was going to have to make.

"What do you think you are doing? ''

Denise Parelli looked up from the desk, over the stacks of files and record books piled there.

"I'm getting this material together so we can destroy it," she snapped. "And that's no way to talk to your mother."

David Parelli swaggered into the room that served as his mother's office on the ground floor of the Parelli home.

Denise Parelli was proud of her son's good looks. As she stared at him, she saw the close resemblance he bore to the only man she had ever really loved, his father, her deceased husband, Vito.

Well, maybe it wasn't exactly love, Denise reflected, but Vito was the only man who had ever come close to earning her respect. David did not have the animal something inside that Vito had had. David tried, and he was feared by others, but not by her.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of the cops getting hold of that," David sneered, parking himself on the corner of the desk. "We've been running rings around the law and we'll keep right on doing it."

"It's not the police I'm worried about."

"Bolan?" David laughed. "The guy's overrated."

She stared at him for a long moment.

"Son or no son, David, sometimes I wonder where you got your brain. I told you that Bolan was here tonight."

His eyes dropped before her glare.

"Uh, yeah, well, I'm sorry about that, Ma, I should have had the security here beefed up."

"What was the trouble tonight at the yacht club?" she asked him. "That was Bolan, too, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, it was."

"He must have gone there right after he left this house. Why would he do that unless he picked up some sort of clue from here? He didn't find you at the yacht club, did he?"

"You know he didn't, Ma, you know where I was."

She nodded.

"It was a trap for Bolan. And to set it, you had to guess he was coming here. You knew I was here with Randy, and you didn't beef up security."

He chuckled nervously.

"Hey, Ma, I knew you'd handle yourself. It was Bolan who had to watch himself."

"He roughed up Randy pretty bad."

David sneered.

"That little pretty boy twerp had it coming."

Denise Parelli tried to tell herself that she did not discern jealousy in her son's voice and eyes.

"Look, David," she said, "we have a lot of trouble here. If we're not careful Bolan will bring the whole operation down on top of us. We've got to cover our tracks."

"What about tonight's... shipment?"

"That will go out as scheduled. We'll just move up the time a little bit. I've already spoken to Wallace. He'll see to it. But after that, I think we need to let things cool down for a while before we do any more."

David shook his head.

"You're letting Bolan stampede you," he scoffed. "We can handle him. He drops a couple of marksman's medals around town and expects everyone to crap in their pants. Not me, Ma."

"I looked into his eyes, David," said Denise. "I saw what we're up against. And I knew a lot of people who tried to handle Bolan. They're all dead. Besides, you did not exactly strike me as the soul of bravery once you found out the Executioner was in town and looking for you."

"I've got men to take care of that sort of thing." David's face flushed with sudden anger. "What do you want me to do? You want me to get a gun and go face Bolan down in the street like some goddamn cowboy?"

"No, David. I don't want that. I don't want you dead."

Parelli's fist slammed down on the desktop.

"Then tell me what the hell I'm supposed to do!"

She couldn't help but smile slightly at that.

Senator Dutton had used those exact words when he called to tell her that Bolan had cornered him in the hotel.

So did Randy Owens when he finally got around to calling her after that business down on Rush Street.

Everyone looked to her for direction, it seemed.

That was the way it had been with David's father, after the cancer got too bad for Vito to function, she recalled. On the surface her husband had still been the strong, fear-inspiring don of the Parelli family.

But inside he had been unsure, full of doubt born of the pain and his own mortality staring him down.

Vito the Butcher had never expected the woman whom he had married strictly as a showpiece and to give him an heir, to possess the intelligence and business sense she had demonstrated, let along the ruthless drive that gradually turned her from adviser to the true head of the family.

She had retained that position when the leadership role had been thrust on David at the tender age of twenty-four. She had steered her son and the family business successfully ever since, through senate investigations and takeover tries from rival organizations, but always with herself in the background and the world thinking her son called the shots.

Things had not been going all that well lately between mother and son, however, she reflected, David had always had a streak of rebelliousness in his heart, and this Bolan thing was bringing it out even more. He was restless to run things on his own, but if he did he would make a mess out of them, she was sure of that. But she knew he could be handled and how to get him to do the things she wanted him to do.