Maybe he was, but that guy had had a three-dollar-bill air about him.

“Sometimes a person only seems paranoid. And even paranoids have real enemies. That guy was on a fishing expedition. He knew her name when he stepped in here and—”

“You heard him. He asked the nurses.”

“So he said. And maybe it’s true. Look, I know this is a silly question, but I have to ask: Is Weezy’s phone listed?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Our friend Bob was looking for her address. Came right out and asked for it. Why? Humor me, Eddie. Play along. Why would he want her address?”

He sighed. “Because she’s got something he wants?”

“Logical. He didn’t get her address from her bag because she never carries ID. So what does he do? He sets up watch on the hospital, hoping friends or family will come looking for her. And when they find her—shit.”

“What?”

“Did you give her address to the nurses?”

“Well, sure. Why wouldn’t I?”

Damn.

“Okay, then, we have to assume that, one way or another, the guy calling himself Bob Garvey will be able to get her address from the hospital records.” He noticed Eddie grinning. “What?”

“All this assumes he really wants to know. But assuming he does, he’s out of luck.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes paranoia pays off. Her mailing address isn’t her house address. She uses a rental mailbox in Elmhurst just the other side of Roosevelt Avenue.”

Jack had to smile. He used mail drops all over the boroughs.

“A girl after my own heart.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, no particular reason.”

He looked again at the scrawl. It sure as hell looked like bummyhouse.

House . . . her house seemed to be a focus of interest. Her house . . . but to her it would be my house. What if . . .

He took a pencil and drew two lines through the word, then showed it to Eddie.

Eddie frowned. “ ‘Bum my house’?”

“I think the first hump there is an r.”

Eddie’s eyes were wide when he looked up at Jack. “ ‘Burn my house’? She can’t mean that.”

“I think we’d better get out there.”

This time Eddie didn’t argue.

12

Ernst listened to Kris Szeto’s report. The cell connection wasn’t good.

“Her name is Louise Myers and she is still in coma.”

A name . . . they finally had a name for this nuisance.

“Address?”

“Just mailbox number.”

“Did you search the real estate—”

“Not listed.”

Disappointing news, but Ernst was glad that Szeto was anticipating him. This was why he used operatives from the Order’s European lodges. They were much more on the ball than their Stateside counterparts. He supposed his being born in Austria and spending his early years bouncing around Europe had something to do with it as well.

“How much longer will the coma last?”

“That I do not know. I speak to brother and friend. They look worried. Then they leave.”

“Where to?”

“I think maybe to her house.”

“Excellent! You’re following them, of course.”

“Not me. They know my face. I send Max.”

“Good.”

They needed access to wherever this woman lived—her computer, her files—to find out how much she knew and who else shared that knowledge. Once they eliminated that, they could eliminate her.

“Who’s watching the woman?”

“Josef.”

“If there’s any sign she’s waking up, we’ll have to take action.”

“Of course. A plan is in place. I will keep you informed.”

Ernst ended the call. Under normal circumstances, he could understand why the One would be so intent on silencing this woman; but with the Fhinntmanchca soon to be a reality . . . why bother?

That reminded him . . . He speed dialed Dr. Orlando.

13

“Remember that time in the Barrens when that cop locked us in his car?” Eddie said as they bounced and swayed in the Flushing-bound 7 train.

“If he was really a cop. Weezy had her doubts, remember? And remember how you faked being sick to get us out?”

The subway wasn’t sub out here in this area of Queens—it ran on elevated tracks over Roosevelt Avenue. The afternoon sun, still high, cut steep, bright, mote-bedizened channels through the air of the not quite half full car.

Jack and Eddie sat side by side on an orange plastic bench. They’d picked up the train beneath Bryant Park and Jack had been watching for a tail the whole time.

Maybe he was having his own bout of paranoia, but something didn’t feel right. Weezy’s accident appeared to be just that—an accident. Someone running off with her bag—happened all the time. A guy following up on someone he’d helped on the street—not so common. Rare in a city like New York, but not out of the realm of possibility. But something was wrong about that guy.

He’d checked out this car and so far it looked pretty good. All but one of the people who’d got on with them was gone, and she was a bent little black lady, eighty if she was a day. But the place to bird-dog someone on a subway was from the car ahead or behind.

As he and Eddie talked, Jack kept flicking his gaze back and forth between the windowed doors to the adjoining cars. Last stop he saw a guy with short, bleached-blond hair peek into their car from the one behind.

Might be nothing, might be something. He’d keep watch.

“No,” Eddie said, “you got us out. And then you tricked him and that guy in the suit into the spong. That was so cool.”

Now that Eddie knew his sister was safe and in good hands, Jack noticed a change in his tone and body language. He’d relaxed some. And with the easing of tension came reminiscing time.

Eddie nudged him. “The three of us had some good times, huh? Flitting in and out of the Pine Barrens on our bikes. Some scary times too.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

Jack wasn’t much for memory lane. Much of the past was a blur.

“You were always playing tricks on me. I still remember the Rubik’s cube scam you pulled. You really had me going for a while. I thought you were a freaking genius.”

What scam? Jack tried but couldn’t remember.

Eddie leaned back, his eyes unfocused. “I think about those days a lot.”

“Really? What for?”

Jack seldom thought about his childhood. He’d flashed back every so often when he’d been with Kate or Dad or Tom during the past year, but for the most part the good old days were a haze. When he’d dropped out he’d divided the timeline of his life and had rarely crossed back.

“Good times,” Eddie said. “Free times. No responsibilities other than to have fun. Remember sneaking out at night? We were always on the verge of getting busted for something.”

If you only knew the half of it, Jack thought. The three of them had spent a lot of time together, with Jack and Weezy spending even more time as a duo. But Jack had had plenty of alone time when he’d done things on his own, things he hadn’t felt free to tell anyone about. His own Secret History.

Enough of memory lane. The past was gone . . . dead . . . so much of it literally dead.

“What’s Weezy do for a living these days?”

Eddie shrugged. “Reads and surfs the Internet mostly.”

“She gets paid for that?”

“No, she lives off the proceeds of her investments.”

“Oh? Her half of the Connell family fortune?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

Jack had remembered the Connells as being comfortable—their dad had been a well-paid union pipe fitter—but they’d been far from rich.

Jack’s confusion must have shown because Eddie smiled and nudged him again. “Life insurance, Jack. My father had this big fear of dying and leaving us destitute. Add his brother, my uncle Bill, who was an insurance agent, and the result is a man with term insurance up the wazoo. Most of his policies paid double for accidental death, so when he hit that bridge abutment, the payout was millions.”