She realized that many of the other nurses, and doubtless the doctors, whom she’d thought so dispassionate, had learned emotional detachment before she had. That was the only difference between them and her. The violence and blood and futility was scarring them internally, and had been all along, even though it couldn’t be seen. None of them, not the nurses, patients, doctors, none of them would come through this unscathed. If they were lucky enough to survive physically, still they would bear scars.

Betsy couldn’t imagine a day when the memories would no longer sting and bring tears to her eyes.

That evening, before nightfall and the blackouts, she sat alone on a park bench and in the dying light read what Henry Tucker had written in his failing hand.

It wasn’t exactly what she expected.

It was a thank you and a plea, and a set of instructions.

16

New York, the present

Jeanine Carson had pedaled nine miles and gone exactly nowhere.

She was on her usual stationary bicycle in Sweat it Out, the neighborhood gym where she was a member, and where she spent every other evening. The heavy, stationary bicycle was set at an angle to the large window looking out on the sidewalk. Now and then passersby would glance in at Jeanine. Some of the men would smile.

Not that she was dressed to attract attention, in her baggy knee-length red shorts, oversized black T-shirt, and red elastic headband that kept her blond curled hair away from her perspiring face. Mostly away. Now and then her hair dangled in a curtain down one side of her face. Even so attired, and with her hair in what she considered a mess, Jeanine was still an attractive woman of forty.

Forty! God! How did that happen?

Well, it had happened. She decided she should be thankful that in the right light she could pass for thirty. Or so she’d been told.

She pedaled harder, as if trying to outdistance her troubles.

A guy in a gray business suit, lugging an attaché case, bustled past outside the window. He glanced her way and grinned.

Jeanine couldn’t help herself. She grinned back. Mostly out of appreciation. He was about her age and still handsome. In the game—maybe. Or maybe he had a wife and six kids out in Teaneck. What would it be like to be married to a man like that, to come home to him and six kids?

Jeanine let her mind roam, keeping her legs pumping on the pedals. Narrowing her focus as well as her waist.

What would it be like to come home to a man in an Upper West Side apartment, with no kids involved? Now that was more in the realm of possibility.

Her thighs were beginning to ache, and she tightened her grip on the handlebars and concentrated on her exercise, forcing the embodiment of her dreams from her thoughts.

Back to the drudgery of a regular exercise regimen. Reality and self-recrimination. If she was overweight, it was simply because she ate too much. She was the one to blame. The one in control of her fork.

Personal responsibility.

That thing about pain and gain.

Those were the sorts of thoughts that ran through Jeanine’s mind now, as her body performed its repetitive assault on itself: My fault. I don’t see anyone else around here to blame. Too fat, too fat, too fat ... though she was only a hundred and twenty pounds, at five foot six. But it was a fat one-twenty.

The stationary bike continued its whirring clacking accompaniment: Too fat, too fat, too fat . . .

Such were the musings of an unemployed financial consultant, some of whose problems might be easily solved if she weren’t . . . too fat in some places.

She pedaled on, going nowhere, sweat rolling down her face, down her neck, tickling her—

The short clacking sound of a coin tapping on glass made her raise her head and look outside.

There he was, out on the sidewalk, grinning and staring at her through the gym window. Mr. Executive with the gray suit and attaché case. He was back.

I’m the reason why.

He made a motion as if he held a knife and fork, an obvious invitation to dinner. She deliberately looked away from him, allowing herself to smile slightly, as if she couldn’t help herself under the onslaught of his charm.

Jeanine knew how to play this game.

Discouragement and encouragement could look pretty much alike. It could be a challenge to figure out which was which. Some men couldn’t resist a challenge.

Later that evening, Fedderman and Sal sat at their desks at Q&A and sipped bad coffee. At the far end of the room, Jerry Lido was working at his laptop, unaware for the moment that there was a world not digital. Helen the profiler sat lounging in a turned-around chair near Pearl’s desk. Her long, bare arms were crossed, displaying firm biceps and forearm muscles. Fedderman wondered at times about Helen’s sexuality, then figured what the hell, it was none of his business. He was befuddled anyway in what seemed a new world of sex roles. What was a bride these days? A groom? Who was what, when, where? It was all confusing to Fedderman. He’d told Penny once he wasn’t sure if they were really married, the way the laws kept changing.

“Who should send who chocolates?” Fedderman unconsciously mumbled.

“What was that?” Helen asked.

Fedderman realized he’d spoken his thoughts and had been overheard. Time to back and fill.

“Penny and I had an argument,” he said. “Then after we made up, I asked her which of us should send the other chocolates, what with the new marriage laws.”

“I’ll bet she was amused,” Helen said.

“And flattered,” Sal said in his growl of a voice. “I’d say her reaction was—”

“Let me guess,” Helen interrupted. “She was pissed off.”

“Well—”

At the other end of the room, Jerry Lido said, “Craig Duke.”

There was an immediate silence.

“What about him?” Fedderman asked. His own voice seemed not to carry.

Lido leaned back away from his computer. “I probed the net and learned more about him than he knows about himself. He’s exactly who and what he claims to be. A paint salesman in town for a convention. And his background checks out. He’s pretty average, far as out-of-town conventioneers go. Sits in on exciting paint panels, drinks too much. Brags too much. Bounces on some of the hotel slave trade. Then he catches a flight out of town and goes back and plays family man with the wife and kids.”

“Sounds like a nice life,” Fedderman said.

“Yeah,” Sal growled. “House, woman, car.”

“Maybe all a man needs,” Sal said.

Helen smiled and said, “You guys are so full of crap.”

“Whatever,” Lido said. “But I think we can cross Craig Duke off our suspect list.”

“I concur,” Sal said. “He never did seem good for it.”

“Not to me, either,” Fedderman said.

Helen shrugged.

“So whaddya think?” Sal asked her.

“ ’Bout what?”

“The paint salesman,” Fedderman said.

“Remember to forget him,” Jerry Lido reminded them.

“Remember what?” Helen asked, playing dumb.

“Who we talking about?” Sal asked.

“I dunno,” Fedderman said. “I forgot.”

Jeanine wasn’t surprised when she came out of the gym forty-five minutes later, and there was Mr. gray business suit, waiting for her.

He was taller than he’d appeared through the window. And better looking. Not exactly handsome, yet there was nothing wrong with him. Search and you couldn’t find a flaw. It made him kind of anonymous, yet alluring. He smiled, and it was a good one. His teeth were white and even; a movie-star mouth. This guy was ready for his close-up.

“I saw you through the window,” he said.