"Hey," Fortunato shouted at him. "Hey, kid!" Arnie turned to look at him.

The kids arm came off.

It flopped like the muscles had grown their own brain, and then it was sailing through the air and bouncing across the pavement. Fortunato and the kid both stood there for an instant, not comprehending. And then blood began to fountain out of the ragged flap of flesh and the air smelled like a butcher shop.

The kid started to change. Even with an arm gone his instincts were good. His remaining arm shrank and grew scales. His thighs began to swell and his stomach shrank.

Fortunato reached out with his power and tried to stop time. The people around him slowed but the blood pumped undiminished from the kid's arm socket.

The Astronomer, Fortunato thought. Shielding the kid from the power that could save him.

Fortunato tried to run toward him. It was like running in a nightmare, the air thick as wet cement, draining his strength. The kid was losing too much blood. It puddled around his tennis shoes, soaked the cuffs of his jeans. He couldn't finish the change. His left hand had grown a huge, scythe-shaped claw and he slashed futilely in front of him with it. His face was still human except for a bulging lower jaw. The eyes flashed from shock to rage to fear and finally to helplessness.

A handful of flesh came out of the kid's throat. The blood from his shoulder slowed as his neck began to spurt.

The kid collapsed. His weirdly jointed legs and the beginnings of a long, stiff tail kept him from falling more than halfway. His chest opened and his heart fell out onto the concrete. The heart seemed to shiver in the sunlight, fibrillating spasmodically for no more than a second before it lay still.

And then there was a little man, maybe a couple of inches over five feet tall, standing next to the kid's distorted corpse. He had an ankle-length black robe that was soaked and spattered with blood. His head was too big for his body and he wore thick glasses.

Fortunato had seen him twice before. Once was inside an Egyptian Masonic temple in Jokertown, seven years before. Fortunato had been looking'out through the eyes of a woman he loved, a woman named Eileen who was now dead.

The second time was when Fortunato had led the attack on the Cloisters. Which had led to the Howler being dead, and to this death, right here in front of him.

"I waited for you," the Astronomer said. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come and I'd have to start without you." His voice had an ugly singsong rhythm.

Fortunato couldn't get within twenty feet of him. "Why the kid? For Christ's sake, why the kid?"

"I wanted you to know," the Astronomer said. "I'm not fucking around any more." He sniffed his blood-drenched fingers. "You're all going to die. Between now and four A.M. Be sure and set your watches." He glanced up at the podium, his eyes moving as if he was looking for somebody that wasn't there. He nodded to himself and smiled.

"Four A.M.?" Fortunato was shouting. He leaned into the force field that straitjacketed him. "Why four A.M.? What happens then?"

Then the field was gone and he staggered forward, offbalance. The Astronomer was gone. Time sped up around him. He was unable to look away as the kid's father saw the mangled ruin of his son and began to scream.

Spector emptied his beer mug and stifled a belch. The Bottomless Pit, located between 27th and 28th Streets a halfblock west of Chelsea Park, was far enough off the beaten track to avoid a crush of tourists. The place had a reputation for violence that kept most of the locals away. There were only two other people sitting at the bar, although all the tables were occupied. The only light in the bar area came from the neon beer signs and the television. He heard billiard balls smacking together in the back room.

"You want another?" the bartender asked. He was tall, with curly blond hair and a bodybuilder's physique.

"Sure." Spector was a little light-headed. His fingers and toes were getting numb. It was about time. He'd been drinking on and off all day. The Astronomer was off his back, so he could lie low here, get drunk, and watch the game when it came on. That would just about fill the time until he had to go to the Haiphong Lily.

The bartender drew a beer and set it down on the scratched, pitted wood. Someone had carved "Joyce + whoever I say" into the surface. Spector picked up the beer, enjoying the cold glass on his skin. As usual, the pain was chewing him up inside. Maybe, if everything went well tonight, he'd cap off the evening by killing some tourists. He'd never go to jail for it. That was the beauty of his power. The cops had hauled him in once, but the case had been thrown, out in the preliminary hearing. There was never any physical evidence to prove he'd killed his victims.

"And now, for a special report from Channel Nine reporter Carl Thomas, live, at Jetboy's Tomb." Spector looked up at the television.

The young black reporter paused, put a finger to his ear, and nodded. People standing in the crowd behind him leaned around and waved their arms, trying to get into the shot. "This is Carl Thomas reporting. Yet another story in what is already the most violent Wild Card Day in ten years. Apparently, a psychopathic ace killer is roaming the streets. His latest victim is a young boy who had the power to turn himself into a small dinosaur. There is no official word from the police indicating whether the boy's death is related to the earlier killing of the Howler. However, based on eyewitness accounts, this is the second such attack today by the same person. This morning in Jokertown a man fitting the suspects description assaulted what we hope was only his first such victim, twisting his head completely around. Luckily, Fortunato intervened and healed the victim with his ace powers. Sadly, be was unable to do anything to save the boy. This is Carl Thomas, Channel Nine News, at Jetboy's Tomb."

"Fuck." Spector reached for his beer and knocked it over. Foam spread slowly over the bar. "They have to come on the goddamn TV about that. Couldn't have kept their ugly mouths shut. "

"… that terrible tragedy. In an apparently unrelated incident Frederico Macellaio was killed in an automobile accident earlier this afternoon. Macellaio, also known as 'the Butcher' and reputed to be a major figure in the city's underworld, was dead at the scene."

"It's just not my fucking day," Spector muttered.

He pulled out his wallet and motioned to the bartender, but the man was looking at the door. Spector turned. There were three punks standing just inside the doorway. They all had black hair cut like Moe of the Three Stooges. The words BEDTIME Boys were emblazoned in red on the backs of their leather jackets. Each carried a fiberglass skateboard. The leader, who was a head shorter than the other two, wore mirrored sunglasses.

"Shake everybody down," said the little boss, blowing on his fingertips.

Spector's barstool creaked loudly as he swiveled to face them. He was worried about the kid with shades; his power was no good unless his victim's eyes were visible. The other two he could handle.

"Nice of you to get that out for us," said one of the stooges, eyeing Spector's wallet. "Iland it over."

Spector shoved his wallet back into his pants pocket. "Fuck off, you little shit. While you still can."

"Feed 'im his teeth, Billy," said the leader. "It'll save time with everybody else."

Billy whipped the board around his body a couple of times, then swung it up into an attack position. It reminded Spector of the Chinese bench fighters he'd seen in kung fu movies. These guys obviously knew what they were doing. He'd have to take them out in a hurry. He locked eyes with Billy. Spector's death flowed into him. Billy fell face first into the bar-rail.

"Shit, get him, Romeo." The little punk was still directing traffic.