Putting his hand in his jacket pocket, on the gun, he stepped around the panel. Two of the aides, a man and a woman, were leaning on desks, talking. Through an open door, he could see Andretti, working in shirtsleeves behind a green goosenecked lamp. There was at least one more person in his office with him.

When he came around the panel, the woman didn't notice him for a moment, but the man saw him and frowned slightly. Then the woman turned her head and said, "I'm sorry, we're closed."

Hood took his hand from his pocket, with the gun in it, and said, "Don't say a word or make a sound. Just walk into Mr. Andretti's office."

"Oh, no," said the woman. The man clenched his fists and slipped off the desk.

Hood pointed the gun at his head and said, "I don't want to kill you, but I will. Now walk." He had now moved out of Andretti's line of sight. "Move," he said.

They moved reluctantly, toward Andretti's office. "If you do anything, if you touch a door, if you say anything, I will shoot you," Hood said quietly as they approached Andretti's office.

The man stepped inside, followed by the woman. Hood said, "Off to the side." The man said, "Boss, we've got a problem." Andretti looked up and said, "Oh, shit."

A woman was slumped in a chair in front of Andretti's desk, her face caught in a smile which seeped away when she saw Hood; Hood thought the word seeped, because of the slowness with which it left. As though she didn't want to disturb him. As though she wanted to think it was a joke.

"Where's the secretary?" Hood asked Andretti.

"She went home early," Andretti said. "Listen, my friend…"

"Be quiet. We've got some business to do, but I have to arrange these people first. I don't want them rushing me while we talk."

"If you've got a problem…"

"I've got a problem, all right," Hood interrupted. "It's how to keep from shooting one of these people if they don't do what I say. I want you to all lay down, facedown, on the rug against that wall."

"How do we know you won't shoot us?"

"Because I promise not to. I don't want to hurt you. But I promise I will shoot you if you don't get down on the floor."

"Do it," Andretti ordered.

The three backed away toward the wall, then sat down.

"Roll over, facedown," Hood said. They flattened themselves out, one of the women craning her neck to see him. "Look at the rug, lady, okay?"

When they were staring at the rug, Hood moved slowly around Andretti's desk. Andretti was a big man, and young; early thirties. No more than thirty-five.

"Let me explain what I'm about to do, Mr. Andretti," Hood said as he moved. He and Bluebird and the others had thought this out, and decided that lying would be best. "I'm going to put some cuffs on you and then I'm going to make some phone calls downtown on behalf of my people. I'm going to put the cuffs on because I don't want you causing trouble. If everybody cooperates, nobody gets hurt. Do you understand?"

"I understand what you're saying, but I don't understand what you want."

"We'll talk that out," Hood said reassuringly. He was behind Andretti, and he reached out and touched him on the temple with the barrel of the pistol. "Put your hands behind your back, clasp them."

When Andretti had done that, Hood said, "Now, look straight back. No, arch your back and tilt your head back. I want to show you this before I do it."

"What?" Andretti asked, dropping his head straight back.

"This," Hood said. He'd changed the gun for the knife, caught Andretti's hair in his left hand and slashed him with the stone, cutting deeper, much deeper, much fiercer, than he had with the doe.

"Ahh," he grunted as the blood spurted from Andretti's neck. Andretti's hands pounded on his desk and he began coughing, choking, looking for Hood. One of the women half sat, saw Andretti and screamed. Hood fired a single shot at her white face and she dropped down. He didn't know whether he had hit her or not, but the man now rolled and the other woman began scrambling across the rug. Hood hollered "Stop" and fired a shot into the man's back. The man arched and Hood was out the door, down the hallway and in the stairwell, running, the screams fading as doors closed.

Gun in pocket, knife in pocket, first landing down. He looked at his hands. Clean. Looked at his pants. Clean. Blood on his shirt, a spot on his jacket. He pulled the jacket shut, third landing down. Ground floor. Into the lobby. Guard at the desk, looking up. Past the guard, into the street. Down a block. Into the subway. The token. Wait. Wait. Wait for running feet, shouts, cops, but nothing but the damp smell of the subway and the clatter of an approaching train.

It took him an hour to get back to Jersey. A half-hour after that, he was in his car, heading west into the setting sun.

In Oklahoma City, Leo Clark stood outside the federal courthouse and looked up. Scouting. The stone blade hung heavy around his neck.

Jennifer came out of the bathroom, still naked. She was tall, slender, small-breasted and blonde; she had dark eyebrows under her champagne bangs and blue eyes that sometimes, when she was angry, went the color of river ice. Lucas hooked her with his arm as she passed the bed, and pulled her stomach into his face.

"That was nice," he said. "We should do it more often."

"I'm here," she said.

Lucas nuzzled her stomach and she pushed his head away.

"You're messing with my flab."

"It's all gone."

"No, it's not." Jennifer flipped on the room light, pushed the door shut and pirouetted in the full-length mirror mounted on the back. "I've got tummy-stretch and butt-hang. I can handle the butt. The tummy is tough."

"You goddamn yuppie women have the weirdest enthusiasms," Lucas said lazily, lying back on the bed, watching her. "You look perfect."

She skipped past him, eluding his arm, and took a cotton nightgown off the dresser. "I can't decide whether you're just naturally full of shit or unnaturally horny," she said as she slipped it over her head.

Lucas shrugged, grinned and leaned back on the oversize pillow. "Whichever it is, it works. I get laid a lot."

"I should kick you out of here, Davenport," Jennifer said. "I… Is that the baby?"

He listened and heard the baby's low crying from the next room. "Yup."

"Time to eat," Jennifer said.

They had never married, but Lucas and Jennifer Carey had an infant daughter. Lucas pressed for a wedding. Jennifer said maybe-sometime. Not now. She lived with the baby in a suburban townhouse south of Minneapolis, fifteen minutes from Lucas' house in St. Paul.

Lucas rolled off the bed and followed Jennifer into the baby's room. The moment the door opened, Sarah stopped crying and began to gurgle.

"She's wet," Jennifer said when she picked her up. She handed Sarah to Lucas. "You change her. I'll go heat up the glop."

Lucas carried Sarah to the changing table, pulled the tape-tabs loose from the diaper and tossed the diaper in a disposal can. He whistled while he worked, and the baby peered at him in fascination, once or twice pursing her lips as though she were about to start whistling herself. Lucas cleaned her bottom with wet-wipes, tossed the wipes after the diaper, powdered her and put a new diaper on her. By the time he finished, Sarah was bubbling with delight.

"Jesus Christ, you are positively dangerous around anything female," Jennifer said from the doorway.

Lucas laughed, picked up Sarah and bounced her on the palm of one hand. The baby chortled and grabbed his nose with surprising power.

"Whoa, whoa, wet go ub Daddy's nose…" Jennifer said he sounded like Elmer Fudd when he spoke in baby talk. Sarah whacked him in the eye with her other hand.