The second was a home office. And on a desk was an IBM, complete with modem. Tom entered the dark room and switched the computer on. After it booted up, he adjusted the contrast so the screen was dim.

  The keyboard had one-touch Internet access, and it only took a minute before he was at the Surveillance Technologies website. Tom fished the BigTrack serial number out of his wallet.

  His phone buzzed.

  “Dammit, Tommy. Hurry up.”

  “Just a sec.” Tom punched in the user name and password, and a few keystrokes later he was looking at a map of Lincoln, Nebraska. “It looks like he’s on Talon Street. It’s off of North Park Road, near the airport.”

  “Exact address?”

  Tom squinted at the screen. “Doesn’t say. But he’s on the northwest corner of the intersection. Roy, be careful with Abe.

  Shakespeare was a real bad egg.”

  “Put down the weapon and hang up the phone.”

  Speak of the devil. Something pressed into the back of Tom’s head. He didn’t have to see it to know what it was.

  “The phone and the gun, now.”

  Tom ended the call and placed the revolver on the desk top.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “She left to get the police. They’ll be here any minute.”

  Bill gave him a hard tap on the head with the butt of the gun.

  “Where is she?”

  “She left.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The blow brought the stars out. Tom toppled off the chair and fell to his hands and knees.

  “Let’s get something straight, Jefferson. I’m the one with the gun.

  I ask the questions, you answer them.”

  He kicked Tom in the ribs. Tom groaned, a spike of agony running laps through his nervous system.

  “What’s the matter? Tender spot?”

  Another kick, just as hard. Tom squinted up at him through the pain. There was something round and pink stuck to Bill’s forehead.

  “Do you have a roller in your hair plugs?”

  Bill reflexively touched his head, then gave Tom the mother of all kicks.

  “How does it feel, to get your ass kicked by William Shakespeare?”

  Tom groaned. “It’s better than reading your plays.”

  Bill reared back for another kick, but something to his left caught his attention and he stopped.

  “Drop the gun.”

  Tom looked in the doorway. Joan. She had the semi-automatic in her hand, aiming at Bill’s chest.

  “Hello, Joan. Welcome to the party. I was giving one of our founding fathers a little lesson in humility.”

  “The gun. Drop it.”

  “This gun?” Bill smirked and pulled back the hammer. He pointed it at Tom’s head. “What if I said no?”

  “Then I’d shoot you.”

  “Playing hardball. I see. But do you know what the secret to playing hardball is? You have to know what you’re capable of. How far will you go to win, Joan? Me, I’m willing to go all the way. Now I’m going to count to three.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Joan shot him in the chest. Bill took a step back, slack-jawed in surprise. He looked at the blood soaking his shirt, and then fell to his knees and slumped to the floor. Tom pried the gun out of his hand. The Bard’s eyes were glassy, far off. A small gasp escaped his mouth, and then he didn’t move any more.

  “Is he dead?”

  Joan appeared dazed. Tom got up off the floor, one arm protecting his ribs. “Yeah. He’s dead.”

  “Should we call the police?”

  “If you want to.”

  Joan walked over to Bill, slowly. She seemed someplace else.

  Tom recognized it as an early stage of shock. He went to her, taking the gun from her hand.

  “If you didn’t shoot him, we both would have died. You made the right choice.”

  Joan didn’t answer. She just stared at the body. He stuck the gun in his waistband and gently touched her chin, turning her gaze away from Bill and on to him.

  “Can you live with this?”

  “I... I think so. What about the police?”

  Tom thought it through. Even though it was a clear case of self-defense, he wasn’t sure how far Stang’s influence spread.

  “I don’t know if we can trust the police.”

  “So what should we do?” Her voice sounded strained. “Start wiping down all of our fingerprints?”

  “We didn’t commit any crime here, Joan. There’s nothing to conceal. If we’re ever questioned about this, we don’t want to admit that we tried to cover it up. You saved my life. Both of our lives.

  Okay?”

  She nodded. “Okay. What do I need to do?”

  “We have to get ready for Attila and Vlad. They can show up at any time.”

  “What about...” Joan gave the body a sideways glance.

  “Leave him. Go and wait in the living room. Keep an eye on the window, tell me if a car pulls up. Can you do that?”

  Joan turned and walked out, somewhat robotically. Tom picked up his cell phone and dialed Roy. There was a recorded message, saying the customer had switched off his phone.

  “Great. One more thing to worry about.”

  He left the den, deep in thought. Defense first. Tom locked the front and back doors, so the Terrible Two couldn’t just waltz in.

  They’d probably call before they came. Tom didn’t think he could convincingly speak like Bill, so he took the phone off the hook and put the hand set in a drawer so he wouldn’t have to hear that annoying noise. Joan was sitting in the Budweiser chair, facing a crack in the blinds.

  “How are you doing?”

  “I think I’m okay. What’s the plan?”

  “We need to talk to one of them, to find out what’s going on. If only one shows up, it’s easy. I go around behind him while he’s at the front door.”

  “And if they both show up?”

