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It was a photo of Troy's mother and Kent's wife, Sharon. Kent remembered taking the photo during their visit to the Disney-Epcot Center in Florida. Sharon was smiling at the camera, Troy balanced on her shoulders, his left arm blurry from waving it in the air.

  She was so beautiful. Her long, black hair seemed alive, drifting in a random breeze that had lifted it in the shot. Her smile was as bright as her face, which seemed to glow in the light of the sun. She wore a cheesy Mickey Mouse shirt that Troy had bought her. She had hated the shirt, but wore it throughout the entire trip to avoid hurting Troy's feelings. When they got home, the shirt "accidentally" shrank in the wash.

  He found himself mesmerized by the photo. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe. He could only gaze at the tiny image on the floor as memories flooded through his mind like a broken dam flooding a dry riverbed. He remembered his wife's high-pitched laugh, her blueberry muffins, her flower garden in the backyard that had died of neglect, her hopes of joining Gaines and Company herself one day, the crow's feet that were already beginning to form around her eyes, her favorite bunny slippers, her collection of jazz LPs, her stern father's pipe, anything and everything, so much that Kent dropped to his knees, helpless to do anything but look and dream.

  It was only then that he realized how much he had forgotten, of how much he had tucked away in the corners of his mind. It hurt so badly that he could almost feel it as a tangible pain. It was the pain he had expected all these years, but it was a good kind of pain, the kind of pain that let him know he was alive again.

  Kent remembered the night Sharon died. He had returned to a perfectly normal house, not shrouded in cobwebs and black, not a house of mourning. The normality seemed even worse. Something should have changed to reflect the loss of a member of the house, but everything was exactly the same, and Kent hated it. He tried to undress for bed, but the photos of Sharon on the dresser pulled tears from him until he swept the photos into a cardboard box.

  Then he was tearing clothes out of the closets and drawers, stuffing them all into suitcases. In the bathroom, he dumped the bottles of makeup, and pantyhose hanging on the shower, into more cardboard boxes. Hours later, he had packed away everything of Sharon's into the basement. When it was locked away, Kent felt the job was done. Now the house seemed normal, because Sharon was gone, and wasn't coming back.

  He had felt numb and the numbness felt good, better than the emotions that had raged through him earlier. Kent had gone into his den, turned on his computer, and got back to work on the Sterling case. He spent all night working, no time for sleep, no time to grieve, no time for anything but the work. And it felt good.

  But Georgia was right. That had been the beginning. Kent had denied the memory of his wife for too long. He had pushed her away, just like his son had, locking her in a dungeon with a key he had thrown away years ago. Maybe he had planned to open it again once, but that ambition had long since passed. He filled the void she had left behind with his work, but as the years went by, the void grew bigger and bigger until there wasn't enough work in the world to fill it. But he had tried even harder until he had been left with nothing but work.

  But the door was unlocked now, and he couldn't stop it, and he was amazed to discover that he didn't want to stop it. She was free again to roam through his mind and heart. Kent had never realized he was dead until she brought him back to life.

  He touched the cool smooth surface of the photo with his fingers. It sent a chill through his body that reached his eyes and squeezed out tears. Kent knelt on the floor, his eyes burning, sobbing, and his heart singing.

  He picked up the photo. It had been at the bottom of Troy's drawer, hidden away where it could do no harm. Kent put it into his breast pocket. He would never let it go again. Sharon was back in his life, and Kent felt like a piece of his family had returned.

  Troy was the other piece, and Kent was determined never to let him get away. His son was all he had in life, and that moment of terror when Kent had thought he would lose him was still sharp in his mind. Now Kent knew how much his son meant to him; more than anything else in the world.

  Kent sat down in front of Troy's computer. He propped up Sharon's picture next to the monitor where he could see it, then settled down to wait for Pluto to return.

  * * *

  Kent watched the lines of text rolling down the screen. He wasn't really interested in the chat room conversations, which were getting strange this late at night. He was waiting for a sign that Pluto had received his message. Kent had been waiting for the last six hours, well into the early morning, and he was prepared to wait even longer if necessary.

  A chime sounded, one Kent recognized as the IM signal. Kent rushed to log into Troy's Orion inbox.

  A message read:

  I'm in VirtuaChat, room 4524. Let's talk, Kent.

  He leaned forward, throwing his chair's wheels back to the ground, then exited the forum. Among the icons displayed to him was one marked "VirtuaChat." Kent clicked on the private room icon, then typed in 4524.

  It showed a private room with one user already it.

  Kent stared at the screen displaying his choice of avatars he could become in VirtuaChat. He clicked on the icon representing a human being, which brought up more menus of choices ranging from the avatar's skin color to its gender. Kent didn't have time to fool around with it. He went with the default, nothing more than a silvery humanoid shape.

  The image expanded until it enveloped the screen, bringing with it a new scene. Kent was looking at a photo-realistic landscape that looked like he stood on the surface of the moon. The Earth hung in the sky, illuminating the crater-filled horizon below.

