Hosts

  "Never."

  "Has to be the microwaves. But I know as much about microwaves as I do about string theory."

  "I know they're a form of radiation—non-ionizing radiation. Depending on the wavelength, they're used for everything from radar to cell phones to cooking. But I can't believe Jeanette has a personality change anytime she gets near a microwave oven."

  Jack took Kate's hand and brushed her fingers over the crack in the glass on the oven door.

  "This microwave oven happens to leak."

  Kate shook her head. "I still don't understand…"

  "I've got a whole list of things I don't understand about this. And Holdstock is high on it. You told me he showed up right after Jeanette's first personality change, right? And now he pops in again. You think he's got the place bugged?"

  Kate rubbed her upper arms. "Don't say that. I've read articles about people becoming ill from exposure to microwave snooping devices."

  "A couple of months ago I spent a whole weekend with a group of paranoids who had crazy stories about any subject you could name. Among them were tales about CIA and KGB experiments using microwaves for mind control. Maybe they're not so paranoid."

  "You're giving me the creeps."

  "And what was she saying about the virus changing her brain? You think that could be?"

  Kate looked miserable. "Jack, I don't know. It doesn't seem possible. It's an adenovirus. Even mutated I can't imagine an adenovirus changing someone's brain."

  Microwaves, multiple personalities, mutated viruses—Jack felt as if he'd stepped off a ledge into an underwater canyon.

  "Maybe not, but I think the guy to contact is Fielding. I don't know about you, but this is way out of my league. Maybe you'd better get back to him."

  "I'll do that right now."

  "And while you doctor-talk with him, I'm going to run an errand. Be back in no time."

  Jack had an idea he wanted to try. But he'd need some hardware first.

  5

  Sandy sat at his desk in a daze. This had to be the greatest morning of his life. He still couldn't believe the reception when he'd walked into the press room two hours ago—cheers and a standing ovation. George Meschke had met him in the middle of the floor to shake his hand and tell him that his edition—yes, they'd called it his edition—had been selling out all over the city.

  And now his voicemail. He'd just finished listening to the last of nine messages. People he hadn't heard from in years—a former roommate, old classmates, even one of his journalism professors—had called to congratulate him. What next?

  "Hi, Sandy."

  He looked up and blinked. Patrice Rawlinson, the perpetually tanned silicone blonde from the art department. Sure, she was faked and baked, but with those painted-on dresses she was everyone's dream babe.

  He struggled for a reply. "Oh, uh, hi."

  Brilliant.

  In the past when he'd said hello to her in the halls she'd always looked through him. A real Ralph Ellison moment. But now she'd come to him. She'd walked that gorgeous body all the way to his cubicle and spoken words to him. She'd said his name.

  "I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your interview with the Savior. I hung on every word. That must have been so exciting to talk to him."

  "It was." Please don't say anything stupid, he told himself. "It's a moment every journalist dreams of."

  "You've got to tell me all about it sometime."

  "Gladly."

  "Give me a buzz when you're free."

  And with that she swayed off. Sandy resisted sticking his head outside his cubicle for an extended look at her, as he'd done so many times in the past. He was above that now.

  "Tell me that wasn't Patrice's voice I just heard," said Pokorny from somewhere on the far side of the partition.

  "It was, my man. It most certainly was."

  Pokorny groaned. "I'm going to kill myself."

  Does it get any better than this? Sandy thought, grinning.

  No. It was positively intoxicating. Like a drug. And just as addicting. He didn't want to let this go. Couldn't. He needed more, a steady fix.

  But what next? He couldn't let this be the pinnacle of his career—talk about peaking too soon! He had to come up with something equal or better. And the only thing he knew for sure that would fit that bill was another interview with the Savior.

  But what was left to cover in a second interview? Rehashing the same old material wouldn't cut it.

  But what if I challenge the initial material? he wondered.

  He suspected that some of it wasn't true. In fact the more he thought about it, the surer he became that the Savior wasn't doing undercover work for the government. That was a little too glamorous, a little too Hollywood.

