"Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong."
--Murphy's Law

Suburban New York
5:10 p.m.

"No," Roger Bender finally managed. "No, no, I, uh, I can't do this."

"You waited til now to say that?"

"I mean it, Janet. No. This is ridiculous."

"Roger... It's going to take me forever to get my hose back on."

Roger sat up, pulling away. "Well, uh, you can go without. It's a nice day."

Janet sat up as well as Roger hastily pulled on his jacket, ignoring his tie. "We came all the way out here to--"

"To look at a house," Roger finished. "I - ah - Janet, it's not that I'm not attracted to you, far from it, I find you very attractive--"

"Uh-huh. Got to admit, that's a pickup line I haven't heard before."

"Look, I just got separated," Roger tried. "My daughter doesn't even know about it yet - unless, of course, Ruth went and told her, which means I've got two of them to deal with now. Oh, God."

"Roger?" Janet asked. "Is this going somewhere?"

Roger sighed. "The point is, I just got out of a twenty-year marriage. I need to get back on my feet, which includes finding someplace to stay other than a hotel or a friend's couch."

Janet nodded and studied her nails. "Mm-hmm. I see."

"If - when I do get settled," Roger continued, "you'll be the first person I'll call."

"Oh." Janet stuffed the hose into her purse and snatched up her earrings. "So... what do you think of the house?"

"Now that you mention it," Roger admitted, "it's a little too big for my tastes."

"Should have started with something smaller?" Janet suggested, putting her earrings back on and getting up. "Well, I've got some more stuff to show you back at the office."

"No, no, that's all right," Roger protested. "I, um, I think you'd better just drop me off at Lisa's. I'll get my car out of the lot tomorrow."

"My, my, Roger," Janet quipped, "you do know just what to say to a girl."

New Rochelle, NY

Ruth Bender was not having a very good day.

Truth to tell, the past few weeks had been fairly lousy, but today was worse than usual. Her lawyer would not return her calls, being preoccupied with some massive lawsuit he was devoting all his time to. She had to cancel her appointment at the spa to finally "fit herself in" to his schedule - something that NEVER happened to her.

Then Amanda had called. She'd just found out from a chat online with one of their neighbors about Roger's idiocy. And who did she scream at? Ruth. Not Roger. In a week, Amanda would be coming home from a year studying abroad in England. And now with an angry daughter breathing down her neck, Ruth realized she had no choice but to swallow her pride and break the silence herself. After the kind of day she'd had, nothing worse could happen.

So when she rounded the corner to see the six police cars and the SWAT team smashing in the windows of the Wiseman's house, something inside Ruth snapped.

"What in the HELL is going on here??"

The shrill demand was loud and clear even over the sounds of the dogs barking and the team searching the Wiseman's house. Morris turned just in time to see the owner of the voice striding towards him. Two agents moved to intercept her, but she smacked one with her purse and shoved the other one aside without even mussing the purple designer suit she was wearing. "Hands off!"

Sensing an impending storm, Morris approached her before she could do any damage. "Ma'am, this is none of your concern."

"It most certainly is my concern! I come to visit one of my best friends and I find you smashing in her windows. And you say it's none of my concern?"

Several of the neighbors had come out to see what was going on, and the irate woman's arrival was drawing more attention. A crowd was gathering at the police line. "I don't have time for this," Morris growled, turning to the nearest agents. "Get her out of here!"

"What? The hell you will! I am not leaving until you tell me what you're doing here and what's happened to Lisa Wiseman!" As the two men grabbed her by the arms, the woman started screaming and fighting back. "Get your hands off me!"

Morris turned away, satisfied that the conflict was taken care of. He was wrong.

The two agents started dragging her off, but the woman fought back like a mad cat. Special Agent #1 let out a yell as her acrylic nails slashed his cheek, and #2 howled as her foot connected solidly with his groin. The woman made a run for it, but #1 was faster, grabbing her by the arm. The crowd assembled started shouting in protest as she shrieked and struggled. When she tried to claw his eyes out, he grabbed for her other arm, but she spun around and lashed out at him again. She missed, and he grabbed her by the waist, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Around them, the shouts of protest grew louder, and suddenly someone broke through the police line and punched out one of the cops. Other neighbors and onlookers followed suit.

Within seconds, all hell broke loose on the Wiseman's lawn.

5:30 p.m.

"What on earth is going on?"

From a safe distance, Roger and Janet watched the riot break out in front of the Wiseman residence. "I have no idea," Roger replied as he stared at the crowd. For some reason, the presence of Dr. Theodore Morris in the middle of the melee did not surprise him that much.

What did startle him was the sight of two agents dragging a screaming and kicking woman into a van. A very angry and very familiar woman who would find some way to blame this on him. "Oh, no."

He turned back to Janet. "Maybe we should go back to your office."

"Good idea."

Michael had run through the scenario millions of times in his mind. Whenever he was alone and missing Lisa, doing 100 miles on the treadmill, lying in his room counting and recounting ceiling tiles, he had plotted out the best route of escape through his neighborhood, through the interconnecting back yards that kept them out of sight of the main roads. Like an actuary, he'd made a habit of running through possible scenarios.

He'd hoped that he'd never have to put this particular one to use.

"Where are we going?" Heather cried as they finally dashed into the woods. Guiltily, Michael realized that he was practically dragging Lisa and Heather along. But it was the only way he could make sure they kept pace with him short of carrying them both himself.

"I'm not too sure, but we can't stop!" Michael insisted as they continued to run, crossing over the small brook and heading deeper into the trees.

"This is your way of 'taking care of it?'" Lisa gasped.

"I'll explain later," Michael muttered as they climbed up the embankment and reached Foxhurst Road. At least that's what Michael thought it was; the high school was a few miles away.

Just as they reached the road, a black sedan rounded the corner, screeching to a stop in front of them. Startled, Lisa jumped back and nearly fell down the embankment. Michael shot out an arm and caught her just in time.

The passenger window rolled down to reveal a smug and familiar face. "Mrs. Wiseman. Mr. Newman. Fancy meeting you here."

Heather stared. Michael blinked. Lisa gaped in shock. "You - you - you--" she stammered.

Bernard Leflin Jr., otherwise known as Isley, smiled. "Need a lift?"

"A lift? A lift?" Lisa echoed. "I'd rather walk!"

Leflin sighed. "Mrs. Wiseman, that's no way to talk to an old friend."

"Old friend? There is NO way I am getting in a car with this man again!" Lisa snapped.

"What are you doing here?" Michael asked suspiciously.

"Passing through the neighborhood," Leflin answered. "Of course, I had reason to believe you'd need my help."

"Your idea of 'help' was to send a bunch of yellow suits with machine guns after me," Michael said. "I think we'll pass."

"Yellow suits?" Lisa stared at Michael.

Ack. He wasn't supposed to know about that. "Yeah, this lunatic set a squad of them out to get me a few months back," Michael replied quickly.

"Excuse me? Hello?" Heather cried. "I hate to break this up, but am I the only one who remembers we've got a SWAT team or something chasing us?"

"Smart girl," Leflin observed. "You should listen to her more often. Besides, it's me or them. It's not as if you have a lot of options."

Michael frowned. Leflin had a point. He glanced at Heather, who shrugged. Lisa was still glaring at Leflin angrily, but after a moment she sighed in defeat.

Michael turned back to Leflin. "I know I'm gonna regret this."

Salzburg and Rogeilla Real Estate
Manhattan
6:00 p.m.

"Look who's finally back," Carla observed as Janet led Roger into the office. "I was just about to close up shop. Did we make a sale?"

"Uh, almost," Roger said uncomfortably.

Janet sighed. "No kidding. Lisa ever get back from that long lunch she took?"

"Yeah. She left a while ago." Carla frowned. "She didn't look so good when she came back, though. I was kind of worried about her." She glanced at the clock. "Anyway, I've got to get moving. Promised Nick I'd be home ten minutes ago."

"Night." Janet waved at her friend half-heartedly as Carla left the office.

"Long lunch?" Roger asked. "You said you didn't know where she was."

"I didn't," Janet replied, sitting down. "She got this phone call from that Bernstadt character again this afternoon."

"That lawyer? What'd he want?"

"Don't look at me. Whatever he said to her, she almost fell over in shock. Then she takes a long break and runs out of here without saying a word." Janet narrowed her eyes. "You know, I think something big is going on. I mean, she gets these strange calls from this lawyer and then there's a riot on her front lawn that evening?"

"It was about Michael," Roger murmured softly.

"What's that?"

"Michael. Her husband." Roger shook his head. "This lawyer's been calling her insisting the hospital lied about his condition when he had his accident. Spooked her something awful. I don't know why that would bring a SWAT team to her door. But then that Morris character was there--"

Janet's juicy gossip radar was on full alert. "Morris?"

Roger caught himself. "I don't know. Never mind." He sighed. "I think I'm going to have to get some sleep and think this through. Although I guess I won't be on Lisa's couch."

"I do have a guest room, you know."

"Uh, no offense, Janet, but I - think I'll check into a hotel. I'm, uh, not quite ready for that yet."

"Suit yourself."

Route 295 South

"What do you want from us?" Lisa demanded, breaking the silence that had lasted for several miles.

"Oh, I don't want anything from you, Mrs. Wiseman," Leflin replied coolly. "Nor do I require anything from your daughter. Mr. Newman, on the other hand, might be able to assist me."

"Like I'd want to do that," Michael muttered, his mind racing. There had to be a way out of this.

Heather coughed. "For those of us who came in late..."

Leflin chuckled and reached up to put the window between them and the driver up. "Several months ago, my father heard this rather implausible story from a friend of his in the Pentagon. Being at death's door, he jumped at the chance the story offered - the chance to live again. To that end, he hired some people out to contact Mr. Newman and his employer, the latter of whom we thought could help us."

"You mean 'kidnap,'" Michael snapped.

"Suffice to say, we discovered that the story we were told was a fabrication, completely inaccurate," Leflin continued, ignoring Michael. "The people we sought to get information from - yourself and your friend Mr. Bender - didn't know a thing. The people we thought could help us denied it to the point where it could not be true. Unfortunately, in the end, my father decided to take matters into his own hands."

Lisa blinked. "I don't understand."

Leflin looked away. "My father decided that the only course of action was to kill himself." Michael flinched at the memory.

"Okay," Heather said after a long silence. "So what does that have to do with us?"

"A few months ago, I got to thinking," Leflin answered. "Namely, that while the story I'd been told was untrue, there might be something behind it all. The truth might have been hidden beneath a fantastic story. After everything we had put you through, Mrs. Wiseman, Mr. Newman, I decided to find some way to make it up to you both."

