Jack had to hand it to Oz—he was cool. He glanced at a pair of his doggie roustabouts—how many did he have?—who had noticed the pistol. Low growls rumbled in their throats as they edged closer.
"They'll tear you to pieces before you get off that second shot. Perhaps before you get off the first."
"Don't count on it." Jack leveled the barrel at Oz's midsection. "I can pull this trigger lots of times before I go down. Any idea what a hollowpoint round, even a twenty-two, can do once it breaks up inside you?"
Jack's pistol was loaded with FMJs, but no need to tell Oz that.
"And don't think the shots will go unnoticed over there." Jack cocked his head toward the State Police barracks. "So not only will you be dead, but a bunch of troopers will be treating this whole area as a crime scene. They'll go through it with a fine comb. What'll they find?"
Oz's expression fluctuated between fear and rage. Jack pressed on, heading for home.
"You've gathered a nice little family around you, Oz. What will happen to them when you're gone and they've been broken up and scattered because of certain crimes you've committed? All because you wouldn't answer a simple question."
Jack hoped the bluff would work. He knew he'd be beaten to a bloody pulp if he pulled the trigger, and even if he survived, he feared police scrutiny as much as Oz. More. But Oz couldn't know that.
"Let's suppose, just suppose," Oz said, "that they were here. What happens?"
They? Jack fought to keep from showing the relief surging within him.
"They leave with me and that's that."
"How do I know you won't stop at the first phone and report us?"
"You've got my word," Jack said. "I've got nothing against you, Oz. I have a business relationship with Nadia. If I get her out of this, you and me are even. I'm happy never to see or hear of you again, and I'm sure it's mutual."
"But what about them?"
"I think I can square it with them. Let's go ask."
Oz held back. "There's still the matter of Dr. Monnet. He—"
"He's dead."
The eyes narrowed. Oz wasn't buying. "Really." He drew out the word.
"Just turn on the radio. It's on all the news stations."
"You?"
"Never laid a finger on him. Dragovic, I'd guess."
"I see," Oz said, nodding. A small smile played about his lips. That obviously made sense to him.
"Monnet paid you to off them," Jack said, "but I assume you had other plans. Sushi for the rakosh, right?"
"The creature's eating habits appear to be similar to those of a big snake," Oz said, neither confirming nor denying. "It gorges itself, then doesn't eat again for days. I haven't had time yet to learn its cycle."
"And now that it's gone, you've got no use for the food you've stockpiled for it. Am I right?"
He nodded and sighed. "I suppose that settles it, then."
He led Jack toward the center of the vehicle cluster. Playing it safe, Jack followed close behind, his pistol trained on Oz's back. The roustabouts—three now—followed. Oz stopped before an exceptionally run-down red trailer.
Jack heard something thumping against the inner walls and faint cries for help. Oz pointed to the padlock on the door and one of the roustabouts unlocked it.
As the door swung open, Jack slid his pistol behind his thigh. An idea of how to make this a smooth extraction was forming, but it might not work with artillery on display.
The cries and pounding ceased. For a moment nothing happened; then a sandy-haired man poked his head out. He looked pale, haggard, uncertain, but Jack recognized him as Douglas Gleason from the photo Nadia had shown him. Then Nadia appeared beside him.
All right, Jack thought. All right. Now to get them out of here.
"Good evening, Dr. Radzminsky," he said.
Her head pivoted toward him and her eyes widened in recognition and relief.
"Jack!" she cried, her voice harsh and ragged from shouting for who knew how long. "Oh, Jack, it's you!"
"Jack? Who's Jack?" Gleason was saying, but Nadia shushed him.
"It's all right. He's a friend. Jack, how did you get here? How did you manage—?"
"Long story. Suffice for now that Monnet and his partners arranged for Mr. Prather here to kill you and your fiance."
"Oh, no!" she said with more despair than shock.
"Knew it!" Gleason said. "Had to be him!"
"But why?"
"He and Dragovic were making Berzerk, and you knew it. But Mr. Prather is not a murderer," Jack said, nodding toward Oz, whose eyes widened in surprise. "So he merely kept you out of sight and out of harm's way until he could find a solution for your, um, predicament."
Jack was winging this. He glanced at Oz for a little backup.
"Yes," Oz said, barely missing a beat. "Dr. Monnet was blackmailing me, so I couldn't go to the police. I didn't know what to do. But now that he's dead—"
"Dead?" Nadia said. She looked at Jack.
"Milos Dragovic killed him."
"With him gone," Oz said, "it's safe for me to release you."
Jack said, "But there's one matter we have to settle first: This never happened. Mr. Prather needs your word on that."
Gleason needed about a second before nodding. "I can handle that."
But Nadia hesitated, frowning, not onboard yet.
"Come on, Nadj," Gleason said, putting his arm around her. "We weren't harmed. They even fed us."
"I've never been so frightened in all my life!"
"Yeah, but it's better than being dead. He could've killed us—he was supposed to kill us, and it would have been easier, but he didn't. We owe him something, don't you think?"
Come on, Nadia, Jack thought, trying a little telepathy. Say yes and we're out of here.
Finally she shrugged. "I don't know about owing him," she said, glaring at Oz. "But I guess we can keep it to ourselves."
Jack repressed a sigh of relief. He fished his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Gleason.
"My Buick's in front of the Burger King sign. Wait for me there. I've got one more matter to settle with Mr. Prather."
After Nadia and her beau had hurried from the scene, Jack turned to Oz.
"Where'd the rakosh break out?"
"About a mile back. Right near mile marker fifty-one-point-three, to be exact. We stopped but could not stay parked on the shoulder—we'd have the police asking what happened—so we pulled in here."
"We've got to find it."
"Nothing I'd like better," said the boss, "although I have a feeling you'd prefer to see it dead."
"You've got that right."
"An interesting area here," Oz said. "Right on the edge of the Pine Barrens."
Jack cursed under his breath. The Barrens. Shit. How was he going to locate Scar-lip in there—if that was where it was? This whole area was like a time warp. Near the coast you had a nuclear power plant and determinedly quaint but unquestionably twentieth-century towns like Smithville and Leeds Point. West of the parkway was wilderness. The Barrens—a million or so unsettled acres of pine, scrub brush, vanished towns, hills, bogs, creeks, all pretty much unchanged in population and level of civilization from the time the Indians had the Americas to themselves. From the Revolutionary days on, it had served as a haven for people who didn't want to be found. Hessians, Tories, smugglers, Lenape Indians, heretical Amish, escaped cons—at one time or another, they'd all sought shelter in the Pine Barrens.