Even now, after months of work, it took a fierce effort to more than dent a racquetball in his right hand, and his left was weaker still. His coordination was so scrambled he could barely hold a pen; scrawling his name took immense concentration. Here at Graham's clinic he had zero chance to get close to a gun, let alone pick one up, try to aim it, and squeeze the trigger. Even if he could, he had an idea what would happen: He'd be lucky to hit the wall instead of the floor.

  If this was going to be it, he had about as much chance of sneaking up on Fredo and putting a bullet in his head as he did of winning the shot put at the next Olympics.

  Patience, he told himself. I always had it before. I never capped someone until I'd planned every step, plotted escape routes, gone over all possible outcomes, run through dozens of practice shoots at the same range and light conditions as the hit. Sometimes it took weeks. What's my hurry.>

  This is personal, that^s what.

  Squeezing the ball harder, Jake tried to focus on the prize: between the eyes for Fredo, yes, but first the right knee and then the groin, and let him lie there helpless and terrified and in pain until someone came to drag him away. Then a final shot to the head, more merciful than Fredo deserved. All from a distance, all without

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  being seen. In his last seconds of life, Fredo would feel the hatred Jake had kissed into the bullets; as Fredo sucked his last breath, somewhere deep inside, he would realize who had killed him, but it would be far too late.

  Then what?

  When Fredo went down, what would Mr. C do.> Fredo was such a scumbag he must have lots of enemies. None could hate him worse than Jake Nacht, but Jake Nacht was helpless, right.>

  Mr. C will check, Jake thought. Right now he's forgotten me, but if Fredo goes down, he'll look me up, just to be sure there haven't been any miracles. So after I hit Fredo, I get straight back here and lie in bed, be ready any moment, day or night, even if Mr. C sends someone in through my window after midnight. All I have to do is lie still for a few weeks—hell, I've had enough practice at that. Graham and Angel may wonder why I'm suddenly being so careftil, but they'll pitch in selling the con, because Graham has his own reasons for wanting to keep me a secret. When Mr. C is satisfied I'm still paralyzed, he'll forget about me again. Then I slip out and do Danziger—from behind, in the back, a single slug at the base of the neck like he did me.

  And then, right away, Mr. C himself

  Have to hit him before he finds out about Danziger. Fredo's hit could be anyone, but Danziger will fill the pattern. No time for anything elaborate. Mr. C will be the lucky one—a clean, quick kill, out of the blue—

  "You sure look determined!"

  Jake felt his frozen grin thawing, warming on his face, as though Angel were a sun that had suddenly dawned in the room. Her gold-flecked eyes, the chestnut hair, the slight skew of her smile, caused a lightness in his chest, a feeling that, if he just took her hands, his pain and awkwardness would drop away and he'd be able to dance her around the room.

  ''Watch!" he said.

  With a savage extra eflfort, he squeezed the ball almost flat, then tossed it toward the other hand. It bumped oft'his palm and away

  m

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  before he could close his fingers. Grabbing for it pulled him off balance. He slipped from the edge of the bed and dropped to his knees. His face flamed with mortification.

  Wisely, Angel did not try to help him. His legs wallowed, then thrashed, and then he got control, pushing up from the floor and reclaiming his seat on the bed.

  "Guess that one needs more practice," he said.

  She picked up the ball and put it back in his hand, making sure her fingers touched his, then drawing them away in a soft: caress. His heart soared. She worked with him a few minutes—some range-of-motion exercises and then a backrub. When she was gone, he realized that he was, in fact, not in a bad mood.

  Two weeks later, he suddenly began to improve very quickly. Angel told him that this, too, was expected, but she hadn't wanted to say anything in case it didn't happen. After all, this was unplowed ground. No one's spinal cord had ever regenerated before.

  He continued to improve.

  Four months after the surgery, he sat on the examining table in the ridiculous, flappy hospital gown, while Dr. Graham tested his reflexes, whacking at his knees and elbows with that little rubber mallet of his. Outside the window, Jake could hear the traffic in the street, the chorde of pigeons strutting in the casement.

