Pulling himself together had a special meaning to him now as he strove to organize each limb to work with the rest.

Now he knew what it was like to be one of those puppets made of hollow balls with a single string running through it. It would lie loose and disorganized until the string was pulled taut, then assume shape and function. He was doubtful about being able to retie things back to normal. An order to his leg set his arm to twitching. Trying to close his fist made his foot kick.

He gave up for a while and went back to breathing. At least he knew how to do that.

His second attempt met with more success, and he managed to peel himself from the floor. From there it was just a matter of time until he could stand and flex the rest of the numbness from his muscles. His fingers felt like they were encased in gloves. When he slapped them against a counter corner, he felt the impact, but not the sting.

And some people do this to themselves on purpose?

But he was past the curve. To speed things up, he drank more blood.

That helped.

How had his would-be killer gotten in? There was state-of-the-art security on the doors, but for every measure, a good home invader could devise a countermeasure. It had been a professional job, and Alejandro could afford the best.

Like, perhaps, Jordan Keyes.

Richard checked the time. It was nearly three-in the afternoon. Where was Luis? He should have come up here by now.

Richard retrieved his revolver from the bedroom floor and went to the elevator. He punched the button five times and sweated through the short descent. The door opened to a deserted flat. Luis was quite gone, along with his laptop case.

What the hell had happened?

On the return trip, Richard worked it out. Luis had wakened, come up to the penthouse, and found the apparently lifeless body of his only ally. What he'd made of the blood bags if he'd noticed them did not bear thinking. He'd have fled, but where?

He'd want Michael, though. How to find him? Luis would have gone through Richard's desk, of course, hoping to find an address book with a listing for a doctor.

Richard looked there for signs of a search and found them. Everything had been hastily tossed. The computer, when he tapped a key to make the screen saver disappear, had been subject to an attempted search, but Luis wouldn't have had the luxury of a password to crack into the right file.

But... next to the computer were the prescription chits with the access codes Bourland had provided. One of them was gone. The codes would have been meaningless, but not the name, number, and address of the clinic printed at the top of each sheet.

Luis would have called the clinic and gotten Dr. George's home number from the answering machine.

That was a relief, but only for an instant. Once Luis had Michael he'd run far and fast, and it still wouldn't be enough for him to escape Alejandro. Richard immediately punched in Sam's home number, but got only his machine.

Damn, should have tried the pager first.

He tried the pager, then called Helen's cell phone. No answer. A recorded message cut in to explain why. He tried information for her home phone, but the machine at the Mesquita residence was just as unhelpful.

The clinic. A long shot, but what the hell.

Miraculously, a live human voice answered. Instead of the usual business greeting announcing the clinic's name, he got a shaky sounding "Hello."

"Helen? Is that you? It's Richard Dun."

"Mr. Dun?" She seemed unconvinced.

"Yes. What's going on? Has Michael's father contacted you?"

"God," she said, then there was a clatter. Her shout rang loud in the hollow distance. "Dr. Sam! Come here! He's all right! It's Mr. Dun-he's on the line!"

Another clatter, then Sam's breathless voice. "Richard?"

"Yes, Sam. What's happened?"

"You... we thought... oh, God." He broke off as his voice caught. "We thought... are you hurt badly?"

"What?"

"You need to call 911 right away."

Richard realized what misapprehension they were under, and regretted the fact he could not hypnotize people over the phone to restore calm. It took him some minutes to convince Sam of his good health.

"But Luis said you were dead," Sam insisted. "That you'd been shot."

"He made a mistake. All I did was knock myself out when I ducked... oh, never mind. Luis took off. I presume to see you to find Michael."

"Yes, he tracked me down. I thought he might be a ringer and was careful to set up a meeting at a public place. We met at one of the malls; he showed me his driver's license and talked about what had happened. He was in pretty bad shape, took me a while to settle him down, then I had to find Helen. It seemed best for us all to meet here at the clinic."

"How's Michael?"

"He was the same."

"Was?" "Luis has him now."

Damnation. I knew it. "You didn't talk him out of it?"