Michael tensed. No. He can't know. He can't. "What are you talking about?"

"After the disaster that our last fact-finding mission caused, I resorted to a more subtle approach. Namely, I had some people keeping an eye on the two of you, since I was convinced that there was still something going on. When Dr. Morris - for whatever reason - sent the cavalry after you, how could I sit back and do nothing?"

"Oh, and you just happened to know where we were," Heather muttered. "Kind of convenient, don't you think?"

"With the kind of money I pay my people, nothing is convenient." Leflin sighed, dropping his smug facade. "I'm trying to offer you someplace safe to stay until we can get everything sorted out. All I ask in return is your cooperation."

Michael exchanged looks with Lisa, who didn't look convinced. Neither was he, but for now, all they could do was wait. Hopefully, he'd have a chance to get Lisa and Heather alone.

Of course, he was still working on what he was going to tell them...

Police Department
New Rochelle, NY
6:45 p.m.

Dr. Morris pressed the icepack harder against his temple, willing the painful bump on his head to go numb. The knock on the doorframe seemed to be pounding at his temples, but he forced himself to ignore it and turn to face his visitor.

When he saw who it was, he couldn't suppress a smirk. Special Agent #1 was sporting a bandage on his cheek and looking none too happy about it. "What do you have for me?"

"Team 3 picked up a scent heading out of the development into the woods due east," the agent sighed. "Unfortunately, the scent was gone the moment they hit Foxhurst Road. We've checked out the entire area, but we've found nothing."

Morris sat back in his chair, closing his eyes - partially to clear his mind and partially to stave off his pounding headache. "How far away were they from the house when their scent vanished?"

"About five or six miles, sir. We'd have caught them if not for that, um, situation."

Morris groaned. That situation had lost them precious time. "What is the story with that?"

"Not good. You know the woman who started it all?"

"Mrs. Bender? Not personally, and I'm now very glad I don't."

The agent blinked. "That's Bender's wife?" Morris nodded. "Explains a lot."

"You were saying?"

"Yes, sir. She was allowed to make her one phone call. Unfortunately, her one phone call was made to her uncle." As Morris glared at him, the agent added, "Her uncle just happens to be Senator Bellingham. He's not too happy his niece is locked up."

"Bellingham?" Morris repeated. "James Bellingham? The same man who helped fund this project when it was in the initial stages?" As the agent nodded, Morris groaned again. "Good God. This is just getting worse and worse."

"You don't know the half of it."

At the sound of the voice - a decidedly female voice - Morris looked up to see the woman who had just entered. She was in her late thirties, medium height, plain, with an uneven white streak in her shoulder-length black hair. "It's good to see you again, Dr. Morris. I wish it would have been under better circumstances."

"Dr. Ross." Morris was too tired to feign pleasure at her arrival. "Forgive me if I don't get up."

Lydia Ross smirked. "That's the least you have to answer for, believe me."

Special Agent #1 glanced at Lydia, glanced at Morris, then made the wisest decision he could. Without a word, he left, closing the door behind him.

Seeing his right-hand man's retreat, Morris sighed. "Don't tell me. News travels fast in the Pentagon."

"The Pentagon has yet to hear of this one, actually. But I've been keeping tabs on the project for a while now."

"Just tell me what you want. Or just say 'I told you so' already. I don't have time for this."

She set her briefcase down on the desk, that infuriating smile still on her face. "Oh, I'm not going to say that. Tempting, but I won't. I'm here to keep you from making one hell of a mistake."

"And what mistake is that?"

"Let me put it this way." She sat down across from him, leaning over the desk. "You're all hot to trot on catching Michael Wiseman. But you need to stop and also consider why he ran."

Somewhere in Manhattan

"Should've got a ride," Kyle Barnes muttered for the fifth time as he walked along the street, trying his damnedest to look inconspicuous - and, more importantly, like a man who wasn't carrying $200 in cash. Annie was right, of course; she was always right. She said this kind of job was dangerous, she said it was just asking for trouble. But she was gone now, probably moving in with her Ma like she'd threatened to do. And he was good at what he did. If he hadn't gone and ticked Mickey off, though, he wouldn't be out here alone.

It was then that he saw the short, stooped old man trudging along a few paces ahead of him. Kyle couldn't believe he hadn't noticed him earlier. He was a perfect target, and all alone. Maybe this night wasn't going to be as bad as he'd thought.

He came alongside the man just as they neared the mouth of the nearby alley. Kyle whipped out the switchblade, holding it so that the man could see it, but not so it was obvious. "Get moving, Grandpa." The man just blinked at him, and Kyle seethed. "I said move, midget. In the alley. Or else."

Calmly, the old man glanced at the knife, glanced at Kyle's face, and then obediently retreated into the alleyway. Grinning, Kyle slipped into the shadows as well. This was gonna be fun.

The little man was cowering at the end of the dead end that Kyle knew was there. Chuckling, Kyle advanced on his prey. He didn't need Mickey and those other losers. He could do this all on his own. Everything was going just as expected.

But he didn't expect the hulking mass that erupted from the trashcans beside him, nor did he expect the beefy hand that twisted the knife from his grip. Kyle opened his mouth to shout, but he didn't get the chance as his assailant's hands wrapped around his throat, crushing his larynx and cutting off his oxygen. Panicked, Kyle gasped for air, uselessly pawing at the huge arms like tree trunks. Black spots danced before his vision.

The last thing Kyle saw was the little old man watching with interest as his partner squeezed the life out of him.

Manhattan

"If this is a guest room," Heather muttered, "I don't even want to see the master bedroom."

The room that Leflin had showed them to was about the size of Lisa's living room; along with the bed in one corner, there was an adjoining bathroom and an armchair and sofa. It was apparently one of many, Leflin had informed them, offering to show Michael and Heather separate rooms. But Michael - and Lisa, surprisingly - had refused.

Michael shut and locked the bedroom door, somewhat relieved that it locked from the inside. "They're gone. It's just us."

"All right, that's it," Lisa snapped. "I want to know what's going on, right now!"

"You think this place could be bugged?" Heather wondered.

"Lisa," Michael began, "it's not that easy to explain--"

"Try me! You said you'd take care of it! And look where we are now!"

Heather peered under the coffee table. "They might have hidden cameras or something."

"I didn't know the Doc saw us then!" Michael exclaimed, and Lisa abruptly fell silent. "He knew you were there. He - he actually thought I told you something. I tried to tell him the truth, but he wasn't listening!"

Heather looked up. "Mom?"

"Tried? Tried? One minute I'm sitting down to dinner with my daughter, the next I'm being chased by men with guns and dogs!" Lisa exploded.

Heather opened her mouth again to speak, but then closed it. She stared at the two adults, weighing her options, and finally decided to retreat to the sofa and stay safely on the sidelines.

"What would you have wanted me to do?" Michael cried, frustrated. "I wasn't just going to take off and not try to warn you! No matter what I did, they would have come after you!"

"Who? Who would come after me?" Lisa demanded, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. Stunned, Michael was at a loss to reply. After a moment, Lisa let go of his coat and stalked away. "I don't believe this. I just don't believe this. I have to be at work tomorrow morning. Heather has band practice all this week. I actually had a client lined up. And I can't even get within sight of my home!"

"Neither can I!"

"So? I wouldn't be surprised if you got us into this mess in the first place!" Lisa snapped. "I don't know what you're up to, Mr. Newman, but all I wanted was the truth. All I wanted was to find out what happened to my husband!"

"It's not about your husband!" The words skipped his brain and went right out of his mouth. But somehow, they silenced Lisa. "It's not about your husband," Michael added more quietly, frantically trying to figure out where he was going with this.

"Hey!" Heather took the risk of speaking up. "What's this got to do with Daddy?"

Michael looked over at Heather and sighed. Sitting in the center of the plush sofa, she looked smaller than usual and even more confused than Lisa. The only thing that kept him from going over there and hugging his little girl was - well, he didn't know what it was. "Mom?" Heather asked as Lisa looked away. The scared look in her eyes faded as they narrowed suspiciously. "Mom, what's going on?"

For answer, Lisa groaned and sank down to sit on the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands. Slowly, trying not to spook her, Michael sat down next to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Lisa. At least tell me what happened. I'll tell you what I can." She didn't move. "Please."

Still no response. Sighing, Heather got up and sat down on the other side of Lisa. The scared child was gone, and the teenager was all business. "Mom, what happened?" Lisa didn't respond. "I'm missing out on microwaved sushi for this. You owe me an explanation."

Despite herself, Lisa couldn't stifle a chuckle at that. Taking a deep breath, she sat up, brushing her hair out of her face and wiping her eyes. "I guess I do, don't I?" She reached over and squeezed Heather's hand before starting. "Whole thing started when I got a call from this lawyer..."

New Rochelle, NY

"Finally decided to listen to me?" Lydia asked as Morris and Special Agent #1 entered the office. "It's not like you to admit you made a mistake."

"I did not make a mistake," Morris snapped. "But our search has yielded nothing but an irate Senator and a miniature riot, and you insisted on gracing us with your presence."

"Oh, yes, Bellingham. Heard he was furious. Shame you had to resort to these methods." The smirk faded abruptly as she continued. "I've been keeping track of your project for the past four months, and I've noticed a few details that you have neglected."

"'Keeping track?' Isn't that your phrase for 'spying?'" Morris replied.

"Not when it's sanctioned by the Pentagon. They didn't have a problem with it, seeing as how I was supposed to be involved in the project from the beginning. As you well know."

Special Agent #1 blinked. "I'm sorry?"

Morris sighed. "Dr. Ross was originally a member of the team when the project was in the initial research and development stage - her background in neuropsychology and sociology was indispensable to us."

"Until I made the fatal mistake of disagreeing with our all-seeing project coordinator over here," Lydia added. "Next thing I know, I'm reassigned to an army base in Wyoming."

"They specifically requested you," Morris pointed out.

"And you were all too eager to let me go," Lydia countered. "Despite knowing that I had invested quite a bit of time and effort into your work."

"Still not the type to hold grudges, I see."

The bald agent looked puzzled. "If I'm not mistaken, you specifically said you've been investigating for only four months. The project was initiated over eighteen months ago. Why wait so long?"

"I actually didn't intend to stick my nose into things at first," Lydia admitted. "But in January, I had the fortune to meet a Lieutenant Erica Taylor. It seems that since I also had clearance for the project she had just been assigned to, she was sent to me. And she told me some very interesting things." Lydia folded her arms. "I thought you could be devious, Dr. Morris, but I had no idea how far you would go."

"Get to the point," Morris growled.

