Read Page 7

Jack stopped at Tram's laundry off Canal Street and showed him the bomber jacket. Tram squinted against the smoke from his unfiltered Pall Mall as he inspected the ruined lining of the sleeve. He was on the far side of sixty and as a younger man had lost the lower half of his right leg to a Viet Cong finger charge. He'd hired Jack a while back to help him with a mob problem he'd been pushed into.

"Much blood."Advertisement

"Tell me about it."

He poked a finger through the bullet hole and eyed Jack. "Yours?"

Jack nodded. He'd gone home, found an insulated Windbreaker, then trained down here.

"Can't clean," Tram said, shaking his head. "But can fix hole and sew new sleeve liner."

"Okay on the liner, but leave the holes."

His eyebrows lifted. "Eh?"

"A reminder."

Tram's smile revealed a mouth crowded with canary-yellow teeth. "Yes. Reminder is good." He pointed down to where his right leg was steel and plastic. "Makes one more careful."

From Tram's he walked up to Canal Street and caught a cab over to Doc Hargus's place. He'd called from home and the doc was in. Doc's office was his apartment, a third-floor walk-up. He'd had a little substance abuse problem back in the day. Okay, a big problem and he'd lost his license before he'd cleaned up. His only vice now was beer, and that in moderation.

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He still practiced on the QT, treating injuries and overdoses and things people didn't want part of the public record. Too bad, because his portly physique, deep voice, and Wilford Brimley mustache inspired trust and confidence.

"What're you running on me?" he said after Jack had stripped to the waist and he'd removed Bill's dressing.

Odd question.

"Not running anything. What're you talking about?"

Doc pulled on a pair of latex gloves and removed one of the butterflies, peeling both ends at once toward the middle.

"Didn't I tell you over the phone I couldn't stitch up any wound over twenty-four hours old?"

"Yeah."

"And you told me this happened just this morning, right?"

"Right."

"Bullshit."

Jack tensed, feeling a niggle of annoyance. "What do you mean?"

Doc pointed to the wound. "I can't suture this. It's already started to knit."

Jack craned his neck and looked. The wound still looked bloody and angry to him.

"That's just the butterflies holding it together."

Doc looked at him over his glasses. "I think I've seen a few more of these than you, Jack."

"Okay, no argument there, but Doc, I swear: I got grazed at around ten o'clock this morning. Why would I lie?"

Doc looked at him, then adjusted his glasses and leaned closer to the wound. He studied it for a few seconds, then straightened, shaking his head.

"Yeah. Good question. Why would you? But Jack ... that's at least two days old - " His hand flashed up as Jack opened his mouth to protest. "I'll rephrase: It's got at least two days' worth of healing there. If, as you say, this happened this morning, well, you tell me what vitamins and herbs you're taking because you've suddenly developed some super healing powers."

Jack went cold as he heard Glaeken's voice echo in his head.

Wounds heal much more quickly than you'd imagine ... a scratch like that would heal almost immediately.

Jack's wound hadn't healed "almost immediately," but Doc said it was already days into the process, though only hours had passed.

"You okay?" Doc said. "You don't look so hot. Never known you to mind the sight of blood - even your own."

"I'm okay."

Big lie.

Glaeken seemed to be failing, and here Jack was developing the healing powers the old guy had once possessed. Pretty obvious that Jack, as the Heir to the Defender post, was being prepared to step into Glaeken's shoes. How long had this healing thing been going on? If Jack hadn't been hurt, he still wouldn't know about it. It could only mean Glaeken's demise was imminent. How long did the old guy have?

"I'll replace the butterflies," Doc was saying, "even though it hardly needs them at this point. Pretty good job of closing that wound. Who did it?"

"Some guy."

I don't want this, Jack thought. I do not want this.

But no one had asked. No one had given him a choice. pqdm.com