They're beautiful. Aren't they beautiful, Grey?

And they were. They were beautiful. Why had Grey never known this?

Can't you feel them, walking past, can't you smell them? I never get tired of smelling them. How the air behind them sweetens as they pass. I used to just stand and breathe it in. You smell them too, don't you, Grey? Like the boys.

-The boys.

You remember the boys, don't you, Grey?

He did. He remembered the boys. The ones walking home from school, sweating in the heat, bookbags sagging from their shoulders, their damp shirts clinging to them; he remembered the smell of sweat and soap of their hair and skin, and the damp crescent on their backs where their bookbags had pressed against their shirts. And the one boy, the boy trailing behind, now taking the shortcut down the alley, the quickest way home from school: that boy, his skin bronzed from the sun, his black hair pressed to the back of his neck, his eyes cast down at the sidewalk, playing some game with the cracks so that he didn't notice Grey at first, the pickup moving slowly behind him, then stopping. How alone he seemed- You wanted to love him, didn't you, Grey. To make him feel that love?

He felt a great, sleeping thing lumbering to life inside him. The old Grey. Panic swelled his throat.

-I don't remember.

Yes you do. But they've done something to you, Grey. They've taken that part of you away, the part that felt love.

-I don't ... I can't ...

It's still there, Grey. It's just hidden from you. I know, because that part was hidden in me, too. Before I became what I am.

-What you are.

-You and I, we're the same. We know what we want, Grey. To give love, to feel love. Girls, boys, it's all the same. We want to love them, as they need to be loved. Do you want it, Grey? Do you want to feel that again?

He did. He knew it then.

-Yes. That's what I want.

I need to go home, Grey. I want to take you with me, to show you.

Grey saw it again, in his mind's eye, rising up around him: the great city, New York. All around him, humming, buzzing, its energies passing through each stone and brick, following unseen lines of connectedness into the soles of his feet. It was dark, and he felt the darkness as something wonderful, something he belonged to. It flowed into him, down his throat and into his lungs, a great, easeful drowning. He was everywhere and nowhere all at once, moving not over the landscape but through it, into and out of it, breathing the dark city that was also breathing him.

Then he saw her. There she was. A girl. She was alone, walking the path between the school buildings-a dormitory of laughing students; a library of quiet hallways, its wide windows fogged by frost; an empty office where a lone cleaning woman, listening to Motown on headphones, bent to rinse her mop in a wheeled bucket. He knew it all, he could hear the laughter and the sounds of quiet studying and count the books on the shelves, he could hear the words of the song as the woman with the bucket hummed along, whenever you're near ... uh-uh ... I hear a symphony-and the girl, ahead on the pathway, her solitary figure shimmering, pulsing with life. She was walking straight toward him, her head tipped against the wind, her shoulders lifted in a delicate hunch beneath her heavy coat to tell him she was holding something in her arms. The girl, hurrying home. So alone. She had stayed out late, studying the words of the book she held to her chest, and now she was afraid. Grey knew he had something to tell her, before she slipped away. You like this, is that what you like, I'll show you. He was lifting, he was rising up, he was falling down upon her- Love her, Grey. Take her.

Then he was ill. He rocked forward in his chair and in a single spasm released the contents of his stomach onto the floor: the soup and salad, the pickled beets, the mashies and the ham. His head was between his knees; a long string of spittle was swinging from his lips.

What the hell. What the goddamn.

He eased himself upright. His mind began to clear. L4. He was on L4. Something had happened. He couldn't remember what. An awful dream of flying. He'd been eating something in the dream; the taste was still in his mouth. A taste like blood. And then he'd puked just like that.

Puking, he thought, and he felt his stomach drop-that was bad. Very very bad. He knew what he was supposed to watch for. Vomiting, fever, seizures. Even a hard sneeze out of nowhere. The signs were everywhere, not just in the Chalet but the barracks, the dining hall, even in the johns: "Any of the following symptoms, report immediately to the duty officer ... "

He thought of Richards. Richards, with his little dancing light, and the ones named Jack and Sam.

Oh crap. Oh crap oh crap oh crap.

He had to move fast. No one could find it, the big puddle of puke on the floor. He told himself to calm down. Steady, Grey, steady. He checked his watch: 02:31. No way he was waiting another three and a half hours. He got to his feet, stepping around the mess, and quietly opened the door. A quick peek down the hall: not a soul in sight. Speed, that was the thing; get it done fast and then get the hell out. Never mind the cameras; Paulson probably had that right-how could somebody be watching every minute of the day and night? In the supply closet he got a mop and began to fill a bucket in the sink and poured in a cup of bleach. If anybody saw him he could say he'd spilled something, a Dr Pepper or a cup of coffee, which he wasn't supposed to have, though people did. He'd spilled a Dr Pepper. Couldn't be sorrier. That was what he'd say.

