“What was on that page, Cal?” he asked peering around the door.

“Modeling agencies. I figured once they healed, they’d clean up pretty good as models,” I said. “Always attractive. Never age.”

He mulled it over for a minute, then nodded. “Good going, Cal. Good for you,” he said and was gone.

I admit that I felt pretty damn good after that. For once I didn’t have to kill something to solve a problem. It’s not often in my line of work that there’s a happy ending. I celebrated with a Vicodin, a pop of crank, and a big sloppy gyro I had delivered, along with a huge, heart-stopping pile of cheese fries.

14

The good feelings lasted for as long as it took the phone to ring—four blissful days. Then on Thursday Blout called and broke the spell.

“Big trouble!” he yelled. I’d never heard him so agitated.

“Calm the fuck down! What’s up?”

“Tourists are dropping like goddamn flies down on the Mall. We’ve got ten down in Natural History and the 911 switchboards are lighting up! I’m heading down there.”

Christ, I thought, it was just like Whitney Green all those years ago. “Here we go again. I guess whatever is behind this is up to steam. Listen, do you have any painkillers or some liquor there with you?”

“Yeah, sure . . . why?!”

“Do me a favor, before you go down there, have a drink or a pill or sniff some glue. I don’t care, just do something that clouds your mind. It won’t take you if your brain is damaged.”

“Please, Cal, shut the fuck up. I called for help.”

He wasn’t buying it. “Think of the dope as a Kevlar vest for your brain.”

Blout paused. For once he didn’t argue. “Whatever.”

I told him I had an errand to run, that it was important to the case and that I’d be down as soon as I could.

Speed and a pot of black coffee got me to work making some changes on Edgar Cain’s driver’s license. I altered the expiration date and popped in my photo. Kid stuff really, and when the job was done it looked damn convincing. There’d be no trouble at the bank.

As I was about to leave, Mo’Lock came through the door.

“Good,” I said, “I’m glad you’re here. We got bad news.”

“I know. My brothers and sisters are fleeing the city. There’s a major disturbance. Any leads?”

“Leads I got. Answers, not a one.” I rubbed my face. “Everything points to Edgar Cain, but—”

“He’s dead,” Mo’ said and then, “He is dead, right?”

I looked up. “That’s the one thing I am sure of. There was nothing left of him, not enough to even collect for evidence. The fire department had to wash the gunk off the streets with their hoses . . .”

I stopped. If my head could have turned into a jackass head, it would have. Mo’Lock finished my thought.

“Into the sewers.”