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glad he could feel something for his friend, glad he wasn’t just a shadow self, faking it here, faking it there, as he lured scumbags like Steinbach into his trap.
    â€¢ • •
    The Santa Monica Freeway was lit with a strange neon glow, and there was only one other car on the road. A black sedan somewhere behind him . . . maybe a hundred yards away. What was it, a Lincoln Town Car? A Caddy? He couldn’t tell.
    Ah, what the hell, why should he worry?
    It was just some other guy like him, heading home after too many drinks. Nothing to get buzzed about.
    Still, when he thought of the old woman, the way she looked at him. The evil eye. He give you the evil eye,
señor.
Like something out of a werewolf movie from long ago. What was that woman’s name? Maria Ouspenskaya. When the wolfbane blooms and the moon is full . . . Christ, that was just a lot of Hollywood bullshit.
    Just the same, it had scared the living shit out of him when he was nine or ten.
    And now the car was getting closer . . . really speeding up, and just to be safe, Jack reached into his coat . . . felt the grip of his .38.
    Not that he was worried or anything . . .
    Now the other car was really closing on him.
    It was a Lincoln.
    Jack squinted into the rearview. Jesus, it
was
the bearded guy, no doubt about it. He
was
following him. But who had sent him: Forrester or Steinbach?
    Up ahead was Jack’s exit . . . five or ten more feet.
    He had to slow down a little to make the turn. The Lincoln pulled alongside him. Jack turned and looked at the guy. The scar seemed to glow off his face.
    He looked directly at Jack and gave him a superior little sneer as the Lincoln rushed by.
    Jack headed down the ramp, his heart beating so hard he could hear it in his ears.
    Maybe Blakely was right, after all. Forrester was trying to build some kind of case against all of them.
    Ever since the Hansen betrayal, the service had become wired, as if they’d ingested a ton of meth and were all having multiple hallucinations and massive paranoia.
    Looking for moles, criminals, bad agents . . .
    Forrester, like some kind of Stalinist enforcer trying to find the mole.
    Jack felt his skin crawl. What had started out as a celebration had turned into something creepy, another bad vibe.
    The thought infuriated him.
    Being spied on by Forrester. If it
was
Forrester.
    Once again, he thought of the old woman. “
Malo, señor.
He give you the evil eye.” And a chill ran down his back.
    A few minutes later, Jack pulled into the driveway of his modest bungalow in Culver City. He walked up the path and saw his son’s lacrosse stick lying in a bush. When he reached down to pick it up, he felt a twinge in his left knee. A sharp little pain that caught him up short.
    Maybe from running today . . . he thought . . . maybe for that and from all his own years of lacrosse at the University of Maryland. Maybe in a few years he’d have to get it scoped out . . . and if it didn’t work, they’d move him to a desk job.
    Fuck that . . . he’d quit the Agency first.
    He stuck the key in the door and went inside.
    Walked through the living-room shadows and down the hallway to Kevin’s room. He looked inside, put the lacrosse stick gently up against the wall, and walked over to his sleeping fourteen-year- old son.
    How he loved him. The overwhelming emotions he felt for him were like nothing he had ever experienced before. A feeling of awe swept over him. His son, his flesh and blood . . . he would do anything in the world to protect him. Give his own life in a flash. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his son’s brown hair, looked down at his long lashes, his beautiful mouth . . . He leaned down and kissed him on the head. Kevin stirred slightly and Jack cradled his head with his arms. But a second later, Kevin awakened and looked up at him angrily.
    â€œDad, what are you doing?”
    â€œSneaked in a hug. Sorry,” Jack said,