  So what other reasons could he have to stop him from stepping forward to be acclaimed as a hero?

  And then he remembered his earlier conversation with Beth. He'd been blue-skying with her but—

  Sandy slammed his hand on his desktop. Christ, I bet that's it! The man has a criminal record. He's a fugitive! Some sort of felon with a warrant out for his arrest. And that's why he was armed!

  He had his next hook: get the Savior to talk about his crime. Maybe he was an innocent victim, on the run because of a crime he didn't commit—

  No, stop. You're getting Hollywood again.

  Maybe he'd committed just one crime, or maybe he wasn't bad all the way through. He certainly did the right thing on the train. Maybe…

  And then it all came together, driving Sandy to his feet, gasping like a fish out of water. He had it! A fabulous idea!

  He fumbled a slip of paper from his pocket—the phone number the Savior had given him. He reached for his phone, then stopped.

  No. No calls from here. Somewhere he was sure the paper kept a record of all outgoing numbers. Better a public phone.

  Sandy hurried for the street. He was a man on fire, a man with a mission. He was going to do something wonderful, something that would repay the mystery man for saving his life. Talk about advocacy journalism! He'd be pulling off a journalistic coup to make today's story look like a weather report. Not just your common everyday, run-of-the-mill journalistic coup—the journalistic coup of the new century!

  Can you spell Pulitzer?

  6

  Jack struck out at a hardware store and an appliance store, but finally found what he wanted at the Wiz. On his way back to Jeanette's apartment he stopped at a pay phone to check his messages. He groaned aloud when he heard Sandy Palmer's voice.

  "Good morning, 'Jack.' Yeah, like I'm supposed to believe that's your real name."

  Jack? How did he know—?

  And then Jack remembered: the outgoing message on his voicemail began, "This is Jack…" He'd forgot all about that. Not that it mattered. Palmer thought it was phony anyway.

  "Listen, we have to talk again. I've come up with an idea that's going to transform your life. We've got to meet. And don't blow this off, because what I've got to say to you is vitally important. Another reason you shouldn't blow me off is I've still got the drawing. Now don't get me wrong, because I don't want you to think I'm trying to blackmail you, but I'm pretty sure you weren't completely straight with me the other day—about your past, that is—so I don't feel bound by our little agreement to destroy the drawing. But we can let bygones be bygones and straighten all this out with one little meeting. Call and tell me where and when. And trust me, Jack, or whatever your name is, you'll be ever so glad you did."

  He left his number and extension at the paper.

  Jack slammed the receiver against the phone box. Then did it again. And again.

  Now I don't want you to think I'm trying to blackmail you…

  What else am I supposed to think, you rotten little bastard?

  He had this frenzied urge to get his hands around Palmer's pencil neck and squeeze until…

  Easy. Step back. Look at it again…

  But short of killing the kid, Jack saw no quick and ea
sy way to take command of the situation. Palmer controlled the deck. Jack would have to play it his way. For now.

  He called Palmer's number and extension. With an effort he kept his voice low and even when he reached his voicemail.

  "Same place. Noon."

  Then he hung up.

  He'd cooled a little by the time he reached Jeanette's apartment, but his mood was still cooking over a low flame.

  Kate took one look at him and said, "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing to do with this."

  "Need to share?"

  Jack considered that, almost gave in to the urge to tell her, but decided against it. The fewer who knew, the better.

  "I'll be all right. But thanks." He opened his Wiz bag and produced a little white gizmo. "Looky. A microwave tester."

  He set the oven for five minutes and started it, then ran the little tester along the edges of the door. The indicator started flashing red immediately and went into high gear when he reached the lower right corner with the cracked glass.

  "That confirms it. Leaky oven." He hit the off switch. "How dangerous is that?"

  "I did a search on Jeanette's computer while you were out."

  "I'd think a doctor would know all about microwaves."

