2

Jack breathed a sigh of relief as he and Tom pulled away from Ernie’s Photo ID. Ernie had taken a few photos of Tom and promised to get to work on a new identity right away.

He’d brought Tom directly to Ernie’s from the Lincoln Tunnel. Ernie could work miracles, but he needed time, and the sooner Tom got started, the better.

Because as soon as Tom became someone else, he and his Lilitongue would be on their way.

It was almost four thirty and the sun was hitting the horizon somewhere beyond the high-rises.

Jack was looking forward to getting home and crashing.

Long day. Up before dawn, cooped in a car with Tom for eight hours… he was fragged.

Had to admit, though, that Tom had been better company on the way back than the way down. Not because Jack was getting used to him or that they’d bonded. Hardly. The simple reason was that Tom hadn’t talked as much. Of course, when he had it had been about Gia, but a generally non-toxic trip.

Tom had insisted on driving the first leg. They’d switched after lunch at a no-name diner somewhere on the DelMarVa Peninsula. Tom had insisted that diners were far superior to fast-food chains. Jack’s burger was okay but he really could have gone for a Whopper with cheese. Tom’s beef stew had looked and smelled like hot Alpo.

Jack had had the wheel from there on.

As Jack wound through the traffic on Tenth Avenue, Tom grabbed his arm.

“Stop the car!”

Jack tensed, his eyes doing a quick 360 scan via the mirrors and windshield: nothing.

“What’s wrong?”

Tom was doubled over. “Pull over! Now!”

Jack swerved right and pulled in by a fireplug. Before the car had stopped, Tom was leaning out the door. Jack heard him retching.

When he finished, he levered himself upright and sat there panting.

“Oh, God. Must be that stew. Never should have—”

Then he was hanging out the door and retching again.

“You okay?” Jack said.

Tom nodded.

“Done?”

Another nod.

As Jack put the Vic back into gear he realized with a shock that Tom had no place to stay.

“We’ve got to find you a hotel.”

Shit. A Saturday night in Manhattan the last weekend before Christmas… where the hell were they going to find a room?

Tom slumped against the door.

“Jesus, Jack, I don’t think I can make it.”

“What do you mean?”

Jack knew what Tom meant but his mind shied from acknowledging it.

“Searching for a room.” Tom groaned. “I don’t think I can make today. I’ll find a place tomorrow. I just need a little time to get over this.”

“How much time?”

“Food poisoning doesn’t last long. One night will probably do it. By tomorrow it’ll be like it never happened.” He winced and doubled over, then looked at Jack. “How about your place?”

Jack felt like the driver of a jackknifed semitrailer in mid-skid on an icy road, painfully, hopelessly aware that no matter what pedal he tromped or which way he yanked the wheel, the ending was a foregone conclusion.

“Tom…”

His voice took on a whiny tone. “Come on, Jack. Would it kill you to let me crash one night? One lousy night?”

Bastard.