"Of course I tried to, but the man was scared. He insisted on leaving. I insisted he stay. Then things got out of hand."

"How do you mean?"

"He just grabbed Michael and walked. I tried to stop him, but he... well, he sort of decked me."

Richard sighed. It was understandable, but so bloody unnecessary. "Are you all right?"

"Just sore. Got me in the gut. Surprised the hell out of me more than anything. By the time I got mad enough to get up, he was gone."

"What kind of car was he in?" He feared Luis had taken the rental.

"A cab. Helen got the number."

"Brilliant woman. Remind yourself to give her a raise. Tell her to phone the cab company and find out where the driver dropped that fare, then get back to me."

"What if they don't give out that information?"

"Tell them it's a medical emergency, that the boy needs insulin or something. I have to track Luis before he completely disappears, so hurry."

Sam rang off. Richard used the interval to clean up, selecting a blue industrial-style work shirt and drab gray trousers from his closet. He matched these with thick-soled black work boots. By the time he'd dressed, the phone trilled.

"I got it," Sam said proudly. "Damn, I feel like a TV detective! The driver took them to the Anatole Galleria by the tollway, not too far from where you are. Said they went right in."

Luis must have opted for the better security of an expensive place over that of another fleabag. "You did very well, Sam. Want a chance for more?"

"What? Call the hotel?"

"Yes. They probably won't give information on guests over the line, so you may have to go there in person. He'd have used a false name... but they tend to want to see ID up front, though. He might be there under his real name...

God, what a mess. Get the manager on your side; use the medical emergency story. Describe Luis and just ask to be put through to his room, then sort him out about my condition."

"Why don't you go there?"

"I have to track down the person who decked me. I think he may be my strongest lead to find Alejandro."

"But what if he decks you again?"

"It won't happen."

"But-"

"Even if it does, you have Philip Bourland's number."

"God, I'd forgotten what with all the-"

"Just tell Luis to phone him. He'll be flying into D/FW tomorrow morning. He'll know how to deal with everything."

I hope.

The rental, happily, was still there and functioning, though before starting it, Richard went over the thing looking for bombs. None present. Mr. Jordan Keyes must have been quite confident of his booby trap.

Richard put the crossbow and the bolt on the passenger side. If things came down to it-and he was certain they would-he planned to dispatch Keyes with his own device. It seemed only fitting. The drive to the man's house was a tedious one. There were no fast ways to get from Addison to west Fort Worth in the late afternoon, even on a Sunday. Traffic was as dreary here as in any overcongested metropolitan area. An hour and a half later he was finally speeding along a clear patch of I-30, having spent a quarter of it in an inexplicable stop- start jam on the long bridge that spanned the downtown area. He'd have done better to brave a line of side street stoplights, but road construction had trapped him in. During the long wait, stewing and burning in the sun, he grew thoroughly sick of staring at the backside of a dump truck he'd gotten stuck behind.

By the time he reached the exit for Hulen he was in a fine mood to commit murder.

Keyes's neighborhood was a mild surprise. As a hit man for Alejandro Trujillo and others like him, he would have made enough to buy a palace. Instead, he resided in a quiet, well-tended neighborhood of seriously unpretentious houses built during the fifties boom. Some had been added onto over the years, but most were of the infamous shoe box design, cheap-looking and unfashionable to current tastes.

A few sun-tolerant teens glided noisily past on their in-line skates. No one else was out. This was the hottest, most sweltering portion of the whole hellish day. Blinds and curtains were drawn shut, their owners sensibly within watching their cable TV and drinking beer. Not a bad life at all.

Richard made a slow circuit of the meandering roads, fixing in mind the various exits available to him. The quickest led to the highway via a northbound back street. He marked that down as his primary escape route, should he require one.

The frame house he wanted was on a corner lot, one large tree shading the back yard, two aged cottonwoods deteriorating branch by branch in the front. It seemed rather vulnerable seated on a slight rise, but from the windows the occupant had a fine view of the crossroads because the building was set on an angle to them. This detail did not escape Richard's notice. Nor did he miss the fact that a security camera was neatly mounted under the eaves of the carport. Its viewing range took in much of the street.

