“Money and control,” he muttered, looking as though he couldn’t get the concept into his brain, let alone have it live there. It appeared inconceivable to him that sacrificing a human life for money alone was an acceptable swap. It was a testament to Jung’s moral center, but naïve nonetheless. He balled his fists, then unballed them, scanning the room in frustration, as though he were looking for something he could hit or punch or tear apart with his bare hands.

“We’ll get him,” I offered gently. “And he’ll pay for what he’s done.”

“But Tim and the others will still be dead.” Jung walked away, his head down. I followed. “Money and control,” he muttered mournfully.

* * *

As I drove away, it became clear to me that I couldn’t just take Jung back to his apartment and leave him there. Spada was nuts and, despite the temporary insulation his lawyers provided him, he had to know the walls were closing in around him. He knew who Jung was, and likely knew exactly where to find him. If he had no qualms about killing people at their most vulnerable, he’d certainly lose no sleep coming after Jung, even if killing him netted him nothing in the end.

I watched Jung as he sat forlornly in my passenger seat, staring off into the night, the light from passing streetlamps casting shadows across his face. He was angry and frustrated and didn’t appear to know what to do with either emotion. He hadn’t said more than two words the whole way.

I approached the turnoff to Jung’s place, but kept going. He didn’t notice. Leaving him to fend for himself now would be like throwing a puppy headfirst into a wood chipper. He needed to be where I could keep an eye on him. It wasn’t until the car stopped in front of my building that Jung snapped out of his trance.

“Hey, this isn’t my place.”

“No, it’s mine. You’re staying here for a while.”

“What for?”

“You’ll be safer here.”

His anger, suppressed by grief up until this point, flared hot. “This is because I hid out at Swami Rain’s, isn’t it? Now you think I can’t handle myself? That I’m some chickenshit? I’m not afraid of that guy.”

I gripped my hands on the steering wheel, took a breath. “You should be. He’s dangerous, and he’s out there right now, free as a bird, and he knows who you are. He made a point of telling me.”

“He won’t make money killing me.”

“Not a dime, you’re right. He doesn’t need to kill you, but he sure wants to—that’s the part you’re missing.”

“Let him try then,” Jung said, girding himself for a fight even he, deep down, knew he wasn’t fit for. “I’m ready.”