He also wasn't really sick, he could tell, not the way the signs made it sound. He was sweating under his shirt, but that was just the panic. As he watched the bucket fill and then hoisted it, reeking of chlorine, from the deep well of the sink, his body was telling him so in no uncertain terms. Something else had made him toss, something in the dream. The sensation was still in his mouth, not just the taste-a too warm, sticky sweetness that seemed to coat his tongue and throat and teeth-but the feel of soft meat yielding under his jaws, exploding with juice. Like he'd bitten into a rotten piece of fruit.

He yanked a few yards of paper towel off the dispenser, got a hazard bag and gloves from the cabinet, and carted it all back to the room. The mess was too big just to mop it, so he got on his knees and did his best to soak it up with the towels, pushing the bigger pieces into clumps he could pick up with his fingers. He put it all into the bag and cinched it tight, then spread water and bleach over the floor, working in circles. There were some chunks of something on his slippers and he wiped those off, too. The taste in his mouth was different now, like something spoiled, and it made him think of Brownbear, whose breath got like that sometimes; it was the only thing bad about him, how he'd come back to the trailer reeking of week-old roadkill and stick his face right up close to Grey's, smiling that dog smile he had, his gums pulled back at his molars. Grey couldn't hold it against him, Brownbear being just a dog, though he didn't like that smell one bit, and not in his own mouth like it was now.

In the locker room he changed quickly, shoved his scrubs in the laundry bin, and rode the elevator up to L3. Davis was still there, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk, reading a magazine, his boots bobbing to some song playing on little earphones tucked in the sides of his head.

"You know, I don't know why I even look at this stuff anymore," Davis said loudly over the music. "What's the point? I'm never getting off this iceball."

Davis dropped his feet to the floor and held up the cover of the magazine for Grey to see: two naked women in a winding embrace, their mouths open and the tips of their tongues just touching. The magazine was called Hoteez. Their tongues looked to Grey like slabs of muscle, something you'd put on ice in a deli case. The sight sent a fresh current of nausea churning through him.

"Oh, that's right," Davis said when he saw Grey's expression. He plucked the buds from his ears. "You guys don't like this stuff. Sorry." Davis sat forward and wrinkled his nose. "Man, you stink. What is that?"

"I think I ate something bad," Grey said cautiously. "I gotta go lie down for a while."

Davis flinched with alarm; he pushed away from the desk, widening the gap between them. "Don't fucking say that."

"I swear that's all it is."

"Jesus Christ, Grey." The soldier's eyes were wide with panic. "What are you trying to do to me? You got a fever or anything?"

"I just tossed is all. In the can. I think maybe I ate too much. I just need to get off my feet for a bit."

Davis took a second to think, eyeing Grey nervously. "Well, I've seen you eat, Grey. All you guys. You shouldn't shovel it in like that. And you don't look so hot, I'll say that. No offense, but you look like crap. I really should call this in."

They'd have to seal the level, Grey knew. That meant Davis would be stuck down here, too. As for what would happen to him, he didn't know. He didn't want to think about it. He wasn't really sick, he knew that much. But there was something wrong with him. He'd had bad dreams before, but nothing that ever made him puke.

"You're sure?" Davis pressed. "I mean, you'd tell me if there was something really wrong with you?"

Grey nodded. A drop of sweat slithered the length of his torso.

"Man, what a fucking day." Davis sighed resignedly. "All right, hang on." He tossed Grey the elevator key and freed his com from his belt. "Don't say I never did anything for you, okay?" He spoke into the mouthpiece. "This is the sentry on three? We need a relief worker-"

But Grey didn't stay to listen. He was already in the elevator, gone.

ELEVEN.

Somewhere west of the town of Randall, Oklahoma, a few miles south of the Kansas border, Wolgast decided to surrender.

They were parked inside a car wash, off a rural blacktop the number of which he'd long forgotten. It was almost dawn; Amy was fast asleep, curled like a cub on the backseat of the Tahoe. Three hours of driving hard and fast, Doyle calling out a route he quickly assembled off the GPS, a line of lights flashing in the distance behind them, sometimes fading when they made a turn but always reassembling, picking up their trail. It was just after two A.M. when Wolgast had seen the car wash. He took a chance and pulled in. They'd sat in the dark and listened to the cruisers fly past.

"How long do you think we should wait?" Doyle asked. All his bluster had left him.

"A while," Wolgast said. "Let them put some distance between us."

"That'll just give them time to set up roadblocks at the state line. Or double back when they realize they've lost us."

"You have a better idea I'd like to hear it," Wolgast said.

Doyle thought a moment. The big scrub brushes hanging over the windshield made the space in the car seem closer. "Not really, no."

So they'd sat. At any second Wolgast expected the car wash to blaze with light, to hear the amplified voice of a state cop telling them to come out with their hands up. But this hadn't happened. They had a signal now, but it was analog and wouldn't encrypt, so there was no way to tell anyone where they were.

"Listen," Doyle said. "I'm sorry about what happened back there."

Wolgast was too tired to engage. The fair seemed like days ago. "Forget about it."

"You know, the thing is, I really liked my job. The Bureau, all of it. It's all I ever wanted to do." Doyle took a deep breath and fingered a bead of condensation on the passenger window. "What do you think's going to happen?"

"I don't know."

Doyle frowned acidly. "Yeah you do. That guy, Richards. You were right about him."

