He was back home today only because Mr. C believed his capos should be at church on Sundays, then spend the day with their

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  families. What a joke, like a shark saying a blessing before it bit off your leg.

  Fredo's wife, a thin, brittle-looking woman with high hair, followed him, and they all disappeared into the shadow of the portico, except for the guard, who took up a station lounging against a white pillar.

  One big happy family. Jake wondered if the wife knew—or cared—how many women Fredo kept on the side.

  Jake let out a breath he had not known he was holding. Automatically, he checked the sun's angle, though he already knew there was no chance of a reflection off his scope. He turned his attention to the pool, a sparkling aquamarine gemstone set in the lush grass behind and to the left of the house. On a warm day like this, after Fredo had filled himself with rare roast beef and Chianti, he'd trade the church suit for a swimsuit and go out to the pool. The sun would be behind this oak about then, and Fredo would pull his chair around to face it, put on his sunglasses, and sleep off the wine in the warm summer rays.

  Until a slug in the kneecap woke him up.

  Then he'd be on the cement beside the pool, thrashing like a gaffed fish, and it would get tricky.

  The gut, Jake thought with icy determination. Then the head.

  In the first shock, it would take at least ten seconds for someone to think to get to him and drag him off. These bodyguards weren't selfless Secret Service agents and Fredo was hardly the sort you jump in front of when the shooting starts.

  I'll take as long as they give me. He doesn't get the slug in the brain until he's known pain. Will I hear him screaming this tar away.> Depends on the wind.

  Jake was surprised to feel a qualm in his stomach. He'd eaten nothing but the usual prehit breakfast of bread and tea. What was this.> A touch of ner^es.> Or was the foot getting infected from all this unaccustomed activity.^ He'd put salve on it last night, but tlic area around the burn had turned an angr' red.

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  Before he could stop himself, Jake wished Angel was around to take care of it.

  But Angel would not be around again. His choice, and he'd made it.

  So just put it out of your mind.

  Knee, gut, watch Fredo writhe, listen to the sweet music of his screams, then one in the head. Take that, you fucking bastard, you Judas, you filthy back-shooter. You screwed up my life. You put me in hell for four fucking months. Because of you, I couldn't lift a hand. They drained the piss out of me in tubes. Because of you, I wasn't a man at all.

  Because of you I met An£fel.

  Angrily, Jake shook off the thought. Right, and because of Lee Harvey Oswald, Jackie Kennedy got to date around again.

  I'm not meant for Angel, Jake thought. Angel is beautiful. Angel is good in bed. But how could she love me.> How could she ignore what I was.> She'd—

  Jake realized with a start that Fredo had entered the pool area. His heart began to pound as he lifted the rifle and sighted through the scope. Oh, God, the stupid bastard was wearing Speedo trunks—for that alone, he deserved to die. Did he have any idea how he looked, his belly hanging in a slab over the black nut-huggers.> Look at all that hair—not just his chest, but his shoulders, even his back. Jake's gorge rose. What a loathsome creature. Sit down there, yes. Pull your chair around, that's it. Adjust the sunglasses. Okay, nice and comfy.^

  Jake eased the AR-10 against his shoulder and centered the crosshairs on Fredo's chest, then tracked down one meaty thigh to his knee. In the crosshairs, the kneecap sat, round and pale as a biscuit.

  If ever a man deserved to die, this one did.

  Jake found the trigger, curled his finger around it.

  He remembered Angel's tears falling onto his hands. He heard her voice in his mind: Let it£(0, Jake.

  The rim of the scope dug into the flesh above his eyebrow. Jake swaUowed, sick to his stomach.

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  He hated Fredo, hated him.

  So go ahead, this is the moment you've dreamed of. You can't walk away now.

  She loves you. It can he over. All you have to do is let it go.

  And then he saw his life stretching before him, a shining new life, scoured clean by the fire of the last nine months.

  Nine months . . . like a pregnancy. And now the moment of truth: What was he going to deliver from that womb of fear and pain and utter desperation.^ A new life was out there, waiting. Did he want to sully it with Fredo's blood.>

  Let it go.