  "Why? I haven't found a use yet for radar in my practice."

  "Radar?"

  "That's why the first microwave ovens were called radar ranges. Microwaves are radiofrequency radiation—somewhere below infrared and above UHF in the frequency spectrum."

  That meant nothing to Jack. "I know they're used for cell phone transmission. But what's the downside—besides brain tumors?"

  "That's never been proven, and it seems unlikely since it's non-ionizing radiation. The main effect is heat. The guy who discovered the microwave oven was playing with different frequencies, looking for new radar applications, when he melted the candy bar in his shirt pocket."

  "A true 'Eureka!' moment."

  "I suppose so. The ovens work by causing vibrations in water molecules, creating heat. The strength of the transmitter and the frequency of the waves determine the depth of penetration and the amount of heat generated. The best documented ill effects in humans are cataracts and sterilized testicles."

  Jack stepped away from the oven. "But no brain tumors."

  "Not a one. But my search popped up lots of hits involving central nervous system effects—everything from memory loss to mind control. I don't know how factual they are though."

  "So if this virus is having an effect on Jeanette's brain—"

  "Which is the heart of the central nervous system."

  "—maybe the microwaves disrupt that."

  "But what about Holdstock? He was dosed with the virus too, but he walked right up to the oven and turned it off."

  "Right. Forgot about that. Damn. So much for that theory."

  "Pretty far-fetched anyway."

  "Lot of far-fetched stuff going down these days," he said, thinking back on the events of the last couple of months. "And remember, I didn't come up with the virus-taking-over idea. That was Jeanette's."

  "Well, rest assured, there's no virus taking over Jeanette's mind. But she might believe there is."

  "Maybe that's the engine driving the Holdstock cult—some sort of shared delusion."

  "You may have something there."

  "Yeah, well, whether I do or not, it's something for the NIH boys to handle, not me. Did you call Fielding?"

  Kate's face clouded as she nodded. "Yes. He said not to worry. He's been in contact with them daily and what seem like interminable delays are simply the normal bureaucratic process."

  "Why do I get the feeling you don't believe that?"

  "Because he seemed so nervous. I could almost hear him sweating."

  "Well, his reputation and his career could be at stake."

  "Because of a mutation? I don't see how. I think I'm going to call NIH myself and see what I can find out."

  "Good idea. And while you're doing that, I've got to meet the press."

  "Sorry?"

  "Long story."

  Kate smiled at him. "Do you know how many times you've said that over the last few days?"

  "Too many, probably. Someday soon we'll sit down together and I'll tell you a few of them if you want." A select few, he thought.

  "I'd like that very much," she said.

  "Then it's a date. But for now I've got to run. Call you later."

  7

  "Aw, shit," Joe said. "The kid's going for a walk in the park."

  "Maybe he is, maybe he isn't," Stan told his brother in a soothing tone. Joe was as twitchy and fidgety as he'd ever seen him. Like he had roaches crawling all over his skin.

  They'd hung around outside The Light offices all morning, watching for this reporter, this Sandy Palmer guy. They didn't even know if he was in the building, so they called inside and got him on the phone. That settled, they waited. He finally came out around 11:30 and ducked into the subway. Guy could have been going home, out for a haircut, or to visit his mama. No way to know. But wherever he was going, Joe insisted on following. The reporter had jumped on the Nine so they did the same. On the outside chance he might be on the lookout for a tail, they'd split up—Joe in the car ahead of him, Stan in the one behind. Stan noticed Joe keeping his left hand in his pocket the whole time. The kid ever saw that, Joe would be tagged; he'd have to back off and let Stan do the tail solo.

  When the reporter got off at Seventy-second, Stan thought he might simply be returning to the scene of the crime. But no, he headed straight for the stairs.

  Topside, Stan and Joe each took a different side of the street and gave him a block lead as he headed west along Seventy-first. Waste of effort. The kid was in his own world, loping along without a single look back.

  Stan had joined up with Joe at the corner of Riverside Drive where they hung back as the reporter ambled into the park.