He could admire the man's paranoia.

It looked to be that Keyes was home. A battered black Escort with a cracked windshield rested patiently in the carport. It had been new a good decade and a half ago. Amazing that the thing still ran. Perhaps Keyes kept his real money invested elsewhere. That, or he was a tightwad. Good God, the front grill on the little car was actually sporting duct tape to hold it in place.

I could have the wrong house.

Richard refused to consider that possibility just yet, and assumed the rest of the working-man persona he'd opted to try. He fitted his black baseball cap forward on his head, then reached into the back seat for a clipboard. It was the same one he'd taken from Officer Henebry, looking battered enough to sell the ruse. He parked his car facing north toward the highway, tucked his revolver under his belt, and got out, pencil in hand.

The heat. It wasn't the humidity that killed, it was the heat, the god-damned bone-melting heat.

The asphalt street radiated it up to him in waves as he crossed and went boldly up Keyes's driveway to the front door. The blinds were shut fast here, but for the sake of any hidden camera he'd missed, Richard looked at his watch, noting the time down on the clipboard, which concealed the presence of the gun.

Richard had a great respect for clipboards. Used the right way they could take a person anywhere. They made you important, yet invisible. They were one of the great unsung inventions of the world, like paper clips. A calm-faced man writing on one was a universally harmless man, at the most an annoyance, but never a threat.

The welcome mat had GO AWAY blazoned on it in bright red letters. Richard stepped up and tried the bell, just barely hearing an electronic version of the chimes of Big Ben within. No one answered. After a reasonable interval- made short by the blistering sun-he knocked, the sound booming through the house as he pounded on the sturdy metal door. He noticed the discreet sign of a commercial security firm shoved into the baking grass of a walkway planter. That was amusing. It was a company Richard himself had founded back in the sixties. He still had a controlling interest in the stock. Nice to know that Keyes wanted only the best.

One of the blind slats twitched. Richard caught the movement and stood up straighter, as though anticipating an answer. A little late, he wondered if Keyes had been provided with a photo or description of his New Karnak target.

Assume he has.

There was a click of a dead bolt being drawn back and the door opened three inches. A soothing, air-conditioned draft hit him. Then he hit the door.

He intended to smash it hard into whoever was behind, then take him down. Instead, all his force turned into an overcalculation. The door crashed wide open with no resistance at all, bouncing against a wall to come back at him. It struck his shoulder, throwing off his balance. Despite this, he kept to his feet, dropping to a crouch, his revolver already in hand.

The room was dark. His eyes weren't nearly well enough adjusted to see, but he sensed a presence behind and to his right and whipped around to meet it. At the same time, something cracked down mercilessly hard on his wrist and he lost his gun. He grunted once, too busy to worry about pain, and struck out with his leg in a back kick, connecting with a solid body. There was a crash as it fell.

Richard followed through, his eyes just picking out the shape of a man on the floor scrambling to right himself. In one hand was a baseball bat. He'd managed to retain hold of it. He made a short arcing swing at Richard's legs, but missed. Richard dove forward, landing on him before he could recover, driving out all his breath with a well-placed fist.

The man gasped and dropped the bat, his hand open and palm up in surrender.

"Okay! Enough!" he wheezed out. "Stop wrecking my house!"

"Jordan Keyes?"

"Who wants to know?"

Richard recognized the voice from Nick Anton's answering machine. Interesting. "The man you tried to kill last night. Me."

"Oh, really? Good trick since I was home the whole evening. Who the hell are you?"

"All in good time."

"No, right now, asshole. Get off me. Now."

Richard felt a no-nonsense prodding in his left side. While distracted by the man's flapping hand and the discarded bat, he'd forgotten to check the other hand. It held a rather large gun. If it went off it would tear a sizable hole laterally through his chest, taking out both lungs and his heart. That would hurt.

He decided to be cooperative for the moment and carefully removed himself.

Keyes got to his feet first. "Face down, lie flat, arms out, spread your legs. Don't think it over, just do it."

Not one of my better days, Richard thought, obeying.

Keyes kicked the front door shut. "Start talking. Who are you?"