  How many times, pacing to his window and back, had he looked out and seen nothing.^ Then, a few weeks ago, his healing had crossed some magical threshold; the blackout curtain of pain and weakness had lifted and he'd begun to be aware of the world outside this room. The window looked out on a broad Brooklyn street lined with three-story brick and stone buildings. Hanging from half the windows were flower boxes, most of them painted a rich dark blue. Down a few blocks, he could see an old theater whose marquee was permanendy christened Sons of Norway Hall. Market stalls gave off the mingled smells of potato pancakes, gefilte fish, and the peculiar brown goat's cheese called jetost.

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  Few native New Yorkers knew about tiiis litde Nordic enclave in Brooklyn, but this wasn't the first time he'd been here. He'd found it shortiy after he took over Sarge's business, during that month or two when he was mapping the city into his brain. He made sure he reconnoitered a few blocks around each and every subway stop, including the elevated station five blocks down the hill from here.

  According to Angel, her uncle's clinic itself had once been a small apartment building owned by Dr. Graham's Norwegian aunt. When Tante Hanna had died, Graham had inherited the place and converted it into a rehab center, but echoes of its past still clung— the transoms over the windows, a slight pitch and roll in parts of the flooring, and an attic out of some gothic novel.

  The memory of that dusty top floor burst to life like a mint rolling with sudden flavor against his tongue. Yesterday, he'd finally made it up the last, narrow flight to the attic and found a strange, forgotten world filled with old mirror stands, cobwebbed rocking chairs, and curious wooden equipment that looked like it had been salvaged from the gymnasium of a turn-of-the-century sanatorium. That, and a dog, peering at him with utter, silent stillness from behind an old rowing machine.

  Gave him a start, that dog, and then he'd realized it was stuffed, apparentiy one of Tante Hanna's treasured pets of long ago. Jake could imagine her petting the littie dog, cooing endearments, feeding it treats—

  What the hell was wrong with him.> Looking at a stuffed dog, for Christ's sake, and feeling the love and pain of an old woman he'd never met. Sentimental rubbish. He needed to keep his mind clear, focused on Fredo, Danziger, and Mr. C.

  Doc Graham tapped his kneecap and the leg jumped, but not as much as it used to. The doc had told him that was 2Ljfood sign. His skin still had a faraway feel to it, like he was enclosed in soft plastic. He could feel, but every sensation seemed padded. But that was okay too, because the padding was getting thinner and thinner every week.

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  "Very good," Graham said. "And how are you feeling?"

  "Good. No complaints."

  "I mean your moods, mental state, so on."

  Jake suppressed a groan. Wasn't Graham ever going to stop with this.>

  "I have a good mental state." He felt the awkwardness of the words, clunking out as though English were suddenly his second language. The only thing stranger than having all these new feelings was having to talk about them.

  "No nightmares, no strange impulses.>" Graham peered at him with grave concentration.

  "Wel-1-1. I do have this occasional urge to void where prohibited."

  Graham stared blankly at him.

  "You ought to like that joke," Jake said. "It's got one of your doctor words in it."

  "Oh, yes, I see." Graham delivered a weak laugh.

  The door eased open and Angel slipped inside, closing it again. Her agitated manner triggered a warning; the bottom dropped out of Jake's stomach and then he got himself moving as Angel spoke.

  "A man is here to see Jake. I told him to wait downstairs, but I don't know if he will."

  Jake slipped into bed, straightened his body, and pulled up the sheets. There was just enough time to lay his arms along his sides before the door opened and Fredo leaned in. "Surprise!"

  Graham brisded. "Sir, excuse me, but visiting hours are in the evening."

  Fredo ignored him, gazing at Jake, who rolled his head slowly to the side. Thafs as much as you can move. DonH forget it for a second. "Hello, Fredo," he said.

  Graham reached to take Fredo's arm, but Angel took his, instead, stopping the motion. The glimmer of fear in her eyes panged Jake. Her intuitions were so finely tuned she could smell what Fredo was— and Fm in no shape to protect her.