  Standing in one of the craters, its arms crossed, was Pluto. Kent could tell just by looking at it. Pluto's avatar was huge, swollen, a freakish collection of spare parts that perfectly reflected the disordered mind it contained. Its eyes burned like flames in their sockets as the avatar regarded Kent with bemused interest. A word balloon appeared over its head.

  Hello, Kent.

  Kent began to type.

  Did you do this to my son?

  Yes.

  Why?

  Because I wanted to send you a message. You're a very stubborn man. We've been watching you for the last two days. You've been butting into something that's none of your business.

  Kent was right. He was being followed.

  The woman in the airport? The brown van? That was you?

  No. Merely some of our employees. We have a vast network of resources.

  What do you mean "we?"

  Pluto's avatar smiled.

  Oh, yes, there's more than just me involved. This is much larger than you can imagine. We have been planning this for a very long time, and don't intend to let you screw it up.

  Did you make the virus?

  Yes.

  Did you kill Victor Morgan with it?

  Of course.

  But why? Morgan was an old man. He was due to retire the next day.

  I know. Wonderful irony, wasn't it?

  Kent felt a snarl curl his lips.

  Why are you doing this? What reason could you possibly have?

  Tut, tut, Mister Reynolds. We can't give away all our secrets.

  You can't do this. You can't just kill millions of people.

  Of course, we can. And we will. How's your son, Troy, by the way? It must have been touch and go there for a while. I hope the prolonged lack of oxygen didn't cause any brain damage. That happens, you know.

  Why are you doing this to me?

  Now the word balloon over Pluto's head filled with text that could barely fit inside.

  It's very simple. You wouldn't leave your friend's death alone. You dared to cross us. So now you pay the price for your meddling. You're going to find yourself in more trouble than you ever dreamed possible. I thought you would be smarter t
han this, Kent. After all, you have a family to protect. You wouldn't want to lose your only son the way you lost your wife, now would you?

  I'll get you for this. I swear I'll get

  But Pluto's word balloon appeared again, interrupting him.

  Bye-bye.

  The avatar waved, then dissolved into a cloud of green smoke that faded into nothing.

  Kent waited for it to return. When it didn't, he exited VirtuaChat and Orion. Kent switched off Troy's computer, then sat for a moment, staring at the monitor in front of him.

  He become aware of the fact that he had come face-to-face with a madman. One who was preparing to kill millions of people. One who was willing to kill an innocent child simply to threaten another human being.

  But Pluto wasn't alone. There were others. Four? Ten? A hundred? A million? It was impossible to say, but the thought that Pluto was allied with a group as twisted as he was chilled Kent to the bone.

  And they had been watching him, following him, probably since he left for Seattle. They knew all about him, most likely through public records. Kent knew from experience that privacy was a myth in modern society. Everything from his birth date to the groceries he bought every week with his credit card could be accessed by anyone who wanted it. Kent had to assume that the organization responsible for Cerberus was watching him even at that very moment. Suddenly, Kent felt very exposed.

  Things had changed for him. Before, his investigation into Morgan's death was based on curiosity. Now he realized that he had unwittingly crawled into a lion's den. He had antagonized some very powerful people who were willing to kill to protect the secret of their existence.

  But that meant he was close. They wouldn't have tried to kill his son if he hadn't been on the verge of cracking their mystery wide open. Kent knew that the creator of Cerberus was the key to stopping it, and he was close to finding him or her. The identity of Pluto was foremost in Kent's mind. He had to track Pluto down and stop Cerberus from being unleashed.

  Kent rose to his feet. Now he was more determined than ever to find the people who had killed his friend and injured his son. He was going to make them pay for their crimes and he would not be swayed.

  Kent left Troy's room to go to his den. There, he picked up his phone and began to dial. He had an idea, but first he had work to do.

  * * *

  Roland Weaver pushed his chair away from his computer desk. It was done. Kent had been warned. Now the game began in earnest.

  He was surprised at how much he was enjoying himself. Roland had never faced an adversary like Kent Reynolds before. Kent was intelligent, determined, calculating, and somewhat obsessive. Roland knew it was more logical to have Kent killed now, but he was curious to see how far Kent could get on his own, especially after a few more obstacles were thrown into his path. Roland had some of those obstacles in mind as he reached for his cell phone.

  Sonya answered on the second ring. "Yes, sir?"

  "Do it," Roland said, then hung up and leaned back in his chair, looking out at the flickering Los Angeles sky.

  Yes, this was proving to be a most entertaining game.

  * * *

  Sonya tapped her cell phone to end the call. Weaver hadn't said very much, but it was all she needed. He had told her in advance what needed to be done, and she thought it was quite an interesting plan. It still left her wondering why Weaver didn't give the order to kill Reynolds, but that wasn't her department. She was beginning to think Weaver was fed some sort of sadistic desire, like a cat toying with a dying mouse before swallowing it whole. Weaver didn't want to kill Reynolds without torturing and humiliating him first.

  Sonya thought it was stupid, but tried not to think about it. She had a job to do.

  She glanced over at the front of the van where Stewart and Jason were talking about basketball. "Let's go."

  Stewart started the engine. "Right."