"All right." She stood up. "Gentlemen, the reason the Pentagon does not know of this is because I have yet to tell them. Lately, it's been my job to send coordinating reports to the Pentagon on your progress just to make sure you haven't dropped the ball."

"You're investigating us?" Morris snapped. "We already have our funding--"

"But there are still people who want to shut you down," Lydia replied. "What they don't know is that I'm not one of them. And if you swallow your pride long enough to listen to me, they're not going to hear about this any time soon."

The Doc did not reply for several seconds. "What 'details' are you talking about?"

"Don't you find it odd that after all this time - and now, only when Mr. Wiseman did not have a tracking device - that his wife finally found something out?"

Special Agent #1 shrugged. "Well, you've heard of Murphy's Law."

"Not to this extent," Lydia continued. "Mrs. Wiseman got your name and number from Manhattan General, am I correct?"

"So far," Morris answered.

"I did some checking around. Interestingly enough, someone else was asking questions about Michael Wiseman's accident - the very same night that she called you."

Morris sat up. "Who else?"

Lydia smiled, gratified that she had his attention. "A lawyer by the name of Edward Bernstadt. Seems he also got his grubby little paws on the ambulance records from Mr. Wiseman's accident - records with your signature on them."

"What?" Morris exclaimed. "That's impossible. He couldn't have possibly gotten that information!"

"Wait a minute. This lawyer just got his hands on ambulance records?" Michael asked. "Just like that?"

"That's - that's what he told me," Lisa replied. "Why?"

"Uh, I'm no expert," Michael said quickly, "but I know the hospital won't give out those kind of records without the consent of immediate family members. They're legally bound to withhold them from anyone else."

"Those were classified records," Morris growled. "The only reason for their existence was proof to the Pentagon that the operation was not handled illegally. No matter how high-paid, a lawyer can't just waltz in and snatch them up."

"Unless someone pulled a few strings for him," Special Agent #1 realized suddenly.

Lydia nodded. "That's what I was thinking."

"But why would someone do that?" Lisa wondered. "Who would?"

"I don't know," Michael admitted. "I guess someone wanted to throw a wrench into the project the Doc was working on."

"What is this project?" Lisa demanded. "And what does it have to do with Michael?"

"Nothing!" Michael lied desperately. "Look. I don't know much about the business with - with your husband and the Doc, but you've got to believe me when I tell you there's something bigger going on behind this. There are people willing to kill to keep it under wraps." Lisa flinched, but didn't press further. "Why did he say he got his hands on them?"

"He was supposedly collecting information for a lawsuit about faulty respirators," Lydia replied. "The resident on duty couldn't give me a lot of details, but it sounded like a cover."

"I'm not so sure," Morris mused. "I'm fully aware that we have opponents in the Pentagon, but I can't see how it would benefit any of them to jeopardize the project in this manner."

"If you give me time to investigate further," Lydia countered, "I'm willing to bet I can dig up an answer to that one."

Special Agent #1 looked confused. "Who would endanger security like that, though? It's one thing to cut funding, but this... I don't think anyone from Washington would stoop so low."

"Tell me you haven't forgotten Howard Irving already."

Both men flinched at her words. Irving's treason had shaken up a lot of things at the Pentagon; the fact that Michael had foiled his attempt was the only reason their funding wasn't revoked or re-reviewed.

Lydia raised an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a 'no.'"

"The hospital told me he died instantly," Lisa explained. "But according to this Bernstadt character, he was on life-support when they reached the hospital. He said - he said that there was a flaw in the respirator, that Michael might have lived had it been working properly."

Stunned, Michael turned away. "He - he might have survived?"

"Well, that's what the man told me. Of course, he was trying to sue the company." Lisa hesitated. "You didn't know about that?"

Michael shook his head. "No. No, I didn't. Not about that."

"You said you'd sue the bastards, aren't you?" Heather asked. "I mean, come on, Mom!"

"I didn't exactly get that far," Lisa sighed. "I-I don't know. I'm confused, I'm tired, and I don't know what to do."

"Maybe we ought to get some sleep," Michael suggested. As Lisa stared at him, he added. "I'll take the chair."

"No, I mean - can we sleep? Do you trust this Isley, or Leflin, or whatever his name is?"

"No," Michael admitted. "But I don't know what else to do right now."

Heather hopped up and bounded over to the sofa. "I call dibs on the couch."

"Heather," Lisa sighed, "you can have the bed."

"Mom, I can fit on the couch, okay?"

Lisa smiled, then turned back to Michael. "All right, Mr. Newman. I guess we're staying here tonight."

"So you think someone set this up," Morris said. "How should this affect our search for Mr. Wiseman?"

"Again, you should consider why he ran," Lydia answered. "He had ten days in which he could have escaped easily. Maybe in the middle of the night, when you weren't there. Or even at the bookstore you took him to. On the way back. In that museum right after you removed it. But only when he thought his wife and daughter were in danger--"

"Enough," Morris sighed. "You've done your homework, I see."

Before he could continue, his cellphone rang. Sighing, he retrieved it and opened the phone. "Yes?" He froze, listening to the voice on the other end. "What happened?" Pause. "Are you sure it was the same man?" From the expression on his face, the answer was clearly in the affirmative. "How long ago?" Another pause. "Damn. Yes, I'll be right there."

He closed the phone and put it away, standing up. "You'll have to continue this without me."

"What is it?" Lydia asked.

"Another possible complication." To Special Agent #1, he added, "You're to assist Dr. Ross in her investigations - within reason. Be sure to report to me if anything turns up."

Morris turned to go, but the agent followed him into the hall, pulling him aside. "Sir, are you positive about this? We can't afford to be sidetracked."

"We've already been sidetracked," Morris told him quietly. "Let me tell you something. Dr. Ross may be infuriating, manipulative, stubborn, outspoken--" He caught himself. "But that woman is also someone that we want on our side."

The bald agent stared at his boss. "This is serious, isn't it?"

Morris nodded solemnly. "Murphy's Law. In spades."

Manhattan
10:55 p.m.

For once, Michael couldn't sleep. And it wasn't just because his leather jacket made a lousy pillow.

He sat there in the armchair, staring blankly at the door. He had turned the chair towards the door in the faint hope that he might stay awake long enough to keep watch. It hadn't occurred to him that sleep tonight would be utterly impossible.

Lisa and Heather, at least, weren't suffering from the same affliction; Lisa had kicked her shoes off and snuggled up in the bed, while Heather was curled up on the sofa, dead to the world. Michael smiled, glad to see that they were at least resting. They needed it as much as he did. While he wasn't physically exhausted, emotionally he was drained. In the course of an afternoon, he'd kissed Lisa, punched out the Doc, hustled his family out of the house on a mad dash, and then gone and lied to them. Lied to Lisa.

That was what really hurt.

Rarely had he ever been able to lie to her, and whenever he did, it hurt. He'd done it fairly well, too, which only made it worse. While he regretted punching the Doc, just lying to Lisa was as bad as a hundred blows to the face. He remembered holding her in the bookstore, savoring the scent of her hair and the feel of her cheek against his while fearing for her life at the same time. If not for that threat, if not for the fear...

"It's not about your husband" - the words still tasted bitter in his mouth.

The clock struck eleven, and Michael sighed, briefly thinking of the lights that were automatically shutting off and the curtains that were closing in his bedroom. He wasn't anywhere near the townhouse, but this still felt like just as much of a prison.

He'd been truthful when he told Lisa that he didn't trust Leflin. Whatever the man wanted out of this, it wasn't anything good. But for the moment, there was nowhere else to turn. No one else they could even pretend to trust. Well, there was probably one person, but if PFC Foster had any sense he'd be out of the country by now.

Michael gave up on sleep for the moment. Slowly, quietly, he moved to the bathroom, trying not to disturb Lisa or Heather. Lisa rolled over, but did not stir. Heather didn't move a muscle as Michael turned the bathroom light on, closing the door behind him.

He washed his hands and splashed his face with cold water, trying to think. What could he tell them? Snatching a towel from the rack, he wiped his face dry, staring at his reflection in the mirror. For the nth time in the past year, a stranger stared back at him. It wasn't even his reflection, but a borrowed face and body. And it always would be. Sure, he knew better. He knew that underneath it all, he was still the same person - whether Dr. Morris liked it or not.

But how could he tell Lisa and Heather that?

The twentysomething in the mirror stared back at Michael sorrowfully as the reality of his situation hit him. He'd come so close to telling them. The words had been on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't force them out of his mouth. As much as it hurt him to lie to them, he couldn't tell them the truth. He couldn't.

A strange, muffled sound was coming through the door. Worried, Michael hastily finished washing up and slipped back into the bedroom to see what it was.

"No, wait... please..." he heard his wife moan as he shut the bathroom light off. Lisa had progressed from rolling over to thrashing around wildly in her sleep, in the throes of a nightmare. "No! Michael! I... no... Michael, Michael... help..."

Heather was still fast asleep. Moving as quickly as he could without making noise, Michael dashed over to the bed, shaking Lisa gently. "Lisa!" he whispered. "Lisa! Wake up!"

"... no, no, NO!" She woke up with a start, lashing out wildly and clawing at the air.

Anyone else might have been injured, but Michael was quick enough to catch her by the wrists before she could do some damage. "Lisa. It's okay. It's me."

She realized where she was and stopped. "M-Mr. Newman?"

Mr. Newman. That's who she thinks I am. "Yeah. I'm here. It's all right."

"But - Heather--"

Michael turned to one side, sitting down on the edge of the bed so she had a clear view of the sofa. "Is somehow sleeping like a log." He released her wrists as she sat up, shaking. "You were having a nightmare."

"Oh, God." She covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God. It was - it was awful. I saw Michael, and he was there and then he was dead... and there were people with guns... Heather was gone... and you..." She couldn't finish, unable to suppress her sobs.

Michael couldn't bear it anymore. "Oh, God, Lisie," he murmured. She didn't resist as he pulled her into his arms. So distressed was she that she didn't seem to notice his slip as Michael held her. "Lisa, I'm so sorry."

Reflexively, she hugged him back, and they remained like that for several moments, clinging to one another. "I-I almost hoped I'd wake up in my own bed and this would all be a dream," Lisa moaned.

"I'm sorry," Michael whispered into her hair. "I'm going to fix this. I don't know how, but I'm gonna make things right. I promise."

Lisa lifted her head to look at him, pulling away. "Why? Why do you care?"

"Because I can't - I won't let anything happen to you." He took a deep breath, thinking for a second. "Lisa, I'm serious. There's a lot more to this thing than a bunch of ambulance records, but - but my boss thinks you know more than that."

