At any given moment of the day or night, St. Vincent had at his disposal a virtual battalion of people: not only a driver, bodyguards, security detail, but also, should he required them, a chef, masseuse, even a psychiatrist. But there were times when circumstances dictated that he be alone. This was one of them.

A sliver of moon seemed to beckon him onward. He drove carefully, keeping to the various speed limits. As with anything that had to do with Gregory Whitman he struggled to keep his emotions in check, but there was so much history, so many memories he wished to annihilate that it was tough sledding. His mind kept going back into the Well, to his time there with Whitman.

He slid the car to the curb in front of The Doll House. Fifty bucks got him inside without the usual scrutiny, and a hundred more to the manager on duty bought him key information: that Sydny had left for the night, the name of the nearby café she frequented, and her home address. Neither place was far away.

A brisk walk brought him to the café. He went in, ordered a Scotch, which was some cheap crap he scarcely touched. As he paid for it he asked the bartender if Sydny was there.

“Haven’t seen her all night,” he said.

“Brings all her johns here, does she?”

“Go fuck yourself,” the bartender said before he went off to fill the order of a pair of regulars at the other end of the bar.

Back in the car, St. Vincent shook out a cigarette and lit up. He hadn’t smoked since the Well closed. But it was open again, and that meant Whitman would be involved again whether or not anyone liked it. He most certainly did not, though he knew Monroe would welcome it. St. Vincent was certain that of all the Alchemists Monroe alone would be happy to see Whitman again. Perhaps happy wasn’t the right word. Relieved? Grateful? St. Vincent could see why, but only by straining his brain to its limits. Whitman was far too dangerous to be allowed anywhere near the reopened Well. Hadn’t Monroe learned anything from the first time?

He sat and smoked until the car’s interior was as smog-bound as a Beijing street. He closed his eyes. Maybe he was getting too old for this. Wasn’t it true that in every gunslinger’s life there came a time when a younger one was faster, smarter, stronger?

But not yet. Not today, or even tomorrow.