“Can I help you?” a pleasant female voice asked from Jack’s right. He turned to face an immaculately dressed woman with every strand of dark hair in place. Jack was impressed. Even her manicure was perfect.

“I think so,” Jack said. He stepped over to the woman, who smiled up at him. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve never been in a chiropractor’s office.”

“Welcome,” the receptionist said. Her nametag read LYDIA.

“That’s an interesting piece of furniture,” he remarked, tilting his head toward the woman rotating and counter-rotating on the stool.

“She’s using one of our swivel chairs. It’s great for the lumbar vertebrae of the lower back,” Lydia explained. “It causes the intervertebral discs to lubricate themselves and actually swell to a degree. We encourage people to do it before their adjustment session.”

“Interesting,” Jack said. “Is Dr. Ronald Newhouse available?” He gritted his teeth after forcing himself to use the appellation “doctor.”

“He is here,” she said. She gestured toward the woman on the swivel chair. “He has his next patient at one-twenty-five. Do you have an appointment?”

“Not yet,” Jack said.

“Would you like to make one?”

“I’d like to see the doctor,” Jack said ambiguously. “I don’t know nearly as much about chiropractic therapy as I would like.”

“Dr. Newhouse is always interested in new patients. Perhaps he could see you for a few minutes before he sees Ms. Chalmers. If you don’t mind waiting for a moment, I’ll go ask him. Who may I say wishes to see him?”

“Jack Stapleton.”

“Okay, Mr. Stapleton. I’ll be back presently.”

“I appreciate your help,” Jack said. While the receptionist was out of the room, he glanced back at Ms. Chalmers as she dutifully continued her hip rotations. She had her head back, her eyes closed, and her lips slightly parted. For a moment Jack was mesmerized. She seemed to be in a trance.

“The doctor will see you now,” Lydia said, breaking Jack’s concentration. He followed her through an interior door and down a short corridor passing a series of closed doors. At an open doorway she stepped back and gestured for Jack to enter.

The office looked out on Fifth Avenue and beyond into Central Park. Inside there were two men, one sitting behind a desk, the other in a visitor’s chair. The man behind the desk, who Jack assumed was Ronald Newhouse, immediately stood up and leaned over the desk, stretching a beefy hand in Jack’s direction.

“Welcome, Mr. Stapleton,” Ronald Newhouse said with a salesman’s enthusiasm.

Jack allowed his hand to be vigorously pumped. Newhouse was about an inch or so taller than Jack’s six feet, and one and a half times his hundred-and-eighty-pound weight. Jack estimated he was in his mid-forties. His coloring was dark with carefully groomed eyebrows on prominent brow ridges. His eyes were dark and piercing. But the most striking aspect of the man’s appearance was his hairstyle, or, more accurately, the lack of it. His hair was medium-length, dark, and shiny, as if slathered with styling gel, but totally uncombed. Spiky clumps sprang from his scalp at odd angles.