"The I.R.S. is willing to kill to keep its business secret nowadays, huh?" Lisa said sarcastically. Michael winced at the bitterness in her tone. "Oh, come on, Mr. Newman, I'm not stupid. I know that I.R.S. story you told me was just a story. A lie."

"I never lied to you about that."

"Of course you did! The--"

"The Doc told you that," Michael corrected. "I - I just had to go along with it. I didn't have a choice."

"What are you talking about?"

Michael sighed, suddenly getting a flash of inspiration. "About a year or so ago, I kind of ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I, uh, I found out some stuff I shouldn't have. That's how I got wrapped up in all of this."

Lisa cocked her head, looking at him thoughtfully. "A year ago?" Michael nodded. "Did that have anything to do with you running around Manhattan with the 'no shirt, no shoes, no service' motif?"

Despite himself, Michael had to smile. "Yeah, that had a little to do with it." He became serious again. "I'm telling you, though, that you can't keep - investigating. It's too dangerous, and it's not worth it."

"I'm convinced of that already," Lisa sighed. "But what about my husband? What did they do to Michael?"

"Nothing," Michael insisted, taking her hands in his. "Lisa, I swear to God, no one 'did anything' to your husband. Nothing unethical was involved." Well, the Doc did ask permission. And I'd be dead otherwise. "You have to believe me."

She was silent for a moment, looking away. "I don't know who to believe anymore."

"I don't blame you," Michael sighed.

"But, you know, you were right about something," Lisa added.

"What's that?"

"You, Mr. Newman, are most certainly not what I thought you were."

"Thanks. I think."

Lisa looked up, managing a small smile. "I do know one thing, though. This is one promise that I am definitely holding you to."

Outside New York State Penitentiary

"My God," Dr. Morris murmured as he flipped through the digital photos, each one showing a different wing, room, cell of the penitentiary. The scene was always the same, showing bodies lying in puddles of blood. The entire penitentiary - prisoners and guards alike - had been wiped out by the toxin. The teams that had already arrived had set up camp around the building's perimeter, and Morris was currently in the back of an FBI surveillance van, which was almost as well equipped as the "TOYS B FUN" truck. Almost.

He set the photos down and sighed, removing his glasses briefly to rub the bridge of his nose. "Has the toxin been contained?"

The FBI agent, a narrow-faced woman in her mid-thirties, nodded. "We sealed off the building several hours ago. All of the prisoners and guards have been accounted for, with two exceptions."

Morris looked up. "Two?"

"Both of them prisoners." The agent opened a laptop, typing in a series of commands as she accessed prison records. She brought up a file, and the face that appeared on the screen belonged to a burly, bearded man with a nest of curly brown hair. "Charlie Smalls. Name's misleading as hell; the man is built like a tank. This was his second time in the pen. First time, he was convicted on assault and battery as well as two counts of robbery. Got out on good behavior, but then came right back in with larceny, three counts of battery and one count of attempted murder and manslaughter."

"Not someone I'd want to meet on a bad day."

"You wouldn't know it the way he acted. Never started a fight, never talked back, got a relatively cushy job in the kitchen as a result. The security tapes showed him and his cellmate walking right out of here when everyone else was keeling over."

The face that came with the next file was the one that Morris expected; a wispy, elderly Asian man with a serenely calm expression on his face. Only someone who knew better would guess at the menace behind that unassuming exterior. "I assume you know this man, of course. Like Smalls, he wasn't considered a major threat. Couple months into his imprisonment, he was diagnosed with emphysema and has been hooked up to an oxygen tank for several months. Same M.O. as before - the HAZMAT team that went in first discovered the broken egg at the center of the concentration."

Morris nodded. "What I don't understand is why, exactly, I was contacted about this. We know who he is this time, and we know how he does it."

"Well, your... ah, your prototype was the one who caught him in the first place." Morris glowered at the mention of Michael, and the agent retrieved a plastic evidence bag from a drawer. "And after this was found, we suspected we might need your services again."

Confused, Morris took the bag from her. Inside was a shred of paper, with Chinese characters scribbled on it. "What is this?"

"That note was found lying on Smalls' bunk," the woman replied.

"So?"

"There's only one word on the note," she continued. "Loosely translated, it means 'revenge.'"

New Rochelle, NY
2:25 a.m.

Who needed sleep when one had caffeine?

Dr. Lydia Ross took a long swig of coffee, making a face. It wasn't the best coffee she'd had - far from it - but it was the only thing keeping her awake.

She'd managed to get as much information as possible on the civil suit filed by Bernstadt. It was legit, and all twenty-seven plaintiffs and their claims were very real. What was interesting, however, was that Bernstadt had been trying to get the case to court since November 1999, and Espotek had finally - out of the blue - stopped stalling only a month ago.

She continued skimming through the info on Espotek Industries. As far as possibly corrupt (read: there was no proof) medical corporations went, it was fairly common. Operating since 1975, distributed to almost all the hospitals in the state and beyond. Bought out in 1983 and became a subsidiary of a corporation called...

Wait a minute. Lydia stopped and stared as warning bells went off in her head. Why on earth would they be getting involved?

Queens
3:15 a.m.

"So who's this guy you want to get back at so badly?" Charlie asked as he laid out the equipment on the bed, whistling at the amount of equipment they'd been able to obtain. Fake ID's, fake papers, even a laptop - if you knew how to get it, you could get anything in this particular neighborhood. It was nice to know that it hadn't changed much since he'd been in the pen.

The Eggman did not respond. He was sitting at a desk, hunched over his work, carefully injecting eggs and placing them in a case. Charlie knew this sort of silence meant that the man was not up to answering questions. Which meant that Charlie would have to deduce the answers for himself. "He the one that screwed things up for you?"

That got the old man's attention. He set the syringe down, still holding up the egg, before turning to Charlie, nodding solemnly. "Yeah, that makes sense," Charlie added. "I've been there before. You have this huge job all set up, all figured out - and then some loser gets lucky and trashes everything for you. Am I right?" Another nod, but the egg was still being held up. "How much you lose out on?"

It was a second or two before the Eggman responded. "Ten million."

"Ten million bucks?" Charlie echoed, impressed. "Damn, I can't blame you. Can't blame you at all."

The Eggman studied him for a moment before setting the egg in its case. Charlie relaxed. As weird as the old man was, Charlie was not going to get on his bad side.

Suddenly, someone started pounding on the door. Several someones. "Hey! Kyle! Open the damn door!"

The Eggman reached into his duffel bag, and, to Charlie's relief, pulled out two gas masks. He passed one to Charlie, who grinned. "I'll get it."

The two boys pounding on the door were understandably stunned as it opened to reveal the hulking figure in the gas mask. "Kyle doesn't live here anymore."

The egg dropped to the floor.

Somewhere in the Upper West Side
4:45 a.m.

As she sat up sleepily, it took Heather a second to realize that she was not in her room back at home. She sat there for a few moments, unsure how to react, before getting up and plodding into the bathroom. After washing up, she was awake enough to hear the faint sound of voices down the hall. Curious, she moved to the door and pressed her ear against it. After a moment or two, she unlocked the door and opened it a crack.

The hallway was empty. Heather hesitated, then slipped out into the hall. For a place in the middle of town, this was a pretty big townhouse. Maybe there was a kitchen or someplace where she could get something to eat. As she made her way down the hallway, she approached the source of the voices she'd heard earlier. Around the corner, one of the doors was ajar, and she could hear two men arguing. Heather moved closer to the door, flattening herself against the wall like they always did in movies.

"I'm not entirely sure this is wise, sir."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, for one thing, this isn't your show. If Mr. Leflin finds out--"

"He's not about to find out. He moves so slow we'll have what we want before he knows it."

"You actually think they'll just give you the information?"

"They won't. He will. Don't tell me you're bailing out."

"I can't be a part of this. Why force anything out of him?"

"I'm not going to invest in anything other than a sure thing."

"You can't be sure he'll just give up the details of the project. He certainly didn't before."

"Well, this time we have the proper... leverage."

Heather had heard enough. She somehow managed to slip back into the guest room undetected, closing and locking the doors behind her. "Mom!" She rushed to the bed, intending to shake her mother awake - and stopped dead when she got a good look at who was lying there.

Michael was also curled up on the bed, his arm draped over Lisa as she snuggled up against him. Both were smiling in their sleep. Although they still had all their clothes on - and Heather knew her mother too well to assume that anything had happened - it was hard to resist torturing them. "Oh, Moooommm..."

Lisa stirred and opened her eyes, blinking sleepily and yawning as she shifted her weight. The movement caused Michael to wake up as well, and both adults froze in place as they realized just what position they were in. Both pairs of eyes turned to see Heather, who was grinning cheerfully. "Good morning."

"Says you," Michael murmured, trying to cover his pleasure with a show of embarrassment.

Lisa groaned. "This is not what it looks like."

Reluctantly, Michael pulled his arm away, rolling onto his back to give Lisa space before sitting up. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"No, it's all right, it's all right." Lisa yawned again. "My God, what time is it? The sun's not up yet."

Heather abruptly remembered the conversation. "I know, I'm sorry, but I heard these two creepy guys out there talking. One of them was talking about getting information and leverage, and I don't know what they meant but I didn't like how it sounded, and I've seen enough movies to know it's not good."

"What?" Lisa asked, worried.

"I don't know! They didn't sound like they were good guys or anything. I know it's nuts, but it was like those conversations you overhear in those Lethal Weapon movies when the bad guys are up to something and--"

Michael swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Heather, calm down. Stop to breathe." As she did so, he seated himself on the edge of the bed and caught her gently by the shoulders. "Do you remember what they said?"

She nodded and proceeded to relate what she'd heard. As she finished, Lisa looked even more concerned, and Michael's expression was grim.

"You're not nuts, Heather," Michael assured his daughter before turning back to Lisa. "I don't like the sound of that either."

New Rochelle, NY
5:45 a.m.

"Dr. Ross?" Special Agent #1 stepped into the silent, dimly lit office. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he spotted Lydia slumped by the computer, a cup of coffee clenched in her left hand as her head rested on the desk by the machine. "Dr. Ross!"

She jerked up wildly, like a puppet on strings or a body shocked by a thousand volts. "What? Oh. Damn. What time is it?"

"Quarter to six." He tried not to laugh as she straightened up, brushing her hair out of her face. "Dr. Morris hasn't returned yet."

"Well, I got about an hour of sleep," Lydia groaned. "How's the search coming?"

"Nothing's been turned up." He hesitated. "I was about to ask you the same question."

She nodded absently, focused on the screen. "I've been checking up on Bernstadt and Associates and this supposed respirator case, and it doesn't add up. I wouldn't have noticed this if a name or two hadn't popped out at me."

