"Don't worry, I'm not screwing up," Justin assured her, grinning.

Now that they were alone again, Keith said, "I don't get why you're even interested in this." He could feel Eve Harris studying him with as much concentration as he'd been studying her before answering.

She took a sip of her merlot, seemed to come to some kind of decision, then leaned forward in her chair. "I'm aware of who your son is, what he did, and what happened to him," she said. "But I'm also aware that Perry Randall's daughter doesn't think he was guilty, and was planning to marry him. What I don't understand is what you were doing in the subway, asking people if they'd seen your son. He's dead, isn't he?"

As briefly as he could, Keith told her what he'd seen at the Medical Examiner's office, and what the drunk over on Bowery had told him.

"And you believed him?" Eve asked.

"Why shouldn't I?" Keith challenged, a note of belligerence in his voice.

She shook her head almost sadly. "Mr. Converse, there are basically three kinds of people living on the streets of this city: the addicts, the crazies, and the houseless." She smiled thinly at the puzzled look on Keith's face. " ‘Houseless' is their term, not mine. Some of the people consider the streets their home, so they aren't homeless, at least according to them. Houseless, but not homeless. But a lot of the groups tend to overlap-most of the addicts and crazies are homeless, but not all the homeless are addicts or crazies." She tilted her head toward Justin, who was busily wiping down a table that had been momentarily vacated. "A lot of the homeless just need a break. But some of the rest of them…" She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I wish I could say they're all just down on their luck, but I've lived here too long and seen way too much. And I've learned that the addicts will tell you anything they think you might be willing to pay for." She fixed him with a look that told him she would know if he didn't tell her the exact truth. "So how much did you pay him?"

Keith felt utterly stupid. "Five dollars,"he admitted.

"Tell me what he looked like. And be specific-shabby clothes and gray hair isn't going to cut it. That's half the derelicts I know."

Keith cast his mind back to when he'd talked to the drunk that morning, and began describing everything he remembered. When he was finished, Eve Harris nodded grimly.

"Al Kelly," she sighed. "Well, at least now I know what happened to him." She took a deep breath. "Mr. Converse, let me tell you a few things about this city…" She talked steadily, and when she was done, Keith's hands were clenched around his now empty glass.

"You're saying it was my fault Al Kelly died?" he asked, signaling Justin for a refill. "You're saying if I hadn't given him the five dollars, he wouldn't be dead?"

Eve shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. But I do know better than to give money to addicts. Drunks and junkies-they're all the same-they'll lie, cheat, and steal to get what they want. And it sounds like you bought Al's lie for five dollars. Some other people saw the money change hands, and a few minutes later Al's dead. You add it up."

Now it was Keith who fell into a long silence. Out the window, it was starting to get dark, and cold-looking rain had begun to fall. The bar itself was so packed now that the waiter was barely able to get through with his drink. Keith pictured the subway platform again, and recalled the roar of the trains that streamed through the station every few minutes all through the long afternoon as he'd shown Jeff's photograph to anyone who would look. Most of the people-the well-dressed ones who had things to do and places to go-barely even glanced at the photo. Most of them turned their back on him, or refused to acknowledge his existence at all.

Only the bums-the ragged men and women who had nothing better to do-had been willing to talk to him.

And now Eve Harris was telling him that most of them would just as soon lie to him as tell him the truth.

Like Al Kelly had lied. And gotten killed for a lousy few bucks.

And even if Kelly hadn't lied, how was he supposed to find Jeff? he wondered. If his son had made it into the subway station, he could have gotten on any one of the trains and gone anywhere.

Maybe Eve Harris was right-maybe he should just give it up and go back home. But then he remembered there was still one more possibility. "Do you know a lot of them?" he asked. "The people on the streets?"

"Everybody in the city knows them," Eve replied. "I just take the time to talk to some of them." She smiled wryly. "I guess I sort of think of myself as their voice on the council- Lord knows they don't have another one, and if I don't stick up for them, no one will."

"So have you ever run into someone named Scratch?"

Eve shook her head. "I don't think so. Who is he?"

"The man Al Kelly said led my son down into the subway," he said.

"I suspect he's no more real than anything else Al Kelly told you he saw." She glanced at her watch, finished her merlot, and stood up. "I don't have any way of knowing whether your son was guilty or not, but I think I can understand how much you're hurting right now. So let me talk to a couple of people, and at least maybe we can find out if anyone else has ever heard of this ‘Scratch' person. Call me tomorrow?"

Keith stood up. "Are you saying you believe me? That Jeff might be alive?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe," Eve said. "It's what you believe that's making you hurt. The only way you're going to stop hurting is by knowing for sure."

Then she was gone.

None of the men spoke; they didn't have to.

They all knew why they were there, what they had to do, what they were going to do…

Silently, they stripped off the clothes they'd worn when they arrived, then just as silently began pulling on the clothes they would wear for the evening's adventure. First came the socks and gloves. The socks were thick to keep their feet warm inside the thin and flexible shoes they would wear. The gloves were thin, to allow their fingers maximum flexibility.

Both the socks and gloves were black.

Next came the insulated nylon coveralls, so the men would be protected against the chill of the tunnel.

Then the shoes and the smudges of makeup, as black as the gloves and the coveralls.

Only when they were completely dressed, when every inch of their skin was covered in a dull and nonreflective black material, did they begin equipping themselves.

Each of them carried a knife, strapped to the lower leg, where it could be easily reached from a crouch.

Most of the guns were Steyr Mannlichers, SSG-PI models, chosen for their combination of accuracy, a short barrel, and the option to add either a flash hider or a suppressor. Fully loaded and equipped with second generation rifle scopes that could take advantage of any available light or provide their own infrared illumination, the guns still weighed barely ten pounds.

A couple of the hunters carried far less complicated but usually just as effective M-14A1s, the favored sniper rifle of the Marines.

For communication, they carried Ericsson-GE two-way radios, though by now they rarely needed them.

As silently as he'd dressed, each man now nodded an acknowledgment that he was ready.

Only then did the leader-who looked no different from the others-unlock the heavy door set into the room's back wall. He swung the door open and stepped to one side. "I am Hawk," he said. Then, as each man passed, he whispered a code name. Tonight, all the names happened to be avian.

"Eagle."

"Falcon."

"Osprey."

"Harrier."

"Kite."

Beyond the heavy door, which the leader closed and locked behind him, was a wide tunnel filled with steam pipes. Dim lights-bare bulbs protected by heavy metal grilles-cast pools of illumination every hundred feet, and even the areas between the bulbs weren't quite dark. "Level Four, Second Sector," the leader said. "Teams of two. Eagle and Osprey. Falcon and Harrier. Kite with me."