They were in one of the waiting areas for the emergency room when Dar made the connection. They had seen personnel with these H jackets pushing carts loaded with magazines, fruit juice, and teddy bears; they had seen two H-jacketed women holding, hugging, and reassuring a wildly weeping Hispanic woman in one of the hospital chapels; there had been H people in intensive care, whispering—in Spanish, Dar remembered—to some of the most serious cases, and here in the emergency room waiting area, a young Hispanic woman in an H jacket was reassuring an entire family. Dar overheard enough to understand that the family was Mexican, immigrants without green cards. Their daughter, who looked to be about eight, had broken her arm. The arm had been set, but the mother was hysterical, the father was literally wringing his hands, the baby was crying, and the girl’s younger brother was on the verge of tears. Dar overheard enough to understand that their fear was that they would be deported now that they had been forced to come to the hospital, but the woman in the H jacket was assuring them in perfect, rapid-fire Spanish that no such thing would happen—that it was against the law, that there would be no report, that they could go home without fear—and that in the morning they could call the Helpers’ Hotline and receive further instructions and help that would keep them healthy and happy and in the country.

“Helpers of the Helpless,” said Dar quietly as they headed out to the parking garage.

“Yes,” said Syd. “I counted thirty-six in our little tour.”

“So?”

“So there are thousands…thousands…of volunteers for Helpers of the Helpless working in L.A. County. They’re in every hospital. It’s even chic for movie stars and Rodeo Drive shopper-matrons to volunteer their time, if their Spanish is good enough. They’ve even begun expanding to serve Vietnamese, Cambodian, Chinese, you name it.”

“So?”

“So it started as a small Catholic charity,” said Syd, “and now it’s grown into a huge, nonprofit machine. The Church found a small-time Hispanic lawyer to head it all up, and now it really has nothing to do with the Catholic Church. You’ll find Helpers in all the San Diego hospitals and medical centers, in Sacramento, all over the Bay Area, and—in the last year or so—in Phoenix, Flagstaff, Las Vegas, Portland, Eugene, Seattle—even as far away as Billings, Montana. In another year it will be nationwide.”

“So?”

“They’re part of it, Dar. They’re part of this huge capping syndicate that’s creating injury mills. They recruit immigrants from everywhere—showing them how to make money on the slip-and-falls and the swoop-and-squats, on industrial accidents and fender benders.”

“So?” said Dar again as they got in the hot car, put the air-conditioner on, and headed for the freeway. “Nothing new about that. Ever since the big insurance companies grew up and litigation became a business, it’s the fastest way for immigrants to get rich in America. Before the Mexicans and Asians, it was the Irish and the Germans and the rest. Nothing new.”

“The scale is what’s new,” said Syd. “We’re not talking about fly-by-night clinics and a few dozen cows and bulls being run by a capper or two, Dar. We’re talking RICO here. We’re talking organized crime on the scale of the Colombian drug dealers and their American connections.” She nodded toward the medical center as they pulled out into traffic. “Doctors and surgeons—legitimate doctors and surgeons—are referring patients to the Helpers for…well, help. The goddamn Mexican consulate makes referrals.”

“So, it makes it easy to recruit more swoop-and-squatters,” said Dar, looking out at the jumble of closely cramped, oversized houses along the freeway. “Big deal.”

“A several-hundred-billion-dollar-a-year big deal,” said Sydney. “And I’m going to find out just who’s behind it. Who’s organizing this monstrosity.”

Dar looked at Syd and only then realized how angry he was. It had all been a lark up to now—letting her be his “bodyguard,” letting her stake him out like the goat in Jurassic Park, showing her his amusing little accidents and tagging along with her in turn, playing Watson to her Sherlock Holmes.

“You think Dallas Trace is behind this?” he said. “Probably the most famous lawyer in America? Mr. CNN answer man? That posturing, West Texas–from–Newark asshole with his silk work shirts and dork knob? You really think someone that famous is the Don Corleone of Southern Cal capping?”

Syd chewed her lip. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Dar. Nothing connects. But all the loose strings seem to point in his direction somehow.”

“You think Dallas Trace ordered his own son to be killed?”

“No, but—”

“You think he killed Esposito, Donald Borden, and the girl, Gennie Smiley?”

“I don’t know. If—”

“You think he’s the head of the Five Families, Chief Investigator? Squeezing it in between his law practice, his book writing, his weekly CNN show, his public appearances, his stints on Nightline and Good Morning America, his charity work, and his nights with that beautiful new child-bride?”

“Don’t get angry,” Syd said.

“Why the hell not? You knew he’d seen my accident reconstruction video before.”

“Yes.”

“So you dragged me in there just so you could watch him and he could see me. On the off chance that he’s the Big Man, you had him take a good look at me, so he would know for sure who to send his hit men after next time.”

“It’s not like that, Dar…”

“Bullshit,” said Dar.

They drove in silence for some time.

“If this conspiracy is as big as I believe it is—” began Syd.

Dar cut her off. “I don’t believe in conspiracies.”

Syd glanced at him.

“I believe in evil institutions,” said Dar, trying to control his anger but unable to keep his words light. “I believe in La Cosa Nostra and shitty car makers and evil people like tobacco merchants and those shitheads who give away baby formula to Third World mothers so they’ll keep on buying their baby formula even while the babies die of diarrhea from the filthy water…” Dar stopped and took a breath. “But conspiracies…no. Plots are like churches or other multicelled organizations—the bigger they get, the dumber they are. The law of inverse IQ.”

“If there are no conspiracies, what do you believe in, Dar?”

“What does it matter?”

“I’m just curious.” Syd’s voice was flat and emotionless now as well.

“Well, let’s see,” said Dar, looking out at the traffic mess ahead of them, the solid wedge of automobiles and trucks moving at ten miles per hour. “I believe in entropy. I believe in the unbounded limits of human perversity and stupidity. I believe in the occasional combination of those three elements to create a Friday in Dallas, Texas, with some asshole named Lee Harvey Oswald who learned to shoot well in the Marines getting a clear field of fire for six seconds…”

Dar stopped speaking. What the hell am I talking about? Had it been Dallas Trace’s arrogance or the death stench of the hospital that had set him off? Maybe he was just going crazy.

After several minutes of silence, Syd said, “And you don’t believe in crusades, either.”

He looked at her. At that moment she was a total stranger to him—certainly not the woman whose company and repartee he had enjoyed so much over the past several days…

“Crusades always end up sacrificing innocents. Like the original Crusades to free the Holy Land,” said Dar harshly. “Sooner or later it’s a fucking Children’s Crusade, and kids are on the front line.”

Syd frowned. “What are you so angry about, Dar? Vietnam? Or your work with the NTSB? The Challenger? What are we—”

“Never mind,” said Dar. He was suddenly very tired. “The grunts in Vietnam had a saying for everything, you know.”