Dickerson’s voice in his ear was like a woodpecker attached to the side of his head. “Who?” he said. “Who initiated the jacket on me?”

“Someone named Orrin Jameson.”

St. Vincent took up a dog, bit into it, and chewed. “Who is he?” he said around the food.

“A drone, so far as our contact knows. Odd thing, that. According to our contact Jameson is about the last person to initiate an unofficial jacket on anyone.”

St. Vincent washed the dog down with a large swig of Coke. “Someone must have given him orders.”

“It would seem so.”

“Who, Dickerson?” St. Vincent took another bite of dog, but he’d bit off more than he could chew, and he almost choked. He coughed, let his anger at himself shift to his assistant. “For fuck’s sake, don’t drag this out.”

“Our contact swears it’s no one within the AG’s office.”

“Well, that makes no sense. The AG’s people are immune to outside influence. Unless…”

“Unless what, boss?”

“What do we know about Orrin Jameson, other than he’s a drone in the AG’s office?”

“Hold on a minute.”

There was a pause. St. Vincent pondered taking another painkiller, then decided against it. He took another bite of the chili dog, savoring the river of flavors.

“Okay, here we go,” Dickerson said. “Well, sorry, boss, there’s not much. This guy’s something of a boy scout. In fact, he was a Boy Scout.” Dickerson chuckled, but when he heard no answering sound at the other end of the line he sobered up. “Guy’s divorced some time now. I mean, that’s it. He’s so squeaky clean it’s downright disgusting.”

And yet there must be something. St. Vincent closed his eyes. What was he missing? “Who was he married to?” It was a shot in the dark, but he had nowhere else to go. Plus, it paid to be thorough.

“A woman by the name of Bridget. Bridget Regan.”

St. Vincent’s eyes popped open. “Spell Regan.”

“R-e-g-a-n. Why?”

“Bridget have a sister, by any chance?”

“As a matter of fact, she does.”

“Her name Julie?”

“Jesus, boss,” Dickerson said, “sometimes you just amaze the shit out of me.”

Chapter 44

44

Home, Charlie thought, as she sat in the Alchemists’ jet, thirty-five thousand feet above the ocean. What does home really mean to me? Fire and ice, and everything nasty. Betrayal, rage, death. And blood everywhere, a skating rink of blood.

Charlie looked over to where Whitman sat across the aisle from her. His eyes were closed, his head against the seat rest. She got up and moved next to him.

“Charlie,” he said softly without opening his eyes.

“What will happen when we land?”

“That’s up to the Alchemists.”

“You mean you’ll let them get the upper hand?”

His eyes opened, his head turned, and his eyes engaged with hers. “What do you think?”

“Mysterious as ever.”