"What do you mean?"

Lydia sat back in her chair. "The lawsuit's legitimate, I can tell you that. But the fact that Bernstadt is handling it is bizarre beyond belief given the specific company that's being sued."

"Espotek? Why would you say that?"

"Well, Bernstadt's firm has taken on cases like this before," Lydia admitted. "But this firm is owned by the same corporation that Espotek is a subsidiary of. Not technically 'owned,' that is, but Bernstadt and Associates handles all of the parent corporation's cases. Now why on earth would the corporation allow Bernstadt to make such a massive claim - with a huge number of clients - against one of its own subsidiaries?"

"I suppose it depends," the agent replied. "What corporation is this?"

Lydia shrugged. "Bernstadt's number one client is none other than a Bernard Leflin, Jr... CEO of Leflin Incorporated."

Manhattan

Bernard Leflin, Jr. watched the security tapes with his usual deceptive calmness, an unsettling ability that he had inherited from his father. The tapes showed first Heather Wiseman sneaking out and listening to a conversation, then bolting back to her room - then, twenty minutes later, all three of his guests slipped out the door, down the hall and down the back stairs.

He sighed and turned back to his associates, especially the two men in the center of the office. "I have to say, I'm extremely disappointed."

"Bernard," one of them began, "I can explain--"

"I don't want to hear it, Wallace." Leflin addressed one of the security guards. "See them into the drawing room; I'll deal with them later." As the two men were escorted out, Leflin turned to the head of security. "How did they get out?"

"Service entrance, sir. They went through the kitchen and must have slipped out as the cleaning staff came in."

Leflin nodded. "And of course, the cleaning people weren't told about our guests. Not their fault."

"Sir? Should we attempt pursuit?"

"No. Track them, shadow them, report their progress to me, but in no way are you to engage them unless absolutely necessary." The industrialist gazed thoughtfully up at the portrait of his father. "More than anything right now, we need their trust."

New Rochelle, NY

"Leflin?" Special Agent #1 echoed. "Did you say Leflin?"

Lydia frowned. "Yes, of course."

He backed away, suddenly agitated. "I need to make a phone call."

"Wait a minute," Lydia snapped, standing up. "What is so important about Leflin Incorporated?"

"Nothing."

Her eyes narrowed. "I sincerely doubt that. What aren't you telling me?"

"I assure you, Dr. Ross," Special Agent #1 said, reaching for the door, "it's completely irrelevant."

She practically leapt out of her chair and had his arm in an iron grip a second later. "Hold it right there, Q-Ball."

Special Agent #1 stared at Lydia; for a half-awake woman in her mid-forties, she moved pretty quickly. And she had a hell of a grip. "Excuse me?"

"Do I have your attention now?" As he nodded and turned back to face her, Lydia released him. "Thank you. If you want my cooperation, you have to give me some in return. Now I know there's a connection here, and you're going to tell me what it is. Now."

Despite himself, the agent gulped. What was it with vicious females lately?

6:00 a.m.

Dr. Morris was tired, frustrated, and was not in the mood for surprises. So when he dialed up Special Agent #1, he was understandably discomfited when a female voice answered. "Ross here."

It took him a second to place who it was. "Dr. Ross? Where's--"

"Fending off the media and rounding up the troops," Lydia replied tiredly. "So what's the situation?"

Part of him didn't even want to tell her, but Morris was too tired to withhold information. "Our old friend, the 'Eggman' as the media nicknamed him, is on the loose. Along with another convict, Charlie Smalls. He broke out of prison yesterday and already they've taken out a housing project in Queens."

"The 'Eggman?'" Lydia repeated. "Mr. Wiseman's first assignment, I presume, which is why you were contacted."

"The same," Morris informed her. "The FBI agent I spoke to believes that he may be out for revenge."

There was a long pause on her end. "You haven't told the Pentagon about Wiseman's disappearance yet. And you didn't tell the FBI either."

Maybe it was because he already thought she was obnoxious, or maybe it was because he was running on two hours' sleep, but she sounded far too smug for his tastes. "They didn't ask," Morris responded. "Put Special Agent #1 on the line."

"Sir, I did dig up something relevant on that Bernstadt character that you might be interested in."

"I don't give a damn about Bernstadt," Morris growled.

"But it's important--"

"Put Special Agent #1 on. Now."

"Dr. Morris, you authorized me to investigate this, and if you would just listen--"

He somehow restrained himself from telling her just what he thought of her investigations. "You follow whatever leads you may think are relevant. Right now, there is a terrorist loose in the city, and finding him and the man who can stop him is my highest priority. Not to mention that I have barely had two hours of sleep. I do not want anyone interfering." Morris took a deep breath. "Now put him on the phone."

Another long silence ensued, and then Lydia sighed. "Have it your way."

It took her a minute or two to find the man in question, and that was only because the shaved head was easy to spot. As she tapped him on the shoulder, Special Agent #1 turned, surprised, as Lydia handed him the cellphone. "It's for you, Q-Ball. Dr. Morris."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me that."

She handed him a slip of paper along with the phone. "I prefer referring to people by names rather than numbers."

He didn't answer, and unfolded the paper curiously. "My cell number," Lydia explained. "In case Dr. Morris happens to need my interference." With that, she smiled and turned away.

"Where are you going?" the agent demanded.

"To follow some leads."

Tick Tock Diner
34th and 8th Street
6:30 a.m.

Roger Bender decided that he was going to be late for work.

He'd had a lousy night, and all the way back he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being followed - and after the incident at the Wiseman's house, it didn't seem like such a ludicrous idea. He'd even parked elsewhere and walked six blocks to check into a different hotel than the one he'd stayed in before. It wasn't nearly as lavish as the Peninsula, but Roger wasn't feeling very picky at the moment. He hadn't stayed in the New Yorker in years, but the room he picked was just fine for what he had in mind. Plus, there was something amusing about having a view of the Empire State Building from one's bathroom window.

But his primary reason for that decision had been the heavenly smell from the adjacent diner - which immediately reminded him just how hungry he was. It was one of those 50's style diners that still believed in good breakfast food, and Roger was starving. He made a beeline for the diner, briefcase in hand and stomach growling as he sat down at the first empty booth he could find. Setting down his briefcase, he fished around for his wallet before calling the waitress over just to be sure he could afford a croissant.

"Hi, Uncle Roger."

Forgetting about breakfast, Roger jerked up to stare at the three people sitting in the booth adjacent to his. Heather was leaning over the back of the seat, and Lisa and that Newman character were sitting across from her, finishing off their breakfast. "What are you doing here?"

"Actually," Lisa admitted, "we were looking for you."

"That, and we haven't eaten since lunch yesterday," Heather added.

Roger stared at Mr. Newman, utterly confused. The young man smiled through a mouthful of food. "Try the bacon. It's not bad."

Upper West Side
Manhattan

"My God," Special Agent #1 murmured, staring at the black and white photos in his hands. Each one, taken from the crime scene in Queens, depicted bodies lying in blood. When he reached a photo of a five-year-old child, the agent set the photographs down and turned away.

"The epicenter of the attack was an apartment belonging to a Kyle Barnes," Morris said. "Apparently, that apartment may have contained a good amount of computer equipment - Barnes was suspected in illegally obtaining electronics and software - but none of it was found at the scene."

"Why give away their location like that?" Special Agent #1 wondered.

"The FBI seems to believe that the Eggman, at least, is out for revenge," Morris added. "And I tend to agree."

The agent's eyes grew wide. "You don't think that Mr. Wiseman--"

"Perhaps." Morris stood up. "At any rate, the Mayor's office has yet to receive any sort of clear and solid threat. But I expect one will come soon, and both City Hall and the FBI has asked for our help if it does. I said yes. Tentatively."

"You what? Sir, without Mr. Wiseman, how could we help in this situation?"

"The media's got their hands on this story, right?" The agent nodded. "Good. Let them all get their fair share of details. I want to make sure Mr. Wiseman hears about this."

New Yorker Hotel
7:15 a.m.

"How much longer is she going to spend in there?" Roger muttered, glaring at the bathroom door balefully. Heather, and now Lisa, had prevailed upon Roger to let them use the shower in the hotel room.

Michael was lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. "It's only been fifteen minutes."

"Feels like fifty," Roger answered nervously. Heather was ignoring the two of them, her attention focused on the TV set. "Why did you have to come after me?"

"It was Lisa's idea to find you, Roger," Michael sighed, sitting up. "We honestly didn't have anywhere else to go."

"Of course not," Roger snapped, leaning forward and lowering his voice to a whisper as the shower shut off. "You're probably responsible for that SWAT team--"

"Roger, the same thing happened at my place," Michael interrupted. "Look, these people are after all three of us. Now you can help me keep Lisa and Heather out of danger or you can sit here and complain."

"Well, you can't stay here forever," Roger pointed out in a normal tone as the bathroom door opened and Lisa stepped out, fully dressed and drying her hair with a towel. "I could have sworn I was being followed on the way back into the city. I parked in a garage and walked eight blocks just to be sure."

Michael sighed. "I know. I'm just not sure what to do."

"Hey, keep it down!" Heather said, turning the volume up a notch. "I'm trying to listen!"

"Listen to what?" Lisa asked, moving to look at what Heather was watching. Curious, Michael followed, and Roger just lay back on the bed with a groan.

There was a news broadcast playing on the TV. "...18 people killed by the release of a bio-chemical agent in Queens early this morning," the reporter was saying. "Details are sketchy, but according to our sources, this attack was most likely the work of the same terrorist who was responsible for the deaths at the Petrie Hotel last spring."

Horrified, Michael slowly sat down, his gaze riveted to the television. "Wow," Heather said.

"Dubbed the 'Eggman' by much of the media, this man apparently escaped from New York State Penitentiary yesterday afternoon and has been at large ever since," the reporter continued. "The agent has been contained at this time, and officials are baffled--"

"What?" Lisa asked, seeing the stricken look on Michael's face. "What's wrong?"

"Believe me," Michael murmured, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen, "you don't want to know."

Leflin Incorporated

The secretary's voice was even more nasal coming through the speaker phone. "Mr. Leflin, there's someone here to see you."

Leflin sighed. "Tell them to take a seat."

"It's a little too late for that, sir--"

The secretary didn't get a chance to finish as Leflin switched the line off and turned back to his current meeting. "Any progress on our guests?"

"They've hooked up with that insurance guy. We did manage to get our competitor off his tail. Temporarily, anyway."

"Good. I'd like them to come back on their own."

"So you've finally discovered that most dates don't like being dragged kicking and screaming?" a female voice interrupted. "Good, because that approach was not doing wonders for your love life."

