“Ah, want to see what my most recent job was?” He jumped up and opened his closet, displaying a fast food franchise uniform. Jorgensen returned to his desk and set to work on the book again, muttering, “I’ll find you, you fucker.” He glanced up. “And do you want to know the worst part of all?”

She nodded.

“God never lived in the apartments he rented in my name. He never took delivery of the illegal drugs. Or got any of the merchandise he had shipped. The police recovered everything. And he never lived in the beautiful house he bought. Get it? His only point was to torment me. He’s God, I’m Job.”

Sachs noticed a picture on his desk. It was of Jorgensen and a blond woman about his age, their arms around a teenage girl and young boy. The house in the background was very nice. She wondered why 522 would go to all the trouble to destroy a man’s life, if in fact their perp was behind this. Was he testing out techniques to use to get close to victims and to implicate fall guys? Was Robert Jorgensen a guinea pig?

Or was 522 a cruel sociopath? What he’d done to Jorgensen might be called a nonsexual rape.

“I think you should find another place to live, Mr. Jorgensen.”

A resigned smile. “I know. It’s safer that way. Always be harder to find.”

Sachs thought to herself of an expression her father had used. She thought it described her own life view pretty well. “When you move they can’t getcha…”

He nodded at the book. “You know how he found me here? This, I’ve got a feeling. Everything started to go bad just after I bought it. I keep thinking it’s got the answer. I nuked it but that didn’t work-obviously. There’s got to be an answer inside. There’s got to be!”

“What are you looking for exactly?”

“Don’t you know?”

“No.”

“Well, tracking devices, of course. They put them in books. And clothes. Pretty soon they’ll be in almost everything.”

So not germs.

“Microwaves destroy tracking devices?” she asked, playing along.

“Most of them. You can break the antennae too but they’re so small nowadays. Almost microscopic.” Jorgensen fell silent and she realized he was staring at her intently as he considered something. He announced. “You take it.”

“What?”

“The book.” His eyes were dancing madly around the room. “It’s got the answer in it, the answer to everything that’s happened to me… Please! You’re the first one who hasn’t rolled their eyes when I told them my story, the only one who hasn’t looked at me like I’m mad.” He sat forward. “You want to get him as much as I do. You have all sorts of equipment, I’ll bet. Scanning microscopes, sensors…You can find it! And it’ll lead you to him. Yes!” He thrust it toward her.

“Well, I don’t know what we’re looking for.”

He nodded sympathetically. “Oh, you don’t have to tell me. That’s the problem. They change things all the time. They’re always one step ahead of us. But please…”

They…

She took the book, debating about slipping it into a plastic evidence bag and attaching a chain-of-custody card. She wondered how loud the ridicule would be in Rhyme’s town house. Probably better just to carry it.

He leaned forward and pressed her hand hard. “Thank you.” He was crying again.

“So you’ll move?” she asked.

He said he would and gave her the name of another transient hotel, one down on the Lower East Side. “Don’t write it down. Don’t tell anybody. Don’t mention me on the phone. They’re listening all the time, you know.”

“Call me if anything else comes to mind about…God.” She gave him her card.

He memorized the information on it, then tore the cardboard up. He stepped into the bathroom, flushed half down the toilet. He noticed her curiosity. “I’ll flush the other half later. Flushing something all at once is as stupid as leaving bills in your mailbox with the red flag up. People are such fools.”

He walked her to the door, leaned close. The stink of unwashed clothing hit her. His red-rimmed eyes gazed fiercely at her. “Officer, listen to me. I know you have that big gun on your hip. But that won’t do any good against somebody like him. You have to get close before you can shoot him. But he doesn’t have to get close at all. He can sit in a dark room somewhere, sip a glass of wine and bring your life down in pieces.” Jorgensen nodded at the book in her hand. “And now that you’ve got that, you’re infected too.”

I’ve been checking the news-there are so many efficient ways to get information nowadays-and I’ve heard nothing about any redheaded police officers gunned down by fellow law enforcers in Brooklyn.

But at the least They’re afraid.

They’d be edgy now.

Good. Why should I be the only one?

As I walk I reflect: How did this happen? How could it possibly have happened?

This isn’t good, this isn’t good this this…

They seemed to know exactly what I was doing, who my victim was.

And that I was on the way to DeLeon 6832’s house at just that moment.

How?

Running through the data, permutating them, analyzing them. No, I can’t understand how They did it.

Not yet. Have to think some more.

I don’t have enough information. How can I draw conclusions if I don’t have the data? How?

Ah, slow down, slow down, I tell myself. When sixteens walk quickly they shed data, revealing all sorts of information, at least to those who are smart, who can make good deductions.

Up and down the gray, urban streets, Sunday no longer beautiful. An ugly day, ruined. The sunlight’s harsh and tainted. The city’s cold, its edges ragged. The sixteens are mocking and snide and pompous.

I hate them all!

But keep your head down, pretend to enjoy the day.

And, most of all, think. Be analytical. How would a computer, confronted with a problem, analyze the data?

Think. Now, how could They have found out?

One block, two blocks, three blocks, four…

No answers. Only the conclusion: They’re good. And another question: Who exactly are They? I suppose-

I’m struck with a terrible thought. Please, no…I stop and dig through my backpack. No, no, no, it’s gone! The Post-it, stuck to the evidence bag, and I forgot to pull it off before I threw everything out. The address of my favorite sixteen: 3694-8938-5330-2498, my pet-known to the world as Dr. Robert Jorgensen. I’d just found where he’d fled to, trying to hide, and jotted it on a Post-it. I’m furious I didn’t memorize it and throw away the note.

I hate myself, hate everything. How could I be so careless?

I want to cry, to scream.

My Robert 3694! For two years he’s been my guinea pig, my human experiment. Public records, identity theft, credit cards…

But, most of all, ruining him was a huge high. Orgasmic, indescribable. Like coke or heroin. Taking a perfectly normal, happy family man, a good, caring doctor, and destroying him.

Well, I can’t take any chances. I have to assume someone will find the note and call him. He’ll flee…and I’ll have to let him go.

Something else has been taken away from me today. I can’t describe how I feel when that happens. It’s pain like fire, it’s fear like blind panic, it’s falling and knowing you’ll collide with the blurring earth at any moment but not…quite…yet.

I blunder through the herds of antelope, these sixteens roaming on their day of rest. My happiness is destroyed, my comfort gone. Whereas just hours ago I looked at everyone with benign curiosity or lust, but now I simply want to storm up to someone and slice his pale flesh, thin as tomato skin, with one of my eighty-nine straight razors.

Maybe my Krusius Brothers model from the late 1800s. It has an extra-long blade, a fine stag’s horn handle and is the pride of my collection.