Arlene took her time choosing where to wait—she didn't want to be spotted by a mall security patrol and picked up—and finally decided on a spot far back near the Dumpsters, between two old cars that had obviously been parked there all night She settled in, lowered the window, and lit a Marlboro.

It was about twenty minutes later, just about eleven P.M., when the van entered the parking lot, circled once—Arlene slid low in her seat, out of sight—and then parked near the four workers' cars closer to the front door of the silent mall. Because the vehicle was at right angles to Arlene's Buick, she was able to use the binoculars to check it out.

It was a pest control van. On its side was a cartoon of a long-nosed insect gasping and falling in a cartoon cloud of pesticide. The driver had not emerged. His face was in shadow, but Arlene kept the binoculars trained on his silhouette until he leaned forward over the steering wheel to peer at the shopping mall, and for a moment the tall, mall lights illuminated him clearly.

For an instant, Arlene thought that the man's face was wildly tattooed or covered with white streaks and swirls. Then she realized that it was covered with burn scars. He was wearing a baseball cap, but his eyes caught the sodium vapor lamps and seemed to glow orangely, like a cat's.

As Arlene sat there, transfixed, the binoculars steady, the burned man's head suddenly turned her way—swiveling as smoothly as an owl's—and he stared directly at her.

Kurtz didn't know why he agreed to follow Angelina Farino Ferrara to her home atop Marina Towers.

He told himself that it was because he knew that Detective Paul Kemper might be hunting for him in the next few hours, almost certainly knowing that Rigby King had started her day with Kurtz and wondering now where the hell she was.

He told himself that it was because he really needed Angelina to agree to do what he'd asked for earlier, and it was not time to offend her. His life might depend on her decision.

He told himself that it was because he was hungry.

In the end, he told himself that he was full of shit.

The dinner—perfectly grilled steak, just rare enough, fresh salad with some sort of mustardy dressing, baked potatoes, fresh and crisply prepared green beans, fresh bread, tall glasses of ice water—was fantastic. It didn't even make Kurtz want to throw up again, which was more than he could say about any food he'd had since the previous Wednesday.

Angelina had insisted, and he hadn't resisted, on Kurtz showering, shaving, brushing his teeth, and getting into clean clothes before dinner. The punishingly hot shower—Angelina had installed no fewer than three pounding nozzles in this huge, glass-enclosed guest room shower—made Kurtz ache all the worse, but he almost fell asleep standing there. When he came out of the bathroom naked, he found his old rags gone and the fresh clothes laid out on the bed: an expensive silk, black turtleneck that seemed to weigh nothing, a butter-soft pair of black tweed pants that fit as if someone had tailored them for him, a new belt, clean socks, and black Mephisto boots in his size. There was also a black, uninsulated windshell-parka on the bed; Kurtz tried it on and found that it was made of some soft fabric that didn't crinkle or make any nylon noise when he moved—a factor that might be important in the next few hours.

Kurtz had tossed the windshell back onto the guest bed and gone out to the main room of the penthouse to eat dinner.

"Normally we'd have wine," said Angelina, lighting a candle, "but we're not going to mix that with the pills I'm going to give you when you wake up."

"Wake up?" said Kurtz, glancing at his watch—the only thing other than his wallet that he'd kept.

"You need to sleep a couple of hours before we leave tonight."

"You're going?" said Kurtz. It had been agreed that the Gonzagas and the Farinos would "each contribute two people" to the night's foray, but Kurtz hadn't heard Angelina or the other don specify that they were going.

Now Angelina just raised an eyebrow at Kurtz. Finally, as she was passing the steak, she said, "It wouldn't be much of that promised bonding experience if Toma and I didn't both go, now would it?"

They ate in silence at the polished rosewood table near the freestanding fireplace. Angelina's penthouse filled the entire top story of Marina Towers and there were few viewblocking walls in the central living and dining areas. Over the woman's shoulder, Kurtz could see the lights of ships out in Lake Erie and entering the Niagara River, and behind him, the electric skyline of Buffalo became brighter as the drizzle ended and the clouds lifted. By the time they were finished with dessert—a flaky apple cobbler—Kurtz could see the stars and crescent moon between the scudding clouds.

She led him to a corner on the Lake side where another gas fireplace burned. The chairs and a broad couch here were in a conversation cluster, but Angelina tossed the couch cushions onto the thick carpet behind the couch, pulled a pillow and two blankets from a cupboard, lay one blanket on the broad couch and set the other on the back. "It's only a little after eight," she said. "You need to get some sleep."

"I don't…" began Kurtz.

"Shut up, Kurtz," she said. Then, more softly, "You don't know what a fucking wreck you are. My life may depend on you tonight, and I can't trust a zombie."

Kurtz looked at the couch doubtfully.

"I'll wake you in plenty of time," said Angelina Farino Ferrara. "Right now I have to take the elevator down one floor and decide which of my merry men gets to go with me on our half-assed expedition tonight."

"What are your criteria?" asked Kurtz. A long, lighted ship moved slowly toward the southwest out on the Lake.

"Smart but not too smart," said Angelina. "Able to kill when he has to, but also able to know when not to. Most of all, expendable." She gestured toward the couch as she walked away. "In other words, I'm looking for another Joe Kurtz."

When she was gone, Kurtz thought for a minute, then took off his new Mephisto boots, set the alarm on his watch, and lay down on the couch for a minute. He wouldn't sleep—a couple of hours would just make him more tired—but it felt good just to lie here for a few minutes and let the pounding in his head back off a bit.

Kurtz woke to Angelina shaking his shoulder. His watch was buzzing but he'd slept through it. He looked at the glowing dial—11:10. Kurtz wasn't sure he'd ever felt so groggy. He tried to focus on the woman, but she was now also wearing all black, and all he could see in the dim firelight was her glowing face.

"Here," she said, offering him a glass of water and two blue pills.

"Don't worry about it. Just take them. I was serious about you needing to be conscious enough to be worth hauling along tonight."

He swallowed the pills, put on his boots, and went into the guest room bathroom to use the facilities and splash water on his face. When he came out, wearing the wind-breaker shell with his cell phone in the pocket—he'd left Gonzaga's at the office—Angelina was holding a 9mm Browning semi-auto.

"Here," she said, handing it to him. "Ten in the magazine, one already up the spout." She handed him two extra clips and an expensive belt holster, its leather the smoothest Kurtz had ever felt.

Kurtz slipped the extra magazines into the windbreaker's pocket and attached the holster on the left side of his belt under the unbuttoned windshell, the Browning's grip backward where he could reach across his body for it. It was his fastest pull.

They drove to the rendezvous site in two SUVs—Angelina driving one and the goomba she'd chosen, a lean, serious-looking bodyguard named Campbell, following in the other. Kurtz had asked for one van or SUV to use as an ambulance if he got Rigby back alive. Or as a hearse if he didn't.