  Stan tried to show Joe the bright side.

  "This might be something. If you remember, we set up quite a few meetings in parks in our day."

  Joe rubbed his stubbled chin. "Come to think of it, I do. So how do we work this?"

  Stan surveyed the landscape. Riverside Drive ran at a higher level, bordered on its west flank by a low wall overlooking the greenery that sloped away below it.

  "We split," Stan said. "You take the high road and I'll take the low road—"

  "And I'll be in wherever-it-is before ya."

  "Scotland. Keep your cell phone on and I'll call you if I think he's made me or I see him heading back up to the street. Then you pick him up and—"

  "Shut up!" Joe hissed. He grabbed Stan's arm, his fingers digging in like claws. "There he is!"

  "Who? Where?"

  "Over there. Two blocks down. See him? In the baseball cap, leaning on the wall, watching the park."

  Stan saw an average-looking guy. Nothing striking about him. Looked relaxed as all hell, taking a little fresh air while killing some time.

  "You think that's our guy? Could be anybody."

  Joe hadn't moved a muscle. His eyes were fixed on the baseball cap like a dog on point.

  "It's him, Stan. I see him in my dreams, and I've been dreaming of this moment. You don't know how I've been dreaming of this moment." His breath rasped through his teeth. "The fucker! The fucker!"

  "Easy, Joe. We've got to be sure. We—"

  "I'm sure. God damn fuck am I sure! Know what he's doing? He's casing the park, watching this reporter make his entrance and checking him for a tail. If you'd gone down there he'd've spotted you and that would've queered it all. He disappears and the meet is off. But he's a dumb fuck. Figures if someone's tailing the reporter, whoever it is doesn't know what he looks like. Thinks he's sittin' safe and pretty up there with his bird's-eye view. But we know what he looks like, don't we, Stan. We know."

  The longer Joe talked and the longer Stan looked, the more familiar this guy at the wall became. Stan was almost afraid to believe it was him, afraid he'
d fool himself because he so very much wanted it to be him. Not as much as Joe, maybe, but still, some heavy debts cried out for payment—with tons of vig.

  "You know, Joe… I think you might be right."

  Joe was still staring. A heat-seeking missile that had found its target.

  "Course I'm right." He reached into his jacket pocket. "I'm doin' him, Stan. Gonna splatter his IQ all the way to the river then take his head home as a souvenir! Make a soup bowl out of his skull and eat from it every fucking night!"

  Stan gripped his brother's arm before he could pull his .38. The area was crawling with people.

  "Too many witnesses, Joe," he said quickly. "What good's doing him if it's going to land us in the joint? Like you said before, we've got to send a message here. This is the guy that blew up our stash, our cash, and our reps. We got to do him in kind. Blow him to hell. A public blow. And then we can say, remember that guy who got blown to chili con carne back in June? That was the guy who blew our farm and wrecked Joe's hand. We found him and did him. Did him good."

  He felt Joe's arm relax as he nodded, still staring at the guy.

  "Yeah. All right. And not just him, but him and everything he owns and everyone around him. You don't mess with the K Brothers."

  Stan knew it would never be the same. They'd never completely salvage their reps, but at least they'd have evened some of the score. That counted for something.

  "How you want to handle this?"

  "He's looking for someone tailing the reporter. But we'll be tailing him. We find out where he lives, then we do him. And no waitin' around, Stan. We do him tonight!"

  8

  Sandy checked his watch: 12:30. He'd been wandering around the park for half an hour now. The message had said same place, noon. The noon was clear enough. And Sandy had assumed "same place" meant same bench. So he'd waited there for a while, but no Savior. He wondered if he should call the Savior "Jack." He didn't know if that was his real name, but it was better than the Savior.

  After fifteen minutes on the bench he'd got up and wandered around. Maybe "same place" had meant the park in general. But another fifteen minutes of trudging up and down a ten-block length had yielded no sign of the man.