  I can't.

  Jake raised the scope to Fredo's head. He centered the crosshairs above the sunglasses, then brought it down, right between the eyes. . . .

  And hesitated.

  "Bang," he said.

  He lowered the rifle.

  Let it go.

  He didn't know if he could.

  But he could try. Like a drunk . . . one day at a time.

  Jake waited in the tree for nightfall, smiling as Fredo moved his chair around to keep the sun on him. Fredo didn't matter, Fredo was on another planet now.

  When the grove of oaks was steeped in darkness, Jake eased himself down the rope, feeling light and strong, and more sure of himself than he ever had in his life. He put the gun in its case and carried it back to the rented 4X4 he'd hidden in some bushes. He would return to Brooklyn and go back to Angel. He would tell her it was over—that he had turned his back on Fredo and all the old bad deals. Tonight they would start over.

  In the privacy of the Jeep, Jake broke down the ARK) and scope. He'd find a bay or river to throw them into on his way out

  of here. First, he needed a phone. He couldn't wait until he saw Angel, he had to tell her now, as soon as possible. An0ely Fm cleaUy and Fm going to stay that way. Angela I love you.

  Jake drove until he spotted one of the quaint roadside watering holes along Route 24—Dew Drop Inn, comfortingly unoriginal. A blue neon sign ticked and buzzed above the door, casting its soft glow on the pay phone. Jake dialed Graham's clinic, inhaling the smells of frying fish, the malty tang of beer. The chatter from inside the restaurant filled him with delicious, floating ease.

  "Hello!"

  Graham's voice, and at once Jake's sense of serenity fled. Something was wrong.

  "This is Jake. Is Angel there.>"

  "Jake.> Oh, yes. Jake Nacht."

  The man sounded half-stupefied. Jake's stomach went hollow with dread. "What is it.>"

  "She's gone. They took her, and it's your fault."

  Jake's mind raced, slipping and sliding over tJie appalling words Graham had just uttered. Angel, abducted?

  Fredo's boys must have decided to check the clinic again^ and I was gonCy so they went to my house, and I wasn^t there either.

  But why? A^cv he burned me, Fredo should have been satisfied. Why check again.>

  Jake thrust the question fi-om his mind, struck by a more immediate worry: They grabbed her to flush me out. If theyWe that suspicious, they^ve tapped Graham^s phone.

  "You seem to forget," Jake said, "that I'm paralyzed. How could it be my fault Angel is gone.>"

  An interval of silence told Jake that Graham was digesting the hidden message—was starting to think, thank God. But would someone listening in guess that, too.>

  "Your friends from your old life must have done this." Graham gave "friends" a bitter twist. "Before you came along, Angela didn't know anyone like Fredo. You brought him down on us— you and whatever it was you did with him before you were paralyzed. If he hates you enough to burn a helpless man, then he

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  hates you enough to kidnap someone he thinks might matter to you."

  Jake, listening with the ears of Fredo's eavesdropper, decided it was an adequate response. Never mind if Graham didn't have all the logic straight—Fredo wouldn't expect him to. The important thing was for them to keep Fredo thinking he was paralyzed.

  And to give no sign of just how deeply Angel did matter to him. Luckily, Graham himself probably didn't grasp that, and so could not give it away.

  Jake tried to pull his scrambled thoughts together. "When did this happen.^"

  "I don't know. Sometime earlier today. I just discovered she was gone. Her room was ... a shambles." Graham's voice hitched on the last word.

  "Have you called the police.^"

  "Not yet. They left a note warning me not to. They said if I did they'd H//her."

  "Do exactly as they say," Jake said firmly. "It's me they want. I think I can get this straightened out."

  "So you admit it's your fault."

  Yes, Jake thought, but he said, "It's the fault of whoever grabbed her—and I agree it's probably Fredo. In spite of everything, he must still doubt I'm really paralyzed. If so, he could have checked my house after he knew I wasn't with you. Trouble is, I didn't go back there because I didn't want him coming back and burning something besides my foot."

