"We weren't speaking of the staff."

"—did they do any testing on you?"

"Sure. Blood tests, x-rays, psychological tests up the wazoo. Where's this going?"

"Did they perform any experiments on you?"

"What do you think I was living—a grade-Z horror movie?" He glanced at his watch. "Sorry. Gotta run. More interviews scheduled."

Yeah, right.

Jack rose and retrieved his recorder. "Same here. Gotta get back to Trenton and type this up. By the way, got a title for your next project?"

Like, maybe, Punt?

"Haven't decided what to write next, but I'm sure it will come to me."

They shook hands, assured each other it had been a pleasure, then Jack headed back to the street.

Not a wasted trip. He'd learned a few things about Hank Thompson.

First off, he was a little scary. A hint of Manson lurking beneath the Morrison.

Second, he'd seen the Compendium. Jack didn't know if he'd come up with the Kicker Man figure on his own, or from an earlier peek at the Compendium,

but the look in rus eyes when Jack mentioned the metallic cover… he'd seen it… maybe even had it now.

Third, he was defensive about the Creighton Institute. Maybe it was the "for the Criminally Insane" part that bothered him, but Jack had a feeling it might be something else. Something he didn't want made public.

Jack saw another trip to Rathburg in his future. The very near future.

5

"Who was that son of a bitch?" Hank said as he barged into Susan Abrams's office without knocking.

She jumped in her seat and looked up at him.

"Who? That reporter?"

"Who else would I mean? Did you check him out?"

"Well, no—"

He felt like strangling her.

"Damn it, isn't that part of your job?"

She blinked. "We—we don't vet every reporter who requests an interview. What happened?"

"Never mind that. Just call his paper—the Trenton whatever it is—and check on him."

"But—"

"Now!"

He paced back and forth outside her door—no room for it in her tiny office—as she fumbled with this and that trying to get in touch with the paper.

John Tyleski… he'd bet his next six months of royalties that guy was no reporter. Because a simple everyday reporter from a hick paper in Trenton wouldn't know about the Compendium of Srem. Hank had known about it for only a couple of days himself.

What a find!

And all because one Marty Pinter, a janitor at the museum, just happened to notice the Kicker Man in an ancient book on the desk of a professor who just happened to have had a stroke; and Marty, who just happened to be a

Kicker himself, decided that the old book belonged in the hands oi the Alpha Kicker.

Almost as if Fate had been pulling a few strings…

Hank had known at first sight it was a hell of a find—especially with the Kicker Man big as life inside. The book called the figure something else, something unpronounceable beginning with a Q, but no matter. Hank was itching to go through that Compendium with a fine-tooth comb and learn all he could from it, but he had no time, damn it. He'd had it almost three days now and he'd only been able to skim the surface. If he wasn't doing interviews and radio and TV, he was speaking at Kicker rallies. He didn't have a life of his own anymore.

Well, he'd make time. He had a feeling it was going to be very important to his future, and the future of the Kickers.

Maybe it would give him a hint of where they were going. He wanted to know because he had no idea where this movement he'd started was headed.

No way he'd ever admit that, but it was true. Sometimes he'd wake up at night bathed in sweat, scared by the numbers of people responding to his words, to his book—joining Kicker clubs all over the country, paying dues, donating money.

Every few days, for maybe a few seconds, he missed his old life before he got inspired to write the book. His job in the slaughterhouse had alternated between being a "knocker"—shooting the steel bolt into the cow's head to knock it out—and a sticker—slitting the cow's throat after it was hung upside down by a leg from the overhead rail.

Hot bloody work, dressed head to foot in a yellow rubber suit that was red after the first ten minutes of the shift, but very satisfying in some ways. At least he'd known what he was doing. Now…

He had to trust in whatever had brought him this far. He felt like a human antenna, receiving signals from someplace far off in the universe. He sensed it most when he was speaking. The words, the rising and falling in volume, the gestures, they just came to him. And as for writing the book… he'd never been much of a reader, but the words had just flowed from him through his pen and onto the backs of flyers or envelopes until he'd graduated to yellow pads.

He hoped to hell whatever had inspired and guided him this far would take him to the next step.

The question that nagged him the most was, Why me?

He made a point of coming on strong and confident in public, but in private he hadn't the vaguest clue what he'd tapped into. He knew it was powerful, and he knew his words were appealing to others like him, sending out some sort of vibe that was picked up by their own antennas. They all seemed tuned to the same wavelength, but was his the most sensitive? Was he the alpha antenna who broadcast to the rest?

He wished he knew.

But what he did know was that this was the greatest high he'd ever experienced. Pot, coke, crank—he'd tried them all, but nothing compared to bringing a crowd to its feet and hearing them clap and yell and whistle and stomp their feet. He'd thrown out the drugs, vowing never to touch them again—not because he was no longer interested, but because a bust could land him in the slammer, cutting him off from his audience, his people.

The money was rolling in and the women were rolling over—as long as they liked it rough, that was fine. He felt like a goddamn rock star. The sky was the limit.

This reporter, though… this John Tyleski… he'd become a little cloud in that sky.

He turned back to the publicity bitch just as she was hanging up.

"Well?"

Susan Abrams chewed her upper lip and looked miserable. "That was the managing editor of the Trenton Times."

"And?"

She cringed. "There is no John Tyleski on their staff."

"What?"

He'd sensed it, suspected it, but to hear it from this stupid bitch's mouth…

"You've got to understand," she said, "this was an interview conducted in our own offices. We wouldn't normally—"

"What if he'd been some nut with a knife or a gun?"

"I'm terribly sorry about—" she began as she started to rise.

Hank shoved her back into her seat. "Damn right you are, you stupid, useless bitch! You're finished. I'm getting someone else for PR—someone who knows what she's doing."

She began to cry and that only made him want to smash a fist into her blubbering face. But he held back—last thing he needed was an A-and-B charge. He stomped out, leaving her sobbing at her desk.

Count yourself lucky, honey.

He went back to the conference room and slammed the door behind him. He stood there until his anger faded a little.

What had happened in here?

Pretending to be a journalist was a good way to get close to a celebrity or someone with notoriety, into places other folks weren't allowed. Hank should know—he'd been playing that card for years.

Hank knew why he'd done it, but what had Tyleski—bet the ranch that wasn't his name—wanted? Was he looking for that old book—to get it back for the professor? No biggy then. He'd never find it. And with Pinter hidden away in the Lodge downtown, he'd never find the thief either.

But the questions about Creighton bothered him. In all his interviews, lots of folks had asked about the events leading up to getting sent to Creighton, but this was the first time anyone had asked about what had gone on inside. This guy had asked about tests and, worse, about keeping in touch with anyone he'd met inside. What had made him ask that? If he knew something he shouldn't, could be big trouble brewing.