Hearing that, the three men turned to see that someone had entered the office unnoticed, a middle-aged woman with a jagged streak of white in her dark hair. "How did you get in here?" Leflin's security head demanded, reaching for his radio.

"It's all right, Walters," Leflin said quickly, stepping around the desk to greet the new arrival. "Lydia. It's been a long time."

"Hello, Bernie." Lydia Ross smiled. "We need to talk."

The New Yorker Hotel
Manhattan

"Hey, I want to know!" Heather insisted. "What, you don't happen to know this Egg guy or anything?" When Michael didn't answer, she added, "You do know this guy?"

Michael was tired of lying. "Yeah, well," he admitted, "I'm kind of the one who got him in prison in the first place."

"Well, he's not there anymore," Heather observed.

"A terrorist and a tax evader to boot," Roger muttered.

Michael closed his eyes, leaning back into the couch. "God," he murmured under his breath. "When it rains, it freakin' monsoons."

Madison Square Garden

It was a little early for a janitor to be roaming the halls, but no one questioned the wispy little man in the janitor's uniform. No one noticed that the uniform was just a tad too big for him.

No one questioned as he headed for the lower levels to the basement, and no one noticed his unscheduled stop in the boiler room.

No one realized that he'd left a little surprise behind.

Leflin Incorporated

"I suppose we do," Leflin agreed, turning to Walters. "Did your men report where Bender is staying?"

Walters opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, still staring at Lydia. "Like I said, it's all right," Leflin added.

"Hotel right outside the Garment District, sir. The one across from Madison Square Garden," Walters replied uneasily. "He parked several blocks away; I think he knew he was being followed."

"Good. Make sure that we're the only ones following him." Leflin hesitated. "Would you gentlemen mind stepping out for a moment?"

Uncertain, but knowing not to question their employer, Walters and the other men assembled filed out of the office. "I heard about your father," Lydia began once they were alone. "If I hadn't been stuck out in the middle of nowhere, I--"

"No, no, don't apologize. Your letter was very touching." There was a tray sitting on his desk with a steaming pot and several mugs. "Coffee?"

"Please. The usual - black with enough sugar to cause a stroke." He chuckled at that as he poured two cups and handed one to her. "Sorry to barge in on you like this, but it's been a hell of a night."

"Tell me about it." Leflin studied her thoughtfully as he stirred his coffee. "I was hoping that it would be you. I wasn't sure, of course, but I hoped."

Lydia took a sip of her coffee. "Hmm?"

"You are my source, aren't you?"

"Would I be here if I wasn't? Besides, I've done you favors before." She set the mug down, carefully choosing her words. "I'm just... this has escalated to a point where I'm wondering where you intend to go with this operation. After what happened to your father, I'd think you wouldn't want any part of it."

"Dad... Dad was desperate," Leflin said after a moment. "Not that I could blame him. He was in an unbearable amount of pain. But he was also on to something. Maybe the specifics were incorrect, but the general idea was right on the money."

"You've completely lost me."

"Some of my men reported seeing this 'Mr. Newman' bend a machine gun like taffy, and then leap off a banister and charge right through a police station like a linebacker." When Lydia didn't look impressed, he added, "Throwing cops left and right."

"But what are you trying to accomplish?" Lydia insisted. "I'm asking, Bernie, because you're getting sloppy. And your 'competitor' just found a reason to double up on the search."

"Think about it, Lydia. Successful brain transplants, artificial organs, giving someone a second chance to live - the possibility that the technology exists is too good to pass up. While the government wastes money for military purposes, why can't the common man benefit?"

Lydia sighed. "Oh, God. All this for a damn business deal?"

"No. For a vision. Dad's vision, specifically."

"Well, you'd better get cracking on realizing this vision," Lydia pointed out. "Especially since it didn't work before."

"Because Dad relied on threats," Leflin finished. "I intend to gain their trust."

She stared at him for a long moment before downing the last of her coffee in one swig. "All right. Have it your way. I need to get going."

As she stood and moved to the door, Leflin stood up as well. "Now, wait, Lydia, you just got here."

She paused with her hand on the doorknob. "Don't argue with me; I've had about an hour of sleep. If you want to continue like this, I can't sit around here. I need to make some calls and do some creative lying." Lydia smiled. "See you around."

With that, she was gone. Sighing, Leflin sat back down behind his desk. "Hasn't changed a bit."

The New Yorker Hotel
8:00 a.m.

"There's got to be something we can do," Lisa said for the third time as she paced back and forth. "I mean, isn't there someone we can trust? The police?"

"I hate to be the pessimist here," Roger interrupted, "but a number of the men who raided your house looked deceptively like police officers."

"God, I don't believe this," Lisa went on, hardly missing a beat as she stalked back and forth. Roger and Heather were sitting on the couch, watching her warily. Michael was standing by the window, staring blankly at the street below. "We have to do something."

"I think we should stay here for a little while," Heather suggested. "Or go see what that Leflin guy wanted. I mean, he's better than the militia."

Michael finally turned away from the window, shaking his head. "No. He's got some kind of agenda." He took a deep, shaky breath. "I don't know. I really don't know what to do right now. It's like - no matter how bad it seems to get, there's always another thing, you know?"

Roger stared at Michael as a long-forgotten bar conversation popped into his mind. "What did you say?"

"Nothing. Never mind." Michael frowned. "Look, Roger, I'm sorry to do this to you, but - we need someplace to lie low. At least until we can figure out what to do."

"We keep running, we're gonna eventually run out of places to run to," Heather pointed out.

Lisa ceased to pace. "Fine. Let's stay here. For a little while at least."

Defeated, Roger sighed. "I'll get the second key."

10:00 a.m.

"You have to hand it to this guy," Special Agent #1 said as Morris studied the printout. "He's one prompt terrorist."

Morris nodded absently. He paused for a moment before reluctantly pulling out his cellphone and a scrap of paper before starting to dial. "Dr. Ross. Found any leads?"

Special Agent #1 whirled to stare at his boss. What are you doing? he mouthed. Morris gestured for him to be silent.

"Maybe," Lydia replied. "Why are you so cheerful?"

"The Mayor's office received a threat this morning," Morris informed her. "Guess who it was from."

"So you do need me interfering after all."

"Actually, we believed it was probably less dangerous to keep you informed," Morris countered.

Lydia snorted. She was standing beside a newsstand on 8th Street, not far from the New Yorker. The attack in Queens was plastered all over the front pages of the newspapers. "Me and the rest of the world, I see. What did it say?"

It took Morris a second to follow her train of thought. "It's actually a bit more complicated than his last series of demands. He wants Mr. Wiseman and $15 million at Grand Central Station at 6:00 tonight. Sent us a key to a locker for Mr. Wiseman to open and to follow the instructions inside."

"Sounds a little extreme," Lydia observed. "What's the threat?"

"The note implied that once he has the man and the money, the Mayor's office will receive instructions on how to stop several thousand people from 'going out with a bang' exactly at 7:30 pm."

"I take it you've called the bomb squad already."

"Yes, but we have yet to figure out where the target is. Now have you turned up anything?" Morris asked. "Found any leads, as you so eloquently put it?"

She ignored the sarcasm. "Hmmm." Lydia looked down at the copy of the Times she was holding, then stared at the hotel thoughtfully. "I think I might be on to something, but I need... confirmation."

"Confirmation? I don't like the sound of that."

"You don't have to like it," Lydia said absently, pulling a pen and a pad out of her purse. "What's your direct line?"

The New Yorker Hotel
10:45 a.m.

"For someone who insisted so fervently that she wasn't tired," Lisa observed, "she's out like a light."

Michael glanced over at Heather, smiling slightly at the sight of his little girl curled up on the couch. "You look like you need to get some sleep too."

"I'm too nervous to sleep." She took a seat across from him at the small table beside the window. "You have any idea what to do next?"

"Not really," Michael admitted. "Wish I could talk some sense into my boss, but he's probably not in the mood to even listen."

"Why's that?"

He shrugged. "Well, when he started with the threats and didn't seem to believe me, I - um - kind of decked him and made a break for it," Michael finished, embarrassed.

Lisa stared at him for a moment before managing a wry chuckle. "I suppose that wouldn't put him in a good mood." Michael couldn't help but smile a bit, and a comfortable silence settled between them. "Mr. Newman? I know this sounds strange, but... do you have a first name?"

Hesitant, Michael opened his mouth to reply. Before he could get a sound out, there was a sharp knock on the door. The two of them froze. "Room service!" a female voice shouted.

"I didn't order anything," Lisa whispered.

"Me neither," Michael whispered. "Let's just wait until they go away."

The knocking became more insistent, then finally stopped. Something was shoved beneath the door, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. After a moment or two, Michael got up and carefully moved to the door, snatching the object up. Nothing happened, and he looked down at the folded newspaper section he was holding. "What is it?" Lisa asked.

"It's a section of the Times," Michael replied, sitting down at the table again and unfolding it. The headline story was about the deaths in Queens - but that wasn't what caught Michael's attention. There was a note folded in the paper. Curious, he unfolded it and read silently to himself. "Stay here."

"Where are you going?" Lisa hissed as Michael hopped up, still clutching the note in his hand.

"To try and catch the messenger," Michael replied as he slipped out the door.

He practically flew down the hallways, and reached the elevators in time to see a figure in dark red darting inside. But he wasn't in time to catch her before the doors slid shut. Michael was about to go for one himself, but then he remembered - whoever it was would have to change elevators once they hit the twentieth floor. That might be enough of a lag for him to catch up, so he turned and headed for the stairwell. Once there were five flights between him and the bottom, he jumped over the railing, landing solidly on his feet. Michael winced at the shock, his knees threatening to buckle before he recovered and dashed out the side door.

The gift shop was right outside, and Michael realized he'd bypassed the first floor and come out in the basement instead. Cursing, he sprinted up the escalator to the main lobby just in time to see a woman heading for the exit, her back to him, wearing a blouse of the same dark red shade he'd seen going into an elevator. He tried to overtake her, but there was a fair-sized crowd in the lobby, and his usual speed would draw too much attention. As he dodged people, she passed through the revolving doors out into the street. The wind tossed her hair about, revealing a jagged streak of white amongst the black before she disappeared into the crowd.

Michael stopped, realizing that he'd probably draw too much attention to himself if he went rushing out there to find her. He looked down at the note still clutched in his hand before turning and heading for the elevators.

He suddenly had a lot to think about.

11:30 a.m.

"Mom, will you knock it off?" Heather sighed. "That's really annoying."

Lisa stopped pacing and sat down on the couch. "I'm sorry. But what if someone sees him? What if they send a bunch of men with guns in? What if there's already a bunch of them waiting for him down there already?"