  "Where are you.>"

  Jake winced. It was not a question Graham should have asked. He still wasn't thinking very well. I've got to get oft* the line, Jake thought. I've got to get to Graham, as quick as I can, and make sure he doesn't call the police or do something stupid.

  "Don't worry about where I am," Jake said. "I'm going to call Fredo and tell him. That's all he wants. If he grabbed your niece, he'll give her back when he verifies I'm still paralyzed. If I can get enough people here to protect me, I'll call Fredo and let him come

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  here, check me over again. I'll work something out. The main thing is, whatever you do, don't call the police. Just wait there, stay by the phone, and I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

  Silence.

  "Doctor Graham.>"

  "I hear you. I'm not prepared to wait very long. I have to do something, do you hear me.> They could be hurting her, or . . ."

  "Stay by the phone." Jake emphasized each word, then hung up.

  Christ! A sick dread filled Jake. He felt his hands shaking in reaction and pressed them against his face to stop the tremors. At least he hadn't yet thrown away the AR-IO, or the .45 he'd brought along in case he got into close quarters.

  And thank God he hadn't dropped the hammer on Fredo. If he had. Angel would be dead by now.

  Taking slow, even breaths, Jake battled a smothering attack of claustrophobia. So dark here; hard to breathe. The oily stench of spoiled sardines seemed to ooze from the walls that brushed either shoulder as he crept along, hands out front. A vertical slice of lighter gray ahead drew him deeper. He tried not to think what would happen if someone stepped into that gray crease and fired a shot down the alley. Wouldn't even have to aim—a sure bank shot—and he wouldn't have room to fall down.

  But if he could get through this crease between buildings undetected, he'd be in the alley proper, an ancient, cobblestoned service lane that bisected the center of the block, giving access to the backs of shops and brownstones that faced out toward either street. Graham's rehab center was one of those buildings. A right turn out of the crease, then a twenty foot diagonal across the alley to the rear entrance.

  If Fredo had it staked out as he did the front, it might as well be twenty miles.

  Jake put the negative thought from his mind. He listened,

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  searching for any sound at the end of the crease. At two A.M., the Norwegian quarter was eerily quiet for any part of Brooklyn. The good Gunnars and Dagnes were apparently all in bed; with luck, someone watching the rear of the clinic might have dozed off as well.

  But Jake did not believe in luck.

  Which was why his right hand pointed the .45 ahead of him. If one of Fredo's men caught him slipping into the clinic. Angel's rescue could be all over before it started. Maybe he should have carried out the charade he'd described to Graham—find a place, hire in some muscle, then try again to reassure Fredo.

  But what if he flunked the new test.>

  Or what if Fredo already knows'?

  Then he puts a round into my head, Jake thought. A Jake Nacht with working arms and legs is too dangerous to let live, and to hell with the newspapers and the D.A.

  The nagging suspicion that Fredo might already know galled Jake. He'd made a big mistake. He let his hate—and Fredo's dumb-guinea act—blind him. The guy was such a caricature, his greaseball looks, his wise-ass swagger, the ignorant way he talked. Hell, it wasn't an act, it was him. But it wasn't all of him. If he was so dumb, why was Jake the one who got backshot and couldn't move for months, who had to lie still and let a sadistic bastard grind a cigarette out on his foot, who went out shooting pine cones while that same bastard snatched the woman he loved.>

  Jake felt his teeth grinding together in rage and chagrin. Closing his eyes, he stood still in the darkness, willing himself to calmness. Rage was what had put him in this hole. Now it was time for cold Calculation—time to see who was really smarter, him or Fredo. If it was Fredo, Angel would die, and so would Jake Nacht, because even if he didn't go down with her, losing her was not something he could endure.

  At the end of the crease, Jake stopped and listened again. Lowering himself to his belly, he eased his head out and peered through the murk. Why was it so dark back here.> No streetlights, but at

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  least a shop or two should have a back light on. The only illumination came from far down the alley, diluting the darkness just enough to detect movement. The conditions were perfect for a stakeout. If someone was out there, he could remain invisible so long as he didn't move.

