"No wonder you're upset."
"As if that isn't enough, someone called the Golden and Dalton families and told them that Bolton had escaped and no one had reported it. They're screaming bloody murder. That news should be hitting the airwaves any minute. Not that you'd hear."
"Sounds like you'd better catch up to Bolton. Anybody have any idea where he is?"
"No. And that's what frightens me. The local cops and state police are looking for Jerry Bethlehem, who's listed as the owner of the car. But the agency knows to look for Bolton and has been scouring the area without finding a trace of him. Even sent a couple of agents to comb his girlfriend's house. Nothing."
Jack wanted to know more about their search. Had they found Dawn? He took an oblique approach.
"Well, he either ran off or was given a ride. The only ones 1 can think of who'd give him a ride are Dawn Pickering and Hank Thompson."
"Thompson checks out. The girl's gone missing. House is empty. They think she might be dead too."
Jack shook his head. "Can't see him doing that. It'd mean the end of the baby as well."
"I agree. Which means he hasn't gone far." Levy looked around. "I drove here looking over my shoulder the whole way. I've got a guy from the agency watching my house—my wife, my little girl…"
A twinge of pity prompted a little reassurance from Jack.
"Relax. You've got nothing to worry about."
Levy's eyebrows shot up. "Oh no? He left his car and the murder weapon in front of my house!"
"'Left' is the operant word. He's on the run. He won't be back."
"I wish I could be so sure."
Jack figured it was time to get down to the real reason for this little meeting. His palms began to sweat.
"You bring your little test kit?"
"Hmm?" Levy pulled himself back from somewhere else. "Oh, yes. Here."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box, maybe the size of a bracelet jewelry box. He set it on the table and lifted the lid to reveal a little eyedrop bottle and a square card with what looked like a coffee stain at the center of its glossy surface.
Jack stared at it. "That's it? That's all there is to it?"
"What did you expect—test tubes and a gas chromatography unit? Yes, that's it. And as I told you on the phone, it can't leave my sight. Only Creighton staff and certain screeners for the agency are allowed access to these kits."
"What do I do?"
"All we need is a drop of your blood." He patted his pockets. "I could have sworn I brought a packet of lancets—"
"Never mind." Jack pulled out his Spyderco and flipped it open. "This oughta do."
Levy stared at the blade. "I said a drop of blood, not a whole unit. A finger stick, not surgery."
Jack didn't smile. This wasn't funny.
Levy said, "You sure you want to do this? What are you going to do with the result?"
"They say knowledge is power."
"Not in this case. Whatever the result, there's nothing you can do about it."
Jack knew that. But he had to know.
He wiped the blade with a paper napkin, then made a quick short slice in his fingertip. Barely felt it. As blood welled in the slit he looked up at Levy.
"Now what?"
"Without touching the card, let a drop fall on that beige area."
Jack complied and watched the drop expand on the glossy paper. Levy took some sort of oversized toothpick and began mixing the blood into the beige residue.
"It's a variation on the old latex agglutination method. Basically a yes-or-no test. If we get clumping, it's positive. No clumping—negative."
"No telling the amount?"
He shrugged. "Sure. The more clumping, the more positive, but that's too crude and too subjective to rely on. The gold standard is a full quantitative analysis."
After stirring the blood and the beige, he took the little plastic bottle, removed the cap, and squeezed three drops of clear fluid onto the mix. He picked up the card and started tilting it this way and that. His cell phone rang. He handed the card to Jack.
"Just rock it back and forth to mix it."
Jack took it and looked. His breath caught as he saw little flecks begin to form in the fluid. He heard Levy's voice faintly, as if he were sitting four tables away.
"You what? You found him? Wh—?… Oh, dear God… But how—?… Yes, I see… No, not at all. Thanks for calling. It takes a load off my mind, but dear God. Who could have—? Okay, okay. As soon as I get back."
His gut acrawl, Jack watched the flecks enlarging, sticking to each other, forming clumps.
"Jack? Jack?"
Levy tapped him on the arm and Jack looked up.
"What?"
"Bolton's dead."
Jack almost said, Yeah, I know, but caught himself in time. He returned to watching the clumps expand while Levy prattled on.
"The agency heard about a body found dragging beneath a truck on the Thruway. Most of his skin was gone so they had no fingerprints or even facial features to go on. But since the truck's last stop had been a few miles from Rathburg, they ran a quick DNA and damn if it wasn't a match for Bolton."
"Uh-huh."
Jack felt a vague disappointment. He'd wanted Bolton to go unidentified for a while, preferably forever. That way Vecca's agency would concentrate on finding the escapee and forget about Christy Pickering's investigator.
Levy ran a hand across his face. "This is incredible. He'd been tied there, but God knows by whom."
"Uh-huh."
Levy craned his neck. "What's going on?" He reached for the card. "Let me see that."
Jack pulled it back. He didn't want Levy to see it—didn't want anyone to see it.
"Come on. Give it over."
What the hell. Jack laid it on the table and slid it toward him. Then watched Levy's eyes widen.
"Dear God!" He looked up at Jack, then back to the card, then at Jack again. "You're playing tricks on me, right? What did you do—sprinkle something on this while I wasn't looking? That's it, right?"
"I wish."
Levy did the up-and-down look again.
"Dear God, this can't be true! I've never seen agglutination like this! It puts you right up there with—" His phone rang again. He checked it, then pointed at Jack. "I've got to take this, but do not leave, understand?"
Jack felt boneless—he wasn't going anywhere.
"Yes?" Levy said, jamming the phone to his ear. "What? What sort of letter? Read it to me."
As Levy listened, Jack stared at the clumps—the agglutination, as Levy put it.
Last night, after following the line of Bolton's blood until it petered out, he hadn't felt a shred of guilt or regret or remorse. Why not? Easy: Because Bolton had suffered a fate he'd have had no hesitation inflicting on someone else.
Then an ugly thought had bobbed to the surface: Didn't that make him just like Bolton?
No. Of course not. He hadn't wanted to do it, had planned a hands-off solution that would force the agency to take out Bolton for killing Vecca…
… which Jack had put him up to.
But Bolton's arrival at Levy's, bloody tire iron in hand, had left Jack no choice.
Could have simply shot him and buried him.
Bad option. Too many chances to leave trace evidence.
But to tie him under a truck? That was something one of Levy's heavy oDNA carriers would do.
Right.
The possibility had sickened him, but he needed to know. So he'd asked Levy to bring one of his screening kits.
"Dear God!"
If he says that once more…
"Not her signature? Then who—?" He looked at Jack and paled. "I'll follow up on this later." Without taking his eyes off Jack he folded the phone and placed it on the table. "They found a letter in Julia's bedroom, the room where she was murdered. It's signed but the signature isn't even remotely like hers. It tells all about Bolton's paternity to Dawn and…" He shook his head. "Only two people knew about that: You and I. And I didn't write that letter, so that leaves…"