The First Counsel

* * *

"I hate this place," I mutter fifteen minutes later. Cowardly son of a bitch is never going to show. Fighting frustration, I stand up and take another quick reconnaissance of the room. By now, we're on our fifth round of tourist turnover. There's only one original member of the band, and I'm it.

Circling the main group of tables, I stare up at the wall clock. Vaughn's over a half hour late. I've been stood up. Still, if I plan on waiting it out, it's best to stay in character and act like all the other strangers in the room. Glancing around, I realize I'm the only one on my feet. Everyone else looks exactly the same--pen in hand, eyes focused on their computers--all they do is type in names . . .

Oh, man.

I race back to the terminal and slide into my seat. Punching at the keyboard, I type thirteen letters into the Registry of Survivors. V-A-U-G-H-N, P-A-T-R-I-C-K.

On-screen, the computer tells me it's "Searching for Matches."

This is it. That's the real reason he picked this room.

"Sorry, no matches found."

What? It's not possible. V-A-U-G-H-N, P.

"Sorry, no matches found."

V-A-U-G-H-N.

Once again, the computer whirs into search mode. And once again, I get the same result. "Sorry, no matches found."

It can't be. Convinced I'm on the right track, I throw it every name I can think of.

G-A-R-R-I-C-K, M-I-C-H-A-E-L.

H-A-R-T-S-O-N, N-O-R-A.

S-I-M-O-N, E-D-G-A-R.

By the time I'm done, I've got tons of matches. Vienna, Austria. Kaunas, Lithuania. Gyongyos, Hungary. Even Highland Park, Illinois. But none of them brings me any closer to Vaughn. Annoyed, I push the keyboard aside and slump back in my chair. I'm about to call it a day when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I spin around so fast I almost fall out of my seat. Behind me is an olive-skinned woman with kinky black hair. A black T-shirt with the word "Perv" in white letters hugs just tight enough to get a double take, while her faded jeans hang loosely from her hips.

"Let's get out of here, Michael," she says, her voice shaky.

"How do you--?"

"Don't ask the obvious--it's not going to help." As I get out of my seat, she's glancing around the room, her hands fidgeting as she nervously clicks the long nails on her middle fingers against her thumbs. She rubs her nose twice, unable to stand still.

"When is he--?"

"Not today," she blurts. She pushes me from behind, straight toward the door. "Now let's get you out of here in one piece."

I rush forward without another word. She yanks on the back of my shirt to slow me down.

"Only morons run," she whispers.

Pushing open the glass door, I wait until we're back among the crowds. With a sharp left, we're heading down the wide staircase that leads to the main concourse. "So he's not coming?" I ask.

At hyperspeed, she arches her neck in every direction. Over her shoulder, over mine, over the railing of the stairs . . . she can't help herself. "They had his ex-girlfriend's staked out since Tuesday," she explains. "And Vaughn don't even like her."

"I don't understand."

"It's no good," she stutters. "Not here."

"So when do we--"

She lays a sweaty hand on my shoulder and pulls me close. "National Zoo. Wednesday at one o'clock." Letting go, she speeds down the rest of the stairs.

"Is it really that bad?" I ask.

She stops where she is and turns around. "Are you kidding?" she asks, wiping a stray black curl from her face. "You know what it takes to make him scared?"

I hold on to the railing to keep myself up. I don't think I want to know the answer.