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  "I'm sure we can make an exception," Fredo said. "Jakey and I go way back, right, Jake?"

  "Right."

  "Well, all right then," Graham said. "But in future, please try and come between seven and eight in the evening."

  "Sure, Doc," Fredo said, still not looking at Graham or Angel.

  When they were gone, he ambled to the bedside. His tan was very deep, Jake saw, except for pale circles sunglasses had left around his eyes.

  "No flowers.^" Jake asked.

  The tan shaded briefly toward red. "Those were from Mr. C. Been me, I'd have brought you fish."

  "Wrapped in newspaper."

  "You got it. Or maybe a dead canary."

  "You always were the subtie one."

  "Subde is for skirts. Speaking of which, that's some nurse you got there, Jakey. Even paralyzed, I think I could get it up for her."

  Jake let nothing show in his face. He did not want to talk about Angel.

  "If you think I should be sleeping with the fishes," he said, "why don't you do something about it.>"

  Fredo gave him a cold half smile. "That what you want, Jake.> You getting so desperate you'd bite it even from me.>"

  Jake stared at him, and after a moment, Fredo's gaze faltered, flicking away and back.

  "You'd like that, wouldn't you, old buddy.> I put one in your brain and then they come and get me. But if you really want it, the time might come Mr. C could arrange it. Have to hang on a few more months until the Dan Rather types forget about you, then make it look like an accident, but it could be done. Mr. C, he still has a soft spot for you."

  "I'm touched."

  Fredo ran a hand down the sheet, and sweat prickled up on Jake's forehead as he realized what he was looking for.

  ]7B

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  "That tube you had in the hospital to take the piss out of you. Where is that, Jake?"

  "They can't leave it in all the time," he said. "You'd get ulcers."

  "So . . . what.' They just let you wet the bed.'"

  "Not the bed." Jake turned his head away.

  "Diapers.'" Fredo laughed. "That's great. This I gotta see." He pulled the sheet back and then his face took on a calculating, sober cast. "I don't see no diaper, Jake."

  "They were changing it when you came. You want the old one? I'm sure they could find it for you." Jake resisted an insane urge to reach up and wipe the sweat away.

  "Ven^ funny." Fredo drifted down to the end of the bed, planting his hands on the footrail. "How come they moved you here.^"

  "Because they couldn't do anything for me at the hospital."

  "Yeah.' Didn't they even get your fingers moving?"

  How did he know about thaU He^s been keeping closer tabs than I thought.

  "No," Jake said. He jerked a leg, trying to mimic the spastic, unconnected movement Fredo had seen before. Fredo's eyes never left his face.

  "If the hospital can't help you, what can they do here?"

  "Not a damned thing, but it's quieter here, and the staff is good. They keep me turned and dry. What the hell do you care, Fredo? It's not your money."

  "Any other live-ins here?"

  "I don't know."

  "Don't seem to be. I looked around. Seems like this is what they call an 'outpatient facility.' Don't you love doctor talk? No live-ins, but they made an exception for you. How come?"

  "Five million buys a lot of exceptions."

  Fredo gazed at him. "I'm getting the strangest feeling about you, Jakey. Are you trying to con a con? Jake the snake? Trying to fool your old buddy Fredo? Make him think you can't move or feel anything, when really you can?"

  Jake tried to think what Fredo would expect him to say. "I know

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  1/3

  you're stupid, but do you have to be ignorant, too? I thought vou understood: When your spinal cord is cut, it's cut. It doesn't grow back. Why don't you get the hell out of here and leave me alone.'"

  Fredo smiled. Reaching into his coat, he took out a cigarette and lit it.

  Jake's scalp crawled, but he said, "Go ahead. As soon as Doc gets a whifF of that, he'll send in the orderlies. You'd like them, Fredo—I think they both used to be pro wrestlers."

  "Oooh, scary," he said, taking a long drag.

  "Fine. Puff away. It'll be fun watching them make you put it out."

  Fredo lifted the sheet off his feet, and Jake knew what was coming even before Fredo started sucking hard on the cigarette.