  “Same thing. But if it goes bad, you’ll be in here, aiming out this window. Vlad had the gun, so we go for him first. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to look over Bill’s computer files, see if I can turn something up. Do you want anything? Some water? A sandwich?”

  “I don’t think I could eat.”

  “Right. Sorry. I’ll relieve you in about an hour, okay?”

  Joan nodded. Tom turned to leave.

  “Tom?”

  He stopped. “Yeah?”

  “Have you ever...?”

  Tom knew where this was headed. He took a breath and let it out slowly.

  “Killed someone? My second year. It was a 10-16. Domestic violence. We’d had calls about that address before. The husband drank, and he was a mean drunk. When my partner and I arrived, the guy took a swing at me. Big fellow. Strong. We jumped on top of him, trying to get the cuffs on. He fought pretty damn hard.”

  Tom hadn’t talked about this in years, not since his mandatory visit to the police shrink.

  “You shot him?”

  “Um, no. We managed to get him subdued. But his wife... she came out of the bedroom with a gun. Shot my partner in the head.

  Defending her husband, I guess. Even though the bastard broke her nose.”

  “You killed her.”

  “I killed her.”

  “Self-defense.”

  “Yes.”

  “Just like me.”

  Tom nodded, slowly. “Yes.”

  Her shoulders shook, and then the tears. Tom went to her, arms open. She cried, and he patted her back and smoothed her hair, all while trying not to think about that October night, all those years ago, having to kill the woman he’d shown up to protect.

  “You’ll be fine, Joan. You’re strong.”

  “I know.”

  “He was a bad man.”

  “I know.”

  Joan broke the hug, taking a step back. Tom could tell she’d found her strength again.

  “Was that your friends on the phone, earlier?”

  “Yeah. The bad guys grabbed Bert.”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry.”

  “Roy is going after him, but his cell phone is off. All we can do is wait.”

  “I hope they’re okay.”

  “Me too.”

  “What was it you wanted to check out on Bill’s computer?”

  “I’m not sure. Just searching for clues, I guess. Something to make some sense of all this.”

  “Don’t let me stop you. I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’ve got window duty. You go be a cop.”

  “I won’t be long.” Tom gave her a little pat on the shoulder and then went back to the den, a bounce in his step.

  He flipped on the light and tried not to look at the corpse. Sitting at the workstation, he logged off the Internet and opened up Bill’s word processing file. Tom found fifteen documents. He clicked on the first one and began to read.

  I address you today as the newly elected Speaker of this House of Representatives...

  Ah-ha. Bill was writing speeches for Phil Jr., the third most powerful man in America. Tom decided to check the most recent speech, to see if it yielded anything interesting. He clicked on the last document and saw it was dated two days from now.

  It is in the times of greatest tragedy that we ourselves must also be great...

  As Tom read on, he was enveloped by a very real sense of dread.

  Halfway into the first paragraph, his fears were confirmed.

  “Oh no.”

  He continued, and the speech got immeasurably worse. If this were true, if this were really going to happen in two days…

  “We’re in way over our heads.”

  Tom shook his head, his heart aching, because he knew there was no chance in hell any of them would be alive by the end of the week.

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  Lincoln

  The pain in his wrists woke him up. It didn’t take long for Bert to figure out why.

  He was hanging from them.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Einstein.”

  Jack’s thick lips were curved in a smile. He perched like a cat on the top step of a folding ladder, staring into Bert’s eyes. The expression on his face was pure glee.

  Bert took in the surroundings. It was an empty warehouse of some kind. Dark, dusty, abandoned. Looking up, he saw the rope that bound his hands extended up the ceiling and looped over a rafter. He followed it down to ground level, where it was tied to a massive metal shelving unit.

  “Oh, God.”

  Looking down also revealed what he was hanging over.

  “Oh, God, ” Jack repeated. “ There are a few tricks to a proper impaling. The stick has to be sharp, but not so sharp that it kills right away. It should be greased, in this case with some petroleum jelly, to help the body slide down. Too much and the game is over too quickly.

  Too little and it can take weeks. It’s a little bit art, and a little bit science.”

  The stake was at least eight feet long, the pointy tip only a few inches away from Bert’s crotch. The pain in his wrists suddenly became trivial.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Yes, it’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt a lot. You’ll scream for the first few hours, but no one will hear you. I’d prepared this for Lincoln, but lucky you, you get the trial run.”

  “Why don’t you just shoot me?” Bert’s voice was quivering badly.

  “Why don’t you just shoot me? What’s the fun in that? Besides, I have some questions to ask, about where the others are, and this makes you much more receptive.”

  “I’ll tell you whatever you want. I swear.”

  “I swear.” Jack patted Bert on the head. “Of course you will. Now perk up. We’re going to spend some quality time, here. There are few relationships more intimate than this one. You’ll share everything with me, Albert. You’ll open yourself up like you never have to anyone else. By the end, I hope we’ll be good friends.”

  Bert fought back the tears. “You’re insane.”

