They’d run a few blocks, then ducked into this sports bar to get off the street. The place traded on the Madison Square Garden crowd, and seemed to be lit solely by neon beer signs—must have been a hundred of them on the walls and over the bar. The long-haired guy in the apron on the Sam Adams sign stared at Jack over Alicia’s shoulder.

At least the place was quiet. The Knicks were off tonight, so Jack and Alicia had a corner all to themselves.

And now with the adrenaline fading, his right flank began to throb where that big sandy-haired guy had connected. The man looked heavy and middle-aged but, he was in shape. Threw a mean punch.

He’d explained to her how he’d seen her pushed into the truck, how he’d commandeered a taxi and chased the truck until he could cut it off and stop it.

She was working on her second Dewar’s, and when she lifted the glass to her lips he noticed that the adrenaline tremor in her hand was easing.

“If you really want to thank me,” he said, “you’ll forget about going to the cops.”

“But this is my chance to put a stop to all this!” she said. She balled her free hand into a fist and held it over the table. “I’ve got them now. They abducted me! I don’t have to worry about civil actions anymore. This is a felony and you were a witness. I know this detective, Will Matthews. We can go to him and—”

Jack felt his insides twist into a knot. “No, we can’t.”

She blinked. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t be your witness.”

“What do you mean? You saw the whole thing. You even cut me free.”

“But I can’t be a witness, Alicia. I don’t exist.”

Another blink. “What are you talking about?”

“I have no official existence.”‘

She shook her head. “How can that be? You’ve got to have a social security number. You’ve got to have a bank account, a credit card, a driver license. You can’t function without them.”

“I do. In fact, I have a number of them. All bogus.”

“Well then, be a witness under one of those identities.”

“No can do. Those identities hold up with a bank looking to get my money in its vault and hoping I’ll start charging everything I buy on its credit card. And they hold up with a bored DMV clerk who’s transferring the license of a dead man in Toledo to a nonexistent address in Park Slope. But they won’t hold up under a real background check. Especially if they check with the IRS.”

“You don’t file?”

“Never. And please… you can’t ever mention me to this detective friend of yours.”

“Are you wanted for anything?”

“No, and I’d like to keep it that way.”