  He doesn't have to move, Jake thought. But I do.

  Just take your time. Wait. Listen.

  After almost fifteen minutes, he heard it—a faint scrape, brief and 'er}^ even—a sound that was somehow familiar, but Jake couldn't pin it down. A few seconds later, he smelled coffee.

  A thermos.

  Jake remembered lying paralyzed, smelling his way around his hospital room. Being unable to move had sharpened his hearing and sense of smell, and he had gone to them, relying on the scent of Angel's perfume or the distinctive squeak of her sneakers to tell him when she was in the hall, the chalk^ smell of meds to tell him when the nurse was tiptoeing in so that he could pretend to be asleep—grabbing desperately for smidgeons of control to keep himself from going crazy. Who knew then that he was practicing a new art, honing senses that might save his life.^

  But he had to do more than save his life. He had to get into Graham's. The front and rear entrances were covered. What now.> There had to be a way.

  And then he saw what it might be—if he was patient enough, strong enough, quiet enough.

  Still on his belly, Jake inched into the alley. Keeping his face down on the gritt}^ pavement, he pushed off gently \'ith his toes, wormed his shoulders. His fingers, splayed to the sides, added an extra centimeter or two to each small push. It took him ten minutes to ooze fully into the open. His spine crawled with dread, pleading with him to hurry, itching in anticipation of a bullet. One more into the back and then he would die. Would they let Angel go then?

  Not Fredo.

  Ten more minutes, and now he was lying squarely in the middle of the alley, one more body length to go before he could squeeze

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  into the crease on the other side. His ears strained for any sound, dreading it like a blow. When it came, a rustle of clothes, he froze, then almost scrambled up—

  Don't!

  Staying facedown, completely motionless, he listened. Nothing for a few seconds, and then he heard the spatter of piss against a brick wall.

  Jake rose to a crouch and ducked into the crease, pulling his .45, and facing back into the alley. His heart hammered so fiercely he could feel the pulse between his finger and the trigger. Fredo's man would come now and be killed, or not. Five seconds, a minute, and Jake knew he had made it.

  Halfway.

  Now came the hard part. Time to see where all his rehab had brought him. And how much pain he could really stand.

  Clicking the safety on, he shoved the pistol back into his pocket. He felt his way along until he judged he was halfway down the crease. Backing against the wall opposite the rehab center, he raised a foot and planted it about waist level against the center's wall. He stood that way a moment, gathering himself, wishing the place had windows at ground level. In New York, nearsighted vistas of brick walls were not unheard of, but Jake knew from the months he'd spent here that there were no windows on this side.

  Just that small, louvered opening for ventilation in the attic, three stories above.

  Keeping his foot planted, Jake pushed off it, sliding his back a few feet up the opposite wall, then planting the other foot. He felt a dull pain in the area of the cigarette burn as he ground his sole into the brick, but the Nike Airs he wore cushioned the seared spot.

  The motions, the technique, were familiar. He'd got in and out of perches this way on more than one hit. But how strong were his legs now.> He was far from peak condition. What if he got two stories up and they gave out.>

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  Then he'd fall.

  Jake worked his way up the wall a foot at a time. The pressure of brick against his spine wrung spasms of pain from his back; he had the sudden, panicky fear that he might somehow damage his spinal cord again.

  Just keep going.

  As he reached the top, the nerves of his legs began firing in ragged bursts, like bolts of electricity arcing from hip to heel. He found it harder and harder to keep the tension on. He was glad for the darkness, but he could feel the three stories of air beneath him, imagine the impact if he fell.

  Hang in there, he told his legs. Just a little ways to go.

  And then his leg muscles went into spasm, contracting and relaxing to some chaotic up-tempo rhythm only they could hear. His legs began to jitter like a bad Elvis impersonation. It might have been funny if he weren't three goddamn stories up.