That's what they would have thought, unless they noticed he was sitting in a pool of his own blood.

Keith took the stairs down to the subway station two at a time, fishing in his pocket for money. He had no idea how much a subway token cost now-it had been twenty years since the last time he'd ridden one. He glanced around for the token booth but saw instead several machines that looked like some kind of ATM. Frowning, he went over to a machine, read the directions, pressed some buttons, then put five dollars in the slot. A few seconds later a plastic card popped out.

With the card in hand, he moved toward the turnstiles, then stopped.

What did he think he might find, out on the platform?

Did he believe Jeff might be down there waiting for him?

If it had even been Jeff that the old drunk on the sidewalk had seen. Chances are the man just made up the story, wanting the five dollars he'd been waving in front of him like a fly above a trout.

But the bum had seen someone getting out of the back of the van. And not just getting out, either-the drunk had said: "The guy Scratch took outta the van."

Not "got" out, or "let" out. "Took" out.

But after the fire, there'd been someone in the van- someone who burned to death.

Someone they'd told him was Jeff.

Or he was wrong, and the drunk was either confused or making up a story to get the money.

It all came back to the body in the Medical Examiner's office. If he was right, and the body wasn't Jeff's, then maybe the drunk was right, too. Maybe someone had let Jeff out of the van before it burned. But he had to know-had to know with absolute certainty whether the body was Jeff's or not. And now he realized there was a way-it had been staring him in the face all the time.

If they said the body was Jeff's, they would have to release it to him. He was Jeff's father, wasn't he? So when they were done with the autopsy, done with whatever examinations they were performing, they would release the body to him.

And then he could have his own tests done.

DNA tests.

Wheeling around, he went back up the stairs almost as fast as he'd gone down them, yelled at a cab that had stopped for the light at Bowery, and five minutes later was once more in the Medical Examiner's office.

"I want to claim a body," he told the woman at the reception counter. "My son's body."

Not so much as a flicker of sympathy-or even concern- passed over the woman's face. Instead she simply pulled out a form and pushed it across the counter to him.

Keith filled it out, turned it around, and pushed it back.

The woman glanced down at it, then looked up again, frowning. "You here for the Converse case?" she asked. "Jeffrey Converse?"

Keith nodded. "Is there a problem? I just want to arrange to have his body transferred to a funeral home whenever your office is done."

The woman turned to a computer terminal, tapped a few keys, and her frown deepened. "I'm afraid he's not here anymore."

"Not here?" Keith repeated, his head suddenly swimming. What was going on? How could the body not be here? But the woman on the other side of the counter was already telling him.

"It was released yesterday afternoon," she said.

"Released?" Keith echoed. "What are you talking about, released?"

The woman's eyes never left the computer terminal. "To a Mary Converse."

Keith's eyes narrowed angrily. "How could you do that? I'm his father, for Christ sake. How come nobody called me?"

The woman behind the counter shrugged helplessly. "Mrs. Converse was listed as his next of kin in all our records, sir. Either her, or a Keith Converse." She glanced at him almost disinterestedly. "I guess that would be you?"

"You guess right," Keith growled. "And you better get whoever authorized this down here right now." The woman's expression hardened, and Keith realized his mistake. "Look," he added, trying to mollify her. "I didn't really mean it the way it sounded. But he was my son! It just seems like-"

The woman softened slightly. "I'm sorry," she said, "but all the procedures were followed. If you like, I can tell you where the body was sent." Before Keith could answer, her efficient fingers tapped at the keyboard once more. "Ah, here it is." She copied down the address on a card and pushed it across the counter. "Vogler's," she said. "They're up on Sixth Street, I think. They picked up the body at-let me see-yes, here it is. Five twenty-three." She smiled brightly, as if having come up with the precise minute at which the body had left the Medical Examiner's should somehow mollify him.

Keith, though, was already out the door, and as soon as he was back on the sidewalk, he punched in Mary's number.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. "You want to tell me what the hell is going on?"

Mary, understanding what must have happened, sighed heavily. "I should have called you, I suppose, but I just didn't want to get into another argument. And knowing how you feel-what you think-" She fell silent for a moment, then went on. "I decided to take care of it myself." Her voice took on the faintly superior tone that he knew meant she was about to wrap her religion around herself as a protective, and utterly impenetrable, shield. "He was my son, and no matter what he did, I have an obligation to him. There's going to be a memorial mass at St. Barnabas next week."

Keith frowned. Memorial mass? What was she talking about? If she was sure it was Jeff who had died, wasn't she going to have a funeral? But before he could ask the question, she answered it.

"I decided a funeral would just be too hard"-too hard for everyone. And now that he's gone…"

Keith's anger smoldered as her voice trailed off. But even though she wouldn't do it herself, he had no trouble finishing her thought: now that he's gone, I don't have to deal with him anymore. "Where's the body?" he demanded. "Is it still at this Vogler place?"

There was another silence, then she said, "There isn't any body, Keith," her voice breaking. "I-I had him cremated. After what happened, I just couldn't stand the thought of- well-" There was a short silence before she concluded, "It just seemed like the best thing to do, that's all."

But Keith was no longer listening.

Cremated.

The body-whoever it was-was gone, and gone with it was any possibility of proving whether it had been Jeff.

So all he had left were the words of the drunk.

And a subway station.

Wondering if he shouldn't go back home and just try to do as Mary wanted-try to accept what had happened-he started back toward the garage where he'd parked the car. But instead of going into the garage, he kept on walking.

Kept walking until he was back at the subway station on Delancey Street.