Heather turned away from the window. "Wasn't this your idea? Mom, you sound like me." She stopped, processing that bit of information. "God, what if I've just been turning into you all this time and didn't even know it??"

"Heather," Lisa snapped sharply. "I know, I know, it was my idea, but I don't know... every time we turn around, something else happens. And we've stayed in the same place so long I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"That's why he's checking it out," Heather assured her, leaving her perch by the window and sitting down beside Lisa. "We get a break dropped into our laps, so we might as well check it out before we take it."

Lisa smiled a bit at that, hugging Heather. "I guess you're right." She released her daughter and leaned forward to pluck something off the coffee table. On top of the New York Times was a piece of folded yellow paper with a handwritten note. It read:

HE WANTS MONEY TONIGHT, AND ONLY YOU CAN MAKE THE DROP. MORRIS' HANDS ARE TIED, AND YOU HAVE ALL THE CARDS. HE MIGHT BE WILLING TO LISTEN THIS TIME. 6 P.M. GRAND CENTRAL. CALL THIS NUMBER FIRST.

Below was a cellphone number and an extension. The note was signed "A FRIEND."

Lisa sighed and folded the note again. "If you can call that a break."

Michael emerged from the diner, somewhat disappointed. None of the waitresses at the Tick Tock Diner had recalled seeing the woman in question, and the person who was handling the front desk when she'd come in was on early lunch break. The cashier at the gift shop hadn't seen anyone like that either.

As he started towards the elevators, he nearly collided with someone carrying two plastic cups of coffee. The smell reminded Michael of how tired he was, and he glanced around. There was an expresso bar adjacent to the other side of the lobby. A cup of coffee would be great, if only he had the cash.

Michael stopped. If he hadn't had much sleep, Morris' team wouldn't have either. And if that woman was working for the Doc...

It was a silly idea, but the last lead he had left.

Grand Empire Insurance

As Roger had hoped, no one commented when he was late for work. Spence didn't really care either way; the little bastard was still trying to wrap up some loose ends left over from the S.E.C. investigation. While he hadn't been charged with anything, the scuttlebutt was that the investigation had turned up a thing or two that might interest the Insurance Commission. Roger's secretary didn't even notice he was late, but then again, she paid more attention to her nail polish than her work.

Roger was only somewhat relieved. That whole bizarre business with the Wisemans and that Newman character had him on edge. What was all that about, anyway?

Any further thoughts on the matter were cut short by the insistent beep of his speaker phone. "What is it, Janice?" he demanded, trying to sound irritated and not like he'd just jumped three feet.

"There's a call for you on line 1," the secretary informed him. "It's the police department or something."

"The police?" Roger repeated, stunned. His first instinct was to tell her to pretend he wasn't in, but he didn't trust her to do that. Besides, it would look suspicious. "All-all right," he stammered after a moment. "Put it through."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before picking up the receiver. "Roger Bender," he answered weakly. "Yes, officer, I'm her husband." Unfortunately. "What can I do for you?"

It took him a second or two to process the reply he received. "She what? When? Is this some kind of joke? No, officer, I'm not trying to be insulting, but this does not sound like--" Roger paused, listening to the explanation that confirmed his suspicions from the previous evening. "All right, that does sound like Ruth."

The next question required quite a bit of thought, and Roger toyed with the golf ball on his desk for a few moments, considering his options. "Well, of course I will, officer, but I really can't go anywhere right now." A fairly evil thought came to him. "But I could swing by after work."

The New Yorker Hotel
11:45 a.m.

"What can I get you?" the man behind the bar asked as Michael sat down at the counter.

"Actually, I'm looking for someone. Did you happen to see a woman with dark hair come in here? She's got a white streak in it?"

"I might have," the cashier said suspiciously. He was an older man with white hair and a thick mustache. "It's against policy to go and talk about customers. You a cop?"

"No, I just need--" Michael was cut off by a burst of raucous laughter nearby. Three clearly inebriated young men in their early twenties were howling over something or other. The cashier sighed and turned his eyes skyward in frustration. "Uh, you don't serve alcohol here too?"

"No, but that didn't stop them. Those morons brought their own." The cashier scowled, and then caught himself. "Sorry. They've been scaring customers away for the past hour."

"Why don't you just call the cops?"

"You see that one?" the cashier said, pointing to the biggest of the three, a broad-shouldered blond kid. "His father owns one of the big corporations that's sponsoring some convention here this weekend. We mess with him, Daddy dear pulls his sponsorship. Tried to tell them this was the wrong bar, but they just tried to get me to arm-wrestle."

Michael snorted. "Arm-wrestle?"

"Yeah, they've challenged everyone who's walked in. The few who tried got beat and had to shell out money. Those three have made more today by arm-wrestling than I've been able to make in tips. They've been getting so cocky they've started to tell people they won't leave til someone beats them."

"Really?" Michael was starting to get an idea. "If I get them out of here, could you make an exception to that policy?"

34th Street
12:05 p.m.

Lydia followed the two men down the street carefully, trying to stay far enough back so that they wouldn't catch on to her but close enough so that she wouldn't lose them in the crowd. She'd seen them lounging outside the McDonald's across the street from the hotel, and had immediately realized they were keeping tabs on the building. What she couldn't figure out was how they'd managed to keep Morris' team off the scent. So when they finally started moving, she'd taken a taxi around in a circle and followed them. The driver hadn't complained; she'd given him a big tip for his trouble.

They were ambling, stopping to look in shop windows, and generally taking their time, but it was obviously an act. They had a destination in mind. She kept pace with them, putting on a similar facade but being far more subtle with it than they.

She followed them for two blocks before they finally ducked into a small bookshop. Lydia counted to ten before entering as well, letting a family of four go in first. The two men retreated to the back of the store, and Lydia followed. When they stopped, she immediately turned to the closest rack and snatched up a book, thumbing through it and slipping behind a shelf out of sight.

As she peered around the corner of the shelf, the two men stood in a corner, waiting. Five seconds later, a man in a dark suit came up to them. Lydia couldn't hear what they were saying, but she saw the suit nod, and she definitely saw the money they handed him. He turned and walked in her direction, and Lydia flattened herself against the shelf, burying her face in the book.

Thankfully, he didn't see her as he passed. He stopped beneath one of the overhead lights and turned slightly, giving Lydia a fairly good glimpse of his profile before he turned and left the shop. Shocked, Lydia stifled a gasp and covered it by turning away and coughing.

She remained where she was, pretending to be completely engrossed in her reading, as the other two men finally left via a different route. Alone, Lydia lowered the book and tried to slow her heart rate back down. She hadn't seen that one coming, but now it all made sense. How else could Leflin keep Morris' team off the scent if he didn't have one of the agents in his pocket?

Putting the book away, she finally straightened up and headed out of the shop, looking for a quiet place to make a call. Several people would be very interested to know what Special Agent #2 was doing with his time.

The New Yorker Hotel

"Lemme get this straight," the blond slurred, looking Michael up and down. He was easily a head taller and several inches broader than Michael, but that was owing equally to fat and muscle. "You want to arm wrestle me."

"You heard me right the first time," Michael answered. The three men burst out laughing.

Blondie elbowed the man sitting next to him. "Hear that, Bobby? He wants to arm-wrestle." They laughed even harder, and then he seemed to come back into focus all of a sudden. "So, uh, what do you get if I win?" He stopped, realizing that he hadn't phrased that correctly.

Michael was starting to remember why he'd told Spence he didn't drink anymore. He pointed to the pile of dollar bills sitting on the counter beside Bobby's elbow. "I win, I get the pot, and you guys get out of here."

"The pot and we leave?" Bobby echoed. "That's not fair."

"Okay, I'll beat all of you."

That brought on an even louder and longer surge of laughter. "What if we win?" the third guy asked. Michael shrugged.

Blondie took a swig of beer. "Nice jacket you got there."

Michael looked down. "This?" He shrugged the leather jacket off. "You win, you can have it. It's all I've got." He doubted it would fit any of them, but details probably didn't matter to them in their drunken states.

"All right," Blondie decided after a moment, propping an arm up on the bar. "Let's go. One arm, no cheating."

Michael sat down at the bar and propped his arm up as well. "Count of three," Bobby said. "One, two... three!"

Blondie immediately began to struggle. Michael locked his elbow and simply sat there while the other man put all his strength into it. His arm didn't even budge. The cashier gaped in shock, and the other two just stared. After several seconds, Michael sighed. "You know what? This is taking too long."

With that, he slammed the other man's arm down on the bar. Blondie sat back, rubbing his sore hand and shoulder. "Sorry," Michael said. "Didn't hurt you, did I?" Blondie shook his head. "Who's next?"

Bobby tried next, and Michael beat him just as easily. The third guy went down in two seconds. "Two out of three!" Blondie exclaimed, jumping up and even trying with both hands. Michael rolled his eyes and won again.

There was a long moment of silence after that. "Three out of five?" Michael suggested. "Or you guys want to leave?"

They stared at him for a moment before Bobby dumped the "pot" of dollar bills on the counter in front of him. The three men picked up their bottles of beer and shuffled out, rubbing sore shoulders and mumbling to themselves.

Michael turned back to the cashier, who continued to stare in amazement. "So, you mind telling me about this woman?"

The old man chuckled. "Hell, I'll buy you a drink myself."

4th and 8th Street
12:45 p.m.

"Come on, dammit!" Lydia snapped as yet another cab sped by her. "What do I have to do, wave my wallet in the air?" As a third taxi passed her by, she seriously considered stepping out into the lane to force traffic to stop. She threw up her hands and started walking. Maybe she'd have better luck farther into the theatre district. But she'd only gone a few steps when the van pulled up to the curb.

Two men in suits stepped out. Lydia recognized one of them as Walters, Leflin's security chief. "Dr. Ross. Mr. Leflin sent us to pick you up."

"I appreciate the thought, but I'd rather take a taxi." She started to back away.

Walters' smile hardened. "This isn't a request."

The New Yorker Hotel

"Hey, Mom?" Heather asked. "What did that lady look like again? Red outfit, white stripe in the hair?"

Lisa looked up. "Yes, why?"

Heather was staring out the window. "I think she pissed somebody off."

"What?" Lisa ran to the window to see what Heather was looking at. Down near Madison Square Garden, a woman in a red top was being hustled into a black van by two men in suits. Even from that height, Lisa could see the white streak in her hair. "Oh my God."

"Will you stop dragging me and explain yourselves!" Lydia snapped as she struggled in the two men's grip. "You don't need to drag me off, for God's sake!"

"Then get in the van," Walters ordered her.

