“What is the matter with you today, boy?” Michél asked. Nate was staring down at an undelivered omelet as if the clues to the universe had to do with eggs, caramelized onions, and Havarti.

“Nothing.”

Michél put his empty plates in the back room and returned, put a hand on Nate’s arm. “Are you sick? You look like Death, and I don’t mean Brad Pitt.”

Nate collected himself. “I was thinking about something, that’s all.”

He took the coffeepot and filled up a few of his tables. He was running out of ways to avoid taking Rambo’s order, so he headed over there.

Rambo stared at him as he approached. There was a curled-up sneer on his face—the look a cat gets when it’s smelled something particularly piquant. Nate could guess what that smell was: he was the only straight waiter in the place and the clientele was pretty much fifty-fifty.

“What can I get you?”

“Steak and eggs. Coffee.”

“Sure.” Paleolithic. Big surprise. Nate reached for the menu. Rambo clamped a fist over his wrist.

It hurt, as it was meant to, but it was more of a shock, that someone would do that in the first place and do it here, on Nate’s own turf. He guffed a laugh, stared at the man indignantly.

“Nate Andros, right?”

Nate nodded, his view of the man shifting instantly. Cop. He should have guessed.

Rambo used his nonsqueezing hand to show a badge, making sure Nate had plenty of time to read it. ED HINKLE. FBI. “I’m going to eat my steak; then you and I are going to chat. So go tell your boss you’re leaving early.”

Nate was still nodding; his neck had, in fact, grown springs, so he didn’t have to make a special nod for this occasion. Rambo released him.

The kitchen grill was open to the restaurant, the chefs and diners face-to-face. But behind the grill was a back room where they did dishes and yakked. Nate grabbed some dirty plates and went back there, wanting to get out of the man’s sight.

Nate stood breathing heavily and looking around the long room. There were boxes of food, the dishwashing machine, and a walk-in fridge. There was no back door. This was an urban neighborhood, and the only doors in the whole place were the front door, in the restaurant itself, and a door at the tail end of the restaurant that led to a small balcony two stories up with no stairs.

FBI! Shit!

He had an order up. He delivered a salmon salad and a scramble. He could feel Rambo’s eyes boring into him.

“Boy, you are hyperventilatin’! What’s up?” Michél was at the waiters’ counter, along with Justin, a blue-eyed Iowan who had all the other waiters drooling. Nate muttered something indiscernible and went into the back. They followed.

“You’re driving me crazy, and I hate that.” Michél blocked the doorway, hands on his size 21 waist.

“That guy out there,” Nate said, scared and sounding it. “He’s FBI.”

“Rambo? No shit?” Michél looked back over his shoulder, delighted.

“What’s goin’ on?” Justin asked with cowboy sincerity.

“I think he wants to talk to me about that explosion on campus last night.” Nate gripped his abdomen and bent over. Just saying it made his stomach ache.

“You had something to do with that?” Michél was no longer goofing, his face worried. “Oh, jesu, are you in trouble. Mannie works over at Swedish. He called me this morning, says the FBI are all over the place, man. They’ve got that scientist from the news, what’s her name, Dr. Talbot or something?”

Mannie was Michél’s partner, a male nurse. Nate was startled at this news. When had the FBI taken over? And why?

“Talcott. I’ve been her grad student for the past two years.”

Michél went maternal and put his arm around Nate. “Oh my god! What were you guys doing? Did she really cause that explosion?”

Nate shook his head mutely. I don’t know. But his face burned. Yeah, she did. He did. They did. Michél and Justin exchanged a look.

“Listen, you don’t want to talk to this guy, just say the word.”

“No problem.” Justin nodded.

Nate looked at their resolute faces. “I’ll have to talk to them eventually.”

“Yeah, but do you want to talk to them now, that’s the question.” Michél held out his hand, expression Cuban cocky, as if to say, You don’t have to do shit while I’m around.

Nate breathed deeply and raked a hand through his cropped hair. He went to the doorway and peeked out. Rambo was staring right at him. Someone had taken him his order and he chewed steak, looking back at Nate with eyes that had a little too much… anticipation in them.

Nate drew back, confused. This didn’t feel right. Why was the guy alone? Why couldn’t Nate just talk to the police instead of this goon? And there was this whole gay thing mixed up in it, that look of disdain. Was Rambo a homophobe? Would he take the opportunity to beat the crap out of him?

Nate nodded quickly at Justin and Michél before he could change his mind. “Yeah. Get me out of here.”

Michél unfurled a smile the devil couldn’t have matched. “You got it, sweetcheeks.”

Five minutes later, the entire Coastal Kitchen crew was huddled over a piece of chocolate mousse. Michél lit the candle and winked at Nate.

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!”

The rousing chorus line descended on Rambo with felicitations, blocking his view and his path. Nate beat it out the front door.

He was heading toward his apartment when he realized that wouldn’t be smart. If the FBI knew where he worked they had to know where he lived. And his bike was there, damn it, and therefore irretrievable.

He was standing on one of the residential streets that stretched off Fifteenth. Old brick apartment buildings lined the narrow street. He sank down to sit beside a car to get out of sight, put a piece of gum in his mouth, which was drier than dust, and tried to think it through.

You’d rather talk to the police? So go to the police department. Turn yourself in.

It was a good idea, but he had no idea what he’d say. He’d been gestating that all morning and still didn’t have an answer. Did he confess everything about their experiment? Or did he deny up the wazoo and hope no one knew otherwise? After all, the lab was gone, burnt to a crisp. No one knew what they’d been doing.

But there was something else, something that had been bugging him and he couldn’t quite grasp. He sat there thinking about the FBI, about how their involvement seemed to really change things, and about ham-hock man, until it came to him.

There was the accident, and that was one thing. But there was also the technology.

It came with a shiver and a dawning horror. He remembered the day he’d gotten his first real whiff, complete with major goose bumps, about the nature of the one-minus-one. He’d thought then that if their experiment was really doing what he thought it was doing, then this could be some seriously screwed up technology in the wrong hands. Whether or not the FBI was here looking for the one-minus-one, they would find it in the course of their investigation. And if they found it, they would pass it on to… who? The U.S. government, of course, maybe the military.

Was the U.S. military the wrong hands?

Nate jumped to his feet.

He felt an urgent need to act. The lab was torched and what else was there? Stuff in Jill’s office: his papers, the sim, and other files. At Jill’s house there was the control group, probably her briefcase. God, her briefcase! She kept everything in there. He headed for the bus stop.

When Nate got to Jill’s place it was nearly 2:00 P.M. He paused at the end of the street, studying the scene warily. Her street was always lined with cars, especially on a Saturday morning, but he didn’t see anything particularly ominous—no black sedans, patrol cars, or men wearing suits. The house itself looked quiet.