The windows of the car wash had begun to pale. Wolgast checked his watch; it was a little before six. They'd waited as long as they could. He turned the key to the Tahoe and backed out of the car wash.

Amy awoke then. She sat upright and rubbed her eyes, looking about. "I'm hungry," she announced.

Wolgast turned to Doyle. "How about it?"

Doyle hesitated; Wolgast could see the idea taking shape in his mind. He knew what he was really saying: it's over.

"Might as well."

Wolgast turned the Tahoe around and headed back in the direction they'd come, into the town of Randall. The main thoroughfare didn't amount to much, not more than a half dozen blocks long. An air of abandonment hung over the street; most of the windows were papered over or smeared with soap. Probably there was a Walmart not far away, Wolgast thought, or some other big store like that, the kind that wiped little towns like Randall right off the map. At the end of the block, a square of light spilled onto the sidewalk; a half dozen pickups were angled at the curb.

"Breakfast," he declared.

The restaurant was a single, narrow room with a drop ceiling stained by years of cigarette smoke and airborne grease. A long counter stood to one side, facing a line of padded, high-backed booths. The air smelled of boiled coffee and fried butter. A few men in jeans and workshirts were seated at the counter, their broad backs hunched over plates of eggs and cups of coffee. The three of them took a booth in the back. The waitress, a middle-aged woman, broad across the middle and with clear gray eyes, brought over coffee and menus.

"What can I get for you gentlemen?"

Doyle said he wasn't hungry and would stick to coffee. Wolgast looked up at the woman, who was wearing a name tag: LUANNE. "What's good, Luanne?"

"It's all good if you're hungry." She smiled noncommittally. "The grits aren't bad."

Wolgast nodded and passed his menu to her. "Sounds fine."

The woman looked at Amy. "For the little one? Whatcha want, honey?"

Amy lifted her eyes from the menu. "Pancakes?"

"And a glass of milk," Wolgast added.

"Coming right up," the woman said. "You'll like 'em, honey. Cook does them up special."

Amy had brought her backpack into the restaurant. Wolgast walked her back to the ladies' room to clean up. "You need me to come in with you?"

Amy shook her head.

"Wash your face and brush your teeth," he said. "And comb your hair, too."

"Are we still going to the doctor?"

"I don't think so. We'll see."

Wolgast returned to the table. "Listen," he said quietly to Doyle. "I don't want to drive into a roadblock. Something could go wrong."

Doyle nodded. The meaning was plain. All that firepower, anything could happen. Next thing you knew, the Tahoe was riddled with rounds and everyone was dead.

"What about the district office in Wichita?"

"Too far. I don't see how we could get there. And at this point, I'm thinking no one's going to say they ever heard of us. This is all off the books."

Doyle gazed down into his coffee cup. His face was drawn, defeated, and Wolgast experienced a blast of sympathy for him. None of this was what he'd bargained for.

"She's a good kid," Doyle said. He sighed hard through his nose. "Fuck."

"This will go better with the locals, I think. You decide what you want to do. I'll give you the keys if you want. I'm going to tell them everything I know. It's our best chance, I think."

"Her best chance, you mean." Doyle didn't say this accusingly; he was merely stating a fact.

"Yes. Her best chance."

Their food arrived as Amy returned from the restroom. The cook had done the pancakes up to look like a clown face, with whipped cream from a can and blueberries for the eyes and mouth. Amy poured syrup over all of it and dug in, alternating huge bites with gulps of milk. It was good to watch her eat.

Wolgast left the table when they were done and went back to the little hall off the restrooms. He didn't want to use his handheld, and it was back in the Tahoe in any event; he'd seen a pay phone back there, a relic. He dialed Lila's number in Denver, but the phone just rang and rang, and when it went to voice mail he couldn't think of what to say and hung up. If David got the message, he'd just erase it anyway.

When he returned to the table, the waitress was clearing away their plates. He took the check and stepped to the register to pay. "Is there a police station anywhere around here?" he asked the woman as he handed her the money. "Sheriff's office, something like that?"

"Three blocks down the way," she said, sliding his money into the register. "But you don't have to go that far." She slammed the drawer with a ka-ching. "Kirk over there's a sheriff's deputy. Ain't that right, Kirk?"

"Aw, leave off, Luanne. I'm eating."

Wolgast looked down the length of the counter. The man, Kirk, was poised over a plate of French toast. He had a jowly face and thick, weather-beaten hands and was dressed as a civilian, in snug Wranglers wedged under his belly and a grease-stained Carhartt jacket the color of burnt toast. A little town like this, probably he worked about three different jobs.

Wolgast stepped over to him. "I need to report a kidnapping," Wolgast said.

The man turned on his stool. He wiped his mouth on a napkin and looked at Wolgast incredulously. "What are you talking about?" His face was unshaven; his breath smelled of beer.

"See that girl over there? She's the one everyone is looking for. I'm guessing you saw something about it on the wire."

The man glanced over at Amy, then back at Wolgast. His eyes widened. "Shit. You're kidding. The one from over in Homer?"