  The van rumbled away from the curb across from the Reynolds home, accelerating on its trip down the narrow street. Sonya opened the briefcase containing her tools to select a hypodermic syringe. She plunged the needle into the stopper of a bottle of cyanide.

  After watching the barrel of the needle fill with the deadly fluid, Sonya looked down at the folder she had spread on the floor of the van. It contained a photo and dossier of her target. Apparently, he was a close friend of Reynolds. Worked in the same office with him and everything. Sonya began to ingrain the image in her mind, as well as her target's name.

  Wayne Grant.

  15.

  WAYNE GRANT couldn't sleep. He lay in bed counting sheep, breathing slowly, and everything else he could think of that was supposed to put you to sleep. It wasn't working.

  He glanced at the clock. Almost three in the morning. He was getting nowhere. Time for his tried-and-true insomnia remedy; hot cocoa. Wayne crawled out of bed.

  He padded through the dark corridors of his apartment, lit only by the street lamp outside his windows. The lights in his kitchen buzzed as they came on, shedding a blinding haze over the room. Wayne had to squint to see well enough to open his fridge, take out a carton of milk, and rummage through his cupboard for the mug and cocoa packets.

  The milk rippled into the mug in an ivory stream. Wayne put the mug into the microwave, set the timer, and leaned against his counter, stifling a yawn. He was very tired, and also very worried about many things.

  One of them was his band, Cash Flow. Wayne had given up on his dream of being the guitarist of a heavy metal band to attend business school and join Gaines and Company. But he had started a new band in Gaines that was doing fairly well. They had played at twelve functions so far and praise had flooded in.

  Unfortunately, the Gaines party was next week, and they still weren't coming together. The new song Wayne had written for the event was good, but the lyrics just weren't coming to him. If that wasn't bad enough, the band was going through a slump. In other words, it was terrible. They couldn't synchronize if their lives depended on it, and Steve Bennett, the drummer, kept skipping rehearsals to go out with his new girlfriend.

  The microwave beeped. Wayne took out the mug, and watched steam rise from the milk.

  What really robbed him of sleep was his friend, Kent Reynolds. Wayne was worried about him. A week after Morgan's death, and Kent had grown obsessed with some sort of conspiracy theory.

  He knew he was going to have to talk with Kent again, but after last night, he wasn't sure it would do any good. But he had to try.

  Wayne dumped a packet of Swiss Miss instant cocoa into it, and carried it to the dining table. On the way, he turned off the lights.

  In the darkness, Wayne looked out of his apartment window at the street below. An oak tree bowed in a crisp wind that made its leaves shiver. Clouds obscured the evening sky, threatening another shower.

  He sipped at his cocoa. So many problems, so few solutions.

  Wayne frowned as he heard a clinking noise behind him. He turned in time to see a huge figure loom out of the shadows. It rushed towards him so fast that he could only begin a cry of alarm before he felt a sharp pain in his neck.

  * * *

  When he was dead, Sonya carefully placed the empty syringe on the floor beside Wayne. Then she opened the leather bag strapped around her waist. Reynolds' wine glass was still there. She took it out with gloved hands, careful not to smear any of Kent's fingerprints.

  She crouched to roll the glass into a corner of the room. She wanted it to look like the glass had been carelessly tossed aside. Somewhere where it might be missed by Reynolds in the struggle, but not where it would be overlooked by the police.

  That settled, Sonya moved on to the front door of the apartment. She looked through the fish-eye lens to make sure the outside hallway was empty. Satisfied, she slipped out, carefully leaving the front door open a crack. One of Grant's neighbors was bound to investigate a half-open door.

  Sonya hurried to the staircase with her hands in her pockets. When she got outside, she be
gan whistling a Jennifer Lopez pop song she had heard on the radio that morning. She was in a very good mood. After sitting in the back of a cramped van for the last few days, Sonya finally had seen some action. She couldn't wait to finish off Reynolds so she could get this lousy assignment over with.

  16.

  KENT KEPT his hands tucked deep into his pockets as he walked through Prospect Park. Red and yellow leaves swirled around his legs in whirlpools. He peered through the brisk fall wind until he came to the park's skating rink.

  Kent pulled out his cell phone, dialed a hastily scribbled phone number from a card in his pocket, and waited in the frigid wind for someone to pick it up on the other end. As he waited, Kent adjusted the heavy backpack he was wearing, then glanced around the park.

  There were very few visitors at seven o'clock in the morning. Their shadows were long and golden from the sun that was barely beginning to rise on the horizon. It was hard to see if the strong woman was among them, let alone if any of them were watching him. He had to take that chance.

  Kent was certain he was being watched. He had tried to throw off his pursuers by taking a train instead of a cab. After switching from one train to another at three separate stops, Kent had been satisfied that he had at least confused his hunters. He was hoping that he had thrown them off completely, but realized that might be too much to ask.

  Kent was more concerned with protecting his son than himself. After his conversation with Pluto, Kent had talked with Troy's doctor at the hospital. After getting him to admit that Troy's condition was stable, Kent had ordered him released from the hospital's care. He had made some phone calls and managed to get a private nurse as well as enough medical equipment to monitor and treat Troy's condition privately.