  “You’re insane.” Jack laughed. “Of course I’m insane. I’m Jack the Ripper. The original serial killer. The most famous psychopath in history. But I’m not entirely bad. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll give you a phone call. You can call anyone you want.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? To say good-bye, of course.” Jack unclipped the cell phone from his belt and held it out. “Give me a number. I’ll dial for you.”

  Bert trembled with fear, anger, helplessness. He was going to die.

  The realization staggered him. It was too soon—there was so much he wanted to do, so much he hadn’t yet done. This was supposed to happen when he was old. Not now, not this way, at the hands of a monster who fed on his pain. He wanted to spit in the man’s face, but he held it back for the moment. There was a call he wanted to make.

  Bert told Jack a number. Jack repeated it back, naturally.

  “It’s ringing.” He put it to Bert’s ear.

  “Hello?”

  When Bert heard the voice he wasn’t sure if he could keep it together. “Mom? It’s me.”

  “Albert! How are you? Where have you been hiding? I called the apartment three times, you haven’t answered.”

  “Been busy lately.”

  “Too busy to call your mother?”

  “Look, Mom, this is important.”

  “What is it, Albert?”

  Bert’s eyes teared up. “I want to say... I want to say thank you.

  Thank you for my life. For raising me.” He swallowed, trying to keep his voice conversational. “You’ve been the best mother anyone could ask for. I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, son. Is everything okay?”

  “It’s fine. Is, uh, Dad there?”

  “Albert... I don’t know if he wants to talk to you.”

  “Please. Make him get on the phone. There’s something I have to tell him.”

  Jack took the phone away and put his hand over the mouthpiece.

  “I just have to tell you, Albert. This is really touching. Really.”

  “Can you give me the phone back?”

  Jack placed it next to Bert’s ear.

  “Yes?” His father’s voice. Curt. Impatient.

  “Hi, Dad. Look—I know we haven’t seen eye to eye lately, but I wanted to say something.”

  “I’m not sending you any more money.”

  “Dammit, Dad, just listen to me. This isn’t about money. It isn’t about graduate school, or physics, or the stock market. This is about you and me. A long time ago, there was a man who told me I could do anything in life. The sky was the limit. He taught me to believe in myself.”

  Jack took the phone away again. “This is great stuff, Albert.

  Should I get some tissue?”

  “Can I finish?”

  “Can I finish? Sure.” He held the phone out again.

  Bert tried to gather his thoughts. “You were there for me, Dad. All throughout my life. You helped make me a man. I know I never lived up to your expectations as a son, but you lived up to all of mine as a father, and then some. I just wanted to thank you, for everything you’ve done. I love you.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Did he say it back?” Jack asked.

  Bert averted his eyes.

  “You know, son, you haven’t been by the house in a while. Your mother would love it if you came over, stayed for a few days. I’ve got these Nets tickets—they’re having a great season so far. Heading for the playoffs for sure. Do you remember the first time I took you to see the Nets?”

  “Like it was yesterday. They played the Bulls. Jordan scored 43

  points.”

  “So you’ll come out? They’re playing on Thursday. I don’t know what your schedule is like...”

  Bert bit his lower lip. “I don’t think I can make that game, Dad.

  But thanks.”

  “Well, another time then. Bert?”

  “Dad?”

  “I know...” He cleared his throat. “I know I haven’t been the most affectionate father. That was always your mother’s department. Hugs and kisses and birthday cards. But, I’m glad you called.”

  “I’m glad too.”

  “I love you, son.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Love you too. Bye-bye.”

  Jack took back the phone and pretended to wipe away tears. “I’m all choked up, here. Really. That was touching. The old man actually said he loved you?”

  Bert refused to look at him.

  “My dad loved me, too. It was a different kind of love, though. He had some—issues. Well, let’s be honest. He got off on hurting me. But behind every attack, there was love. I’ve missed him every day since I killed him.”

  “You sick bastard.”

  “You sick bastard. That’s all you can say? Well, maybe the insults will get more creative as the night drags on. I’ll warn you, though. Try to get them all in early. Because later, instead of calling me names you’ll be telling me you love me just to make the pain stop.”

  Bert took a deep breath, searched deep within himself, and found a little reserve of courage. He met Jack’s stare head on.

  “I’m a big, stupid, mama’s boy.”

  Jack didn’t even pause. “I’m a big, stupid, mama’s boy. ”

  “And I play with dolls.”

  “And I play with dolls.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “I see what you’re doing here.”

  “I have to repeat everything because I’m a moron.”

  “I have to repeat everything because I’m a moron. Stop it. Now.”

  Bert racked his brain for more insults. He could remember a show he saw on cable about serial killers. Many of them killed animals, started fires, wet the bed...

  “I wet the bed until I was twenty.”

  Jack’s jaw clenched, and his head began to shake. “I... wet the bed until I was twenty.”

  Bert raised his eyebrows. “Hey, I think we hit a nerve. I’m a bed-wetting little psycho and nobody loves me.”

  Jack slapped Bert across the face. The blow sent him swinging.

  “I’m... a... bed-wetting...”

  “Little psycho and nobody loves me.”