She shook off their restraining arms and got into the van, glaring balefully at Walters as one of the men got in and shut the door. Lydia sighed as Walters gestured, and reluctantly handed over her purse. As the van drove away, she failed to notice the sign advertising the off-season charity basketball game for that evening.

The knock on the door caused both Lisa and Heather to jump. "Lisa! Heather! It's me!" a familiar voice called. "Open up!"

Relieved, Lisa hurried to the door, checking at the peephole before unlocking it and letting Michael hurry in. "Did you find out anything?"

"A little. The guy at the coffee bar said she chugged a double expresso and left. She was all by herself, and wrote the note at the bar - although that really doesn't tell us anything," Michael gasped in one breath. He noticed the looks on their faces. "What?"

"She's not all by herself now," Heather answered.

The elevator doors opened on the bottom floor, and Michael, Lisa, and Heather hurried out. They headed up the escalator, but Heather came to an abrupt stop as she spotted two men entering the lobby. "Uh-oh."

"What?" Lisa asked.

"Those guys. I saw the tall one at Mr. Leflin's place."

"Come on," Michael muttered, steering them back towards the stairs.

As they passed the restrooms, Michael almost walked smack into the man coming out of the men's room. "Sorry about that," he said automatically before he realized who it was.

"No problem," the cashier replied, seeing the expressions on their faces. "Something wrong?"

Michael glanced back at the two men, who were checking at the front desk. "Is there a back door we could use?"

"Friend of yours?" Lisa asked three minutes later.

Michael smiled as the three fugitives slipped out of the service entrance in the back of the hotel. "He owed me a favor."

63rd and Madison
3:30 p.m.

"Have they found anything?" Morris asked, leaning back in his chair. Through the glass partition between the bedroom and the pool, he could see the FBI agents sitting with his own men, presumably discussing strategy. He had adjourned to the bedroom to make a few private calls.

Right now, Special Agent #1 was on the other end, and the background noise on his end made it difficult to hear the reply. "Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. The locker's there, but we haven't made any attempts to open it."

"Good. Leave it be." Morris thought for a moment. "He must have set this up ahead of time. Anonymity won't work this time around, so he won't do anything last-minute."

"Speaking of last minute, I'm guessing there's no news on Mr. Wiseman."

"No. Special Agent #2 reported in. His team hasn't picked anything up. As for Dr. Ross, well, she may actually have a lead, but she hasn't been answering her cellphone."

There was a long pause on the other end. "Sir, I think I know what she was referring to. She looked up Bernstadt and found--" The rest was obscured by static.

Morris scowled. "I didn't get that."

"He works for--" More static blocked off whatever Special Agent #1 was trying to say. Morris cursed and hung up the phone.

Ten seconds later, it rang again, and Morris snatched it up. "This had better be good news."

"Kind of depends on what you consider good news," a familiar voice replied. Morris nearly dropped the phone. "Sounds like you got about as much sleep as I did."

The tall scientist rose to his feet, moving slowly, as if Michael would somehow pick up on any sudden movements through the phone. "How did you get this number?"

Michael hesitated before answering. "From 'a friend.' Guess you don't know anything about that either."

"Where are you?" Morris asked.

"New Jersey." The answer was so prompt that it couldn't be true. "Look, Doc, I just got a note that said you need me to make a delivery. Tonight. Grand Central Station. Six o'clock. Does that ring any bells?"

"Mr. Wiseman, if you have a point, it would be wise to get around to it sometime soon."

Michael sighed. "Fine. I want to make a trade. Me for Lisa and Heather."

It wasn't the time to be flippant, but Morris felt like it. "Talk English."

"I turn myself in, give the guy the money, and you let Lisa and Heather get on with their lives. Is that plain enough for you?"

"As plain as the bump on the head I recently received."

"I'm sorry about that. But I had to."

"I fail to see why. You made a deal, Mr. Wiseman, and you should have honored that deal--"

"Why? So you could - you could do to me what you did to Dr. Lizzard?"

Morris froze. "What?"

"You didn't think I remembered that, did you?" Michael's voice was shaking. "I wasn't completely out cold, Doc. I heard everything. I know exactly what you did."

"You were under heavy sedation," Morris protested, moving towards the door. Perhaps the agents would be able to get a trace even with the cellphone. "You might have imagined things."

"I had to listen to him die!" Michael cried. "I couldn't do anything about it! What did you expect me to do, just lie there while you got rid of my family?"

Morris glowered. "Has it occurred to you that I didn't exactly enjoy that, Mr. Wiseman? Have you stopped to consider my reasons for doing what I did?"

There was no answer on the other end. Morris opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as his own words came back to haunt him.

You need to stop and consider why he ran, Dr. Ross had said.

Up until now, he really hadn't thought about that. And what with Ross's disappearance and Special Agent #1's attempt to tell him who Bernstadt worked for, Morris was starting to suspect that the security leak just might not have been Michael Wiseman's fault. If someone had pointed that lawyer in Mrs. Wiseman's direction for a reason, there was more going on here than he'd originally thought. As much as he hated to admit it, Dr. Ross might have been right.

Damn that woman.

"All right," the tall scientist said after a moment. "How do you want to play this?"

Leflin Incorporated
4:00 p.m.

Bored, bored, bored.

Lydia sat down on the edge of the secretary's desk with a sigh, glaring balefully at the locked doors in front of her. After almost two straight hours locked in one of the empty offices adjacent to Leflin's conference room, her already diminishing patience was nearly gone. Even pacing back and forth had become boring in and of itself. Her attempts at reasoning with the security staff - first calmly, and then in a manner which involved a lot of screaming - had been ignored. The only explanation she'd received was that Leflin was "in a meeting."

She hadn't known Bernard Leflin Jr. too well, since she'd only known him through her father's business contact with Leflin Sr. But Lydia knew that this was not his M.O. Had he truly wished her picked up, he'd have come to see her to deliver some kind of explanation. Naturally, the explanation would be complete bullshit, but he'd make the effort. Lydia was starting to suspect that Walters himself had simply acted on his own suspicions. The shifty-eyed security chief didn't like anyone horning in on his territory, and he was ultimately suspicious of anyone who tried.

His suspicions were well-founded in this case, but she was still pissed off.

Bored, she examined the desk. Nothing special; papers, more papers, photos of the secretary's family, and a ceramic statue that looked simply out of place. It was a cartoon dog in golf pants and shirt, swinging a golf club. She reached over to pick it up, and was surprised when it didn't budge. Lydia tugged, and the figurine jerked to the side like a lever. A panel opened in the top of the desk, and a small black box with a series of switches rose up.

As she peered at the switches, the sound of voices startled her. It took Lydia a moment to realize that they were coming from the vent in the ceiling. Whoever was speaking was talking so loudly that she didn't even need to put an ear to the vent to hear exactly what was being said.

"...you realize, Wallace, if anyone sees us talking, you and I are both in serious trouble. You more than me."

Walters. She recognized the voice immediately.

"I'm already up to my neck in it. Listen, if you keep messing around like this, we'll never get our hands on the Wisemans."

"We will. We just need to be sure that Leflin doesn't know about it."

So Walters was doublecrossing his employer. Lydia glanced down at the switches on the desk in front of her again. One in particular caught her eye - the one marked "INTERCOM - CONFERENCE ROOM."

Dr. Lydia Ross smiled.

"As I wa saying," Leflin continued smoothly, "once we have the man in question, I believe it will be simple to extract whatever information he knows."

The older man shifted uncomfortably. "Now wait a moment, Bernard. I've done business with your father for years, and never once have I stooped to the kind of coercion you're talking about."

"Not coercion. A trade." Leflin smiled. "If our information is right, we can simply offer this man freedom and safety for him and his family. I have enough resources at my command to ensure that they can all disappear and live quite happily."

The intercom suddenly crackled to life. "--need to get a hold of the Wisemans now," a voice was saying. "If we continue to dawdle like this, Mr. Leflin will beat us to the punch."

Leflin stopped, signaling to his business partner to be silent as he continued to listen. Another voice chuckled. "Leflin wouldn't be able to find his own ass if it wasn't attached to him. Don't worry about a thing, Wallace."

"If that Ross character interferes again, we might be in trouble. I don't trust her, Walters."

"Neither do I. Why do you think I had her locked up?"

Leflin hesitated, listening. "There's an echo," he muttered. "Could be coming through the vent..." He turned to his business partner. "Greenberg, I'm afraid that I have to cut this meeting short." He glanced up at the intercom. "It sounds as if we might have a new problem."

The Metropolitan Museum of Art
4:15 p.m.

Lisa Wiseman stared blankly at the costumes in the case in front of her, not really seeing the display. She was more interested in the reflection in the back wall of the case, which confirmed her suspicions that she looked as tired as she felt. It also gave her a decent glimpse of the crowd around her without having to turn around.

Besides, if she chose to focus on the Beatles memorabilia instead, that would just make her feel old. She actually had a copy of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" somewhere in the house, and it was a little disconcerting to see those four technicolor uniforms in a museum display case. Of course, she had only been seven or eight when the album first came out, but still...

"Mom, I'm not three," Heather snapped from beside her. "You can let go of the death grip on my hand."

"I don't need to remind you what happened the last time you were allowed to wander a museum by yourself," Lisa replied.

Heather mumbled something that sounded less than apologetic, but Lisa didn't choose to pursue it as someone familiar elbowed his way through the crowd to stand beside her. "So did you call that number?" she asked quietly, keeping her eyes on the display.

"Yep." Michael bit his lip. "The Doc didn't expect me to call." He was silent for a few moments before adding, "I'm turning myself in."

At that, Lisa turned to glare at him. "You did what?" she hissed.

"Just me. No one else." Michael sighed. "Lisa, I've got to put a stop to this somehow. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"Haven't I heard that line someplace before? From someone barging into my Thanksgiving dinner, perhaps?"

Heather coughed loudly to get their attention. "Yeah, Mom, and we all remember what happened afterwards."

Lisa opened her mouth to retort, then shut it again. She turned away from Heather to look at Michael, who was looking at her with what could only be described as a puppy-dog expression on his face. Which only made it worse. Lisa had always been a sucker for that sort of look, and Michael knew exactly how to pull that off to his advantage.

Besides, as infuriating as the man could be, he was really the only one they could trust right now. Finally, she let out an exasperated sigh. "All right, all right. I still think you're crazy, Mr. Newman, but right now I don't have any better ideas."

Michael smiled, relieved. "Thanks. I think."

As they made their way through the crush of people, Lisa eyed a female mannequin sporting a bizarre, overly revealing getup. "But this had better not involve either of us standing in for some of those mannequins."

"Don't worry," Michael assured her. "I'm not that deranged."