The wiry old man beside Czisman continued. "So then I go, 'The block's cracked. What'm I gonna do with a cracked block? Tell me what am I gonna do?' And he ain' have no answer for that. Gee willikers. The fuck he think I was gonna do, not see it?"

Czisman glanced at the scrawny guy, who was wearing torn gray pants and a dark T-shirt. December 31 and he didn't have a coat. Did he live nearby? Upstairs. The man was drinking whiskey that smelled like antifreeze.

"No answer, hm?" Czisman asked, eyes on the agents, studying them.

"No. And I tell him I'ma fuck him up he don't gimme a new block. You know?"

He'd bought the black guy a drink because it would look less suspicious to see a black guy and a white guy with their heads down over a beer and a slimy whiskey in a bar like Joe Higgins', with or without the correct possessive case, rather than just a white guy by himself.

And when you buy somebody a drink you have to let them talk to you.

The agents were showing a piece of paper-probably the picture of the Digger's dead accomplice-to a table of three local crones, painted like Harlem whores.

Czisman looked past them to the Winnebago parked across the street. Czisman had been staking out FBI headquarters on Ninth Street when he'd seen the three agents hurry outside, along with a dozen others. Well, they wouldn't let him go for a ride-along-so he'd arranged for his own. Thank God there'd been a motorcade of ten or so cars and he'd just followed them-through the red lights, driving fast, flashing his brights, which is what you're supposed to do as a cop when you're in pursuit but don't have a dashboard flasher. They'd parked in a cluster near the bar and, after a briefing, had fanned out to canvass for information. Czisman had parked up the street and had slipped into the bar. His digital camera was in his pocket and he'd taken a few shots of the agents and cops being briefed. Then there was nothing to do but sit back and wait. He wondered how close they were to finding-what had he called it?-the Digger's lair.

"Hey," said the black guy, only now noticing the agents. "Who they? Cops?"

"We're about to find out."

A moment later one of them came up to the bar. "Evening. We're federal agents." The ID was properly flashed. "I wonder if either of you've seen this man around here?"

Czisman looked at the photo of the dead man he'd seen in FBI headquarters. He said, "No."

The black guy said, "He looks dead. He dead?"

The agent asked, "You haven't seen anyone who might resemble him?"

"No sir."

Czisman shook his head.

"There's somebody else we're looking for too. White male, thirties or forties. Wearing a dark coat."

Ah, the Digger, thought Henry Czisman. Odd to hear somebody he'd come to know so well described from such a distant perspective. He said, "That could be a lot of people around here."

"Yessir. The only identifying characteristic we know about him is that he wears a gold crucifix. And that he's probably armed. He might have been talking about guns, bragging about them."

The Digger wouldn't ever do that, Czisman thought. But he didn't correct them and said merely, "Sorry."

"Sorry," echoed the whiskey drinker.

"If you see him could you please call this number?" The agent handed them both cards.

"You bet."

"You bet."

When the agents left, Czisman's drinking buddy said, "What's that all about?"

"Wonder."

"Something's always going down 'round here. Drugs. Bet it's drugs. Anyway, so I gotta truck with a busted block. Wait. I tell you 'bout my truck?"

"You started to."

"I'ma tell you 'bout this truck."

Suddenly Czisman looked at the man beside him carefully and felt that same tug of curiosity that'd driven him to journalism years ago. The desire to know people. Not to exploit them, not to use them, not to expose them. But to understand and explain them.

Who was this man? Where did he live? What were his dreams? What sort of courageous things had he done? Did he have a family? What did he like to eat? Was he a closet musician or painter?

Was it better, was it more just, for him to live out his paltry life? Or was it better for him to die now, quickly, before the pain-before the sorrow-sucked him down like an undertow?

But then Czisman caught a glimpse of the Winnebago door opening and several men hurrying outside. That woman-Agent Lukas-stepped out a moment later.

They were running.

Czisman tossed money down on the bar and stood.

"Hey, you don' wanna hear 'bout my truck?"

Without a word the big man stepped quickly to the door, pushed outside and started after the agents as they jogged through the decimated lots of Gravesend.

By the time the team met up with Jerry Baker two of his agents had found the safe house.

It turned out to be a shabby duplex two doors from an old building that was being torn down-one of the construction sites they'd found. Clay and brick dust were everywhere.

Baker said, "Showed a couple across the street the unsub's picture. They've seen him three or four times over the past few weeks. Always looked down, walked fast. Never stopped or said anything to anybody."

Two dozen agents and officers were deployed around the building.

"Which apartment was his?" Lukas asked.

"Bottom one. Seems to be empty. We've cleared the top floor."

"You talk to the owner? Got a name?" Parker asked.

"Management company says the tenant is Gilbert Jones," an agent called.

Hell… The fake name again.

The agent continued: "And the Social Security number was issued to somebody who died five years ago. The unsub signed up for the on-line service-name of Gilbert Jones again-with a credit card in that name but its one of those credit-risk cards. You put money in a bank to cover it and it's only good as long as there's money there. Bank records show that this is his address. Priors were all fake."

Baker asked, "Entry now?"

Cage looked at Lukas. "Be my guest."

Baker conferred with Tobe Geller, who was carefully monitoring the screen on his laptop. Several sensors were trained on the downstairs apartment.

"Cold as a fish," Tobe reported. "Infrareds aren't picking up anything and the only sounds I'm registering are air in the radiator and the refrigerator compressor. Ten to one it's clean but you can screen body heat if you really want to. And some bad guys can be very, very quiet."

Lukas added, "Remember-the Digger packs his own silencers so he knows what he's doing."

Baker nodded, then pulled on his flak jacket and helmet and called five other tactical agents over to him. "Dynamic entry. We'll cut the lights and move in through the front door and the rear bedroom window simultaneously. You're green-lighted to neutralize if there's any threat risk at all. I'm primary through the door. Questions?"

There were none. And the agents moved quickly into position. The only noise they made was the faint jingling of their equipment.

Parker held back, watching Margaret Lukas, in profile, staring intently at the front door. She turned suddenly and caught him watching her. Returned a cool look.

Hell with her, Parker thought. He was angry at the dressing-down she'd given him about the gun. It'd been completely unnecessary, he thought.

Then the lights went out in the duplex and there was a loud bang as the agents blew in the front door with 12-gauge Shok-Lok rounds. Parker watched the beams from the flashlights, hooked to the ends of their machine guns, illuminate the inside of the apartment.

He expected to hear shouting at any minute: Freeze, get down, federal agents…! But there was only silence. A few minutes later Jerry Baker walked outside, pulling his helmet off. "Clean."