17

Jack pointed to the steel door leading out of the rear of the kitchen and whispered, “I’ll sneak out the back and—”

“Sorry,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “Different keys for those, and I don’t have copies.”

Jack considered his options. Not many. With all the windows barred, his only choice was the front door.

He motioned Eddie to stay put, then eased through the stacks to the front room. Without moving it, he peeked around a window shade and caught sight of a skinny guy in a T-shirt and baggy jeans tiptoeing past, moving toward the front door. He wore a backpack but his hands were empty.

Quickly, Jack stepped to the door, yanked it open, grabbed the guy by his shirt, and pulled him inside.

“Hey!”

“Hey, yourself,” Jack said as he slammed the door and pushed him back against it. He gave him a quick pat down as he said, “You’re trespassing.”

The guy blinked and cringed. “N-no, I’m not! I’m visiting! Just ask Louise! And who are you?” He looked over Jack’s shoulder. “And where is she?”

“She’s in the—” Eddie began.

But Jack cut him off. “Not here right now.”

With a sob the guy closed his eyes and sagged.

“She said you’d find us if we weren’t careful. Please don’t hurt me.”

Jack wasn’t sure what to do. Hadn’t expected anyone to show up at the house, and now that he had this guy up close and personal, he couldn’t buy that he was connected to blondie on the train. And no matter what, he sure as hell hadn’t been expecting this reaction.

“Who do you think we are?”

He opened his eyes. “You’re them.”

“No, we’re us. What ‘them’ are you thinking of?”

“You’re the ones responsible.”

Jack could feel his annoyance rising. “For what?”

“You know.”

Jack yanked him forward by the front of his shirt, then slammed him back.

“Cut the crap! Who do you think we are?”

The guy winced, then looked past Jack at Eddie. Eddie’s face must have given something away.

“Hey, wait. You’re not them, are you. Then who—?”

“I’m Louise’s brother,” Eddie said.

Swell.

Jack released the guy, but he kept staring at Eddie.

“You don’t look like her.”

“Doesn’t change the fact. Who are you and why are you sneaking around her house?”

“I’m . . . Ted—”

Jack flipped him around and held him face-first against the door while he removed his wallet.

“Hey!”

“Shut up.”

“Jack,” Eddie said, “is this really—?”

“If his name is Ted, I’ll eat his wallet.”

Jack pulled out some credit cards and a driver’s license. They all read Kevin Harris. Jack handed them to Eddie and released the guy.

“Okay, Kevin Harris, what’s up?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

He looked at Eddie. “Are you really her brother?”

Jack shoved him back against the door. “God damn it!”

“All right, all right! I . . . I’m a friend of hers. We’ve been working together.”

“On what?”

“It’s private—proprietary.”

Jack took a stab. “You mean the nine/eleven thing? She told us all about it.”

Harris’s eyes widened. “No! She wouldn’t! She’d never—”

“Oh, but she did,” Eddie said, getting on board—finally. “I’m her brother. She trusts me.”

“I don’t believe you. Why would she endanger her brother and not me?”

Good question, Jack thought.

“From the looks of you,” he said, “I think she feels we can handle the risk a little better.”

Harris didn’t look happy to hear that, but made no objection. Just stood there chewing his upper lip.

Jack watched him, trying to get a feel for him. He looked like a nerd, but that could be an act. If so, he was the Edward Norton of his organization. He’d been genuinely frightened when Jack pulled him inside.

“Open your backpack,” Jack said.

“Why?”

Jack gave him his coldest stare. “Look, either you do it or I do it, but it winds up open.”

With a sullen expression Harris shrugged out of it and unzipped the large compartment. He pulled out a thick, oversize paperback—a dog-eared copy of The 9/11 Commission Report. What a shock. Jack flipped through it and saw either yellow highlighter or underlining or margin notes on almost every page.

Good chance he was for real. And if so, telling him about Weezy’s accident might loosen his tongue. If he was connected to the tail, he’d already know about it, so no harm done.

The rest of the backpack held half a bottle of Poland Spring water, a couple of peanut chocolate chip Soyjoy bars—“fortified with optimism”—along with paper clips, an array of pens and highlighters, and a thick manila folder. Jack pulled it out and was starting to open it when Harris snatched it away.

“Hey, that’s private!”

“Between you and Wee—I mean Louise?”

“Damn right. And if she told you all about it, like you said, then what’s in here won’t be news to you.”

The guy had a little fire in him.

Jack decided to let it ride and give Harris an apparent victory. He could take the folder any time he wanted.

“Actually, she didn’t tell us everything.”

Harris pumped a fist. “Knew it!”

Watching him closely, Jack said, “That’s because she was run down by a car before we could get the whole story.”

He turned a sickly white and sagged back against the door. “Oh, no! They did get her!”

No way Harris was faking that. He hadn’t known.

“She’s not . . . tell me she’s not . . .”

Another point for Harris—that would be the first thing a real friend would want to know.

“She’s alive but in a coma,” Eddie said.

Harris’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know that?”

Well . . . probably time to get back to the hospital anyway.

“Time for show-and-tell. We’ll take you to her.”

18

“It’s her,” Harris said, standing at Weezy’s bedside and staring down at her. “It’s really her.”

His devastated expression convinced Jack that he was the real deal. The question now would be: Would he believe Jack and Eddie were the real deal?

The guy had already turned out to be a royal pain in the ass . . .

First, back at the house, he’d started questioning the accident and if there’d really been one. Jack had shown him the police report but that hadn’t convinced him because it was all about a Jane Doe.

Harris had wanted to take the subway—more public. Jack hadn’t—too public. Before getting into the cab Harris had demanded some ID from Eddie and had questioned why he and “Louise” had different names. Eddie had patiently explained that she hadn’t changed back to her maiden name since her husband’s death.

Harris had reluctantly accepted that as a possibility. Then he’d asked Jack for ID.

Like, yeah, he was going to see something. In his dreams.

Jack had pushed Harris into the cab and he was a twitchfest the whole trip, asking the driver over and over if he was really a cabby and if he was really taking them to Mount Sinai Hospital.

But now . . . seeing was believing.

“Is she ever going to wake up?” he said, his face full of angst as he turned to them.

“The doctor’s not sure,” Jack said quickly, before Eddie could speak. “It’s touch and go. She might enter a persistent vegetative state.”

This earned a questioning look from Eddie that Jack ignored. He’d pulled the term out of his store of unwanted coma lore.

“Like that lady in Florida?” Harris said.

Jack nodded. “Exactly. Terry Schiavo all over again.” He hoped Eddie would stay clammed.

Harris turned back to the bed and stepped closer to Weezy. He shook her shoulder as he leaned over her. He spoke in a low voice but Jack caught the words.

“Wake up, Louise. You’ve got to wake up. I think I’ve found him. I think I know who he is.”

“Found who?” Jack said.