  Christ!

  Panic rose like a fist inside Jake, blocking his throat. His skin sensitivity^ was down, but could it take this.> lie tried to picture his foot frozen in a block of ice. The skin was blue and he'd lost all feeling. He desperately needed something warm to touch it or he'd get frostbite—

  Fredo lifted his foot—

  Cold, so cold, just a touch of warmth would he so nice —

  And put the tip of the cigarette against the pad of skin behind his toes—

  God, the pain, despite the '^paddin£f, '^ turning his brain white, he wanted to scream, had to scream —

  Fredo ground the cigarette into his foot until it went out, then dropped his ankle. The disappointed expression on his face wavered and swam in Jake's eyes. For a second, Fredo seemed to be shrinking away down a long, dark tunnel—

  l
  "No one's that tough," Fredo mumbled.

  "What did you do, you dumb son of a bitch?" Jake asked. ''Did you burn me?"

  Sick at heart, Jake waited for Angel to ask her questions. Instead, she seemed totally focused on his foot, making low sympathetic sounds as she smoothed salve on the burn. The seared spot throbbed viciously—Jake could swear the blazing end of the cigarette was still in contact with the flesh. But he was aware, too, of the coolness of her hand around his ankle.

  "Lucky I don't have full sensation back," he said, needing to fill the silence.

  To his surprise. Angel gave a shaky laugh. "Even so, it must have hurt like a maniac. And you didn't even jerk your foot.> Jake, how did you stand it.>"

  "You do what you have to do." Was that vague enough.> She gazed at him and he saw only admiration in her eyes. Damn, this was killing him. When was she going to ask.> "You are a very brave man, Jake Nacht." "Well, I didn't want to give away your uncle's research." This time her laugh was more solid. "Right. You took a third-degree burn on your foot to keep your doctor from getting a sc'ere tongue-lashing from some ethics review board."

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  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  "And loss of funding. Don't forget that."

  Despite tlie pain, Jake found liimself grinning, too. Was it really possible she was not afraid of him.> Not scared that Dan-ziger's accusations after shooting him might be true.> She was such an acute observer of people and Fredo was obviously mob. Even if she didn't know from mob, she could guess what kind of man would burn another with a cigarette. And she could also figure out that it was done to make sure, very sure, that Jake's move to the rehab center did not mean he was getting his arms and legs back.

  What^s the matter with me? Forget An0el. I should be feelin0 on top of the world. I fooled Fredo. HeHl never see me eoming. A warm, gloating pleasure washed through Jake, and the pain began to dim at last.

  "Better.>" Angel asked.

  "Better."

  She wrapped his foot in gauze. "You'll have to stay off this foot. But there's plenty we can do—you need to work on your arms more, anyway—"

  Graham stepped into the room and stood watching Angel finish up. His face was grim and Jake knew that, even if Angel didn't have questions, Graham did. Would he ask them in front of her.>

  "Mr. Nacht, can you explain this, please.^"

  Jake tried to hide his annoyance. Of course Graham would ask in front of Angel. Why not.> He's never really put aside his suspicions that I'm bad news, so why pass up a chance like this to demonstrate it to Angel, undermine any feelings she might have for me. Pompous jerk.

  The pompous jerk who gave you hack your life.

  "Why did this . . . Fredo do this to you.>" Graham prompted.

  "He wanted to make sure I was really paralyzed."

  "Obviously. But why would he, in particular, care about that.>"

  "Uncle—"

  "No, Angela, this is important. It's time we cleared the air. Your safety could be at stake."

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  ie3

  Angel picked up tJie salve and bandages and headed for the door.

  "I think you should stay and hear this, too," Graham said.

  Bastard. Jake thought. Tou^ve hung out with rats too long.

  Angel turned at the door and gave her uncle a level stare. "You're so full of what you've done for Jake, maybe you should stop and think what he's done for you."

  She stepped out while Graham, obviously taken aback, was still groping for an answer. The doctor turned back to Jake, his expression openly angry now.