'Which was useless, of course.'

Sam smiled and wagged a finger. 'Not at all. Like everyone else, the Bureau's up to its elbows in the Great Wetware Revolution. Haven't you read Time magazine? It's revolutionized forensics.'

Thomas nodded. 'Lemme guess. You showed Gyges Neil's picture while scanning him with a low-field MRI. The neuronal circuits dealing with facial recognition lit up.'

'Exactly. Gyges's brain recognized Cassidy just fine, and in a manner consistent with a traumatic encounter. Just the circuitry relaying this information to his consciousness had been damaged. It turns out that Cassidy isn't quite so clever after all.'

Thomas said nothing. They had no idea whom they were dealing with, he realized.

It is you, isn't it, Neil?

'And that,' Sam continued, 'was when the gears started turning. The Chiropractor investigation was gobbling up resources at every jurisdictional level, so the NYPD brass were only too happy to turn over their ongoing investigation to the Bureau—especially now that it carried a National Security stigma. Shelley, who was the NCAVC coordinator for the ongoing NYPD circus, was made Investigator-in-Charge of our meager Task Force. As it stands now, everything is pretty much ad hoc. Our Department of Justice and State's Attorney advisors are little more than interns, and as far as I know, our public affairs officer is a moonlighter from the Chiropractor Task Force. Our organizational flowchart looks like tossed spaghetti.'

She paused, as though troubled by her own cynicism. 'But we have a suspect, a known subject. Things tend to straighten themselves out when you have a SUB.'

Thomas listened to the hum-ker-chunk of wheels over pavement, wondering how it could sound so ancient, so this-is-the-way-it's-always-been. The world beyond the tinted windshields seemed autumn sunny and surreal. Oblivious.

None of this could be happening. Nora and Neil.

'It's him, professor,' Sam said softly. 'Neil Cassidy is our man.'

They swept off the entry ramp and merged into traffic. The first I-87 sign that Thomas glimpsed sported a rust-rimmed bullet-hole.

'I just need to check up on the kids,' Thomas said, fishing through his blazer for his palmtop.

He let Mia's phone ring five times. He hung up rather than leave a message.

They're probably out back.

'No luck?' Sam asked, her eyes fixed on the road.

'I seem to be batting a thousand.'

She spared him a mischievous glance. 'Me too.'

Thomas could think of nothing further to say, so he stared at his thumbs for several pointless moments, studied the bruised nail he'd earned playing squash the week before. Gotta work on those sidewall shots, he thought inanely.