If anything, she looked worse, her burns resolving into wounds even more horrifying for their permanence. In the six days since the attack, her hair had fallen out along the front of her crown, leaving her with a coarse fringe of ringlets around the sides and back of her head. The large bolster on her right cheek had dried and turned gray, and the skin around the edges had yellowed. David didn't have a plastic surgeon's eye, but he doubted that the graft would take. Between her other bolsters, her patchwork flesh shone red, slick with residual Silvadene. In the midst of it all, her two eyeballs perched inside their sockets, shrunken and sightless.

"Who is it?" she said weakly, her voice a tiny rasp. "Who's there?"

"It's David Spier."

"Oh. I don't want to see you. I heard what you did… that you helped him… and now he got away." Her head drifted slightly on the pillow, a dying motion. "How could you?"

"I didn't help him," David said. "I treated him."

She drew breath raggedly. "I don't want to see you."

"Okay," David said.

"Ever again."

"Okay."

David backed up quietly and pulled the curtain shut.

Diane was back from surgery by the time David got downstairs. She'd already changed into fresh scrubs when David entered the doctors' lounge.

"This morning's incident with Jenkins gave me an idea," he said.

She gathered her bloody scrubs from the floor. "If it's the handcuffs you're interested in, you'll have to buy me dinner first."

"Sadly, nothing so titillating. That patient we helped out who the cops wanted-?"

"Hell's Angel guy?"

"No. The guy Jenkins was yelling about. The bullet in the ass. What was ostensibly his name again?"

"Ed Pinkerton."

"Right." David went to his locker and withdrew the odd bookmark that Ed had left behind in the ER. It read: AMOK BOOKSTORE. THE

EXTREMES OF INFORMATION.

David stopped at a bad taqueria and wolfed down a burrito he was certain would give him acute GI distress. Driving toward the Amok Bookstore, he glanced down at the bookmark, double-checking the address. Located in a downscale-trendy area of Los Feliz, the storefront was small and unassuming, and David drove right past it and had to backtrack when he hit Hollywood Boulevard.

The book Ed had been reading, Wiretapping and Electronic Surveillance, implied that he'd be an asset in an effort to find someone. Plus, as an ex-con, he probably knew how to get done any number of things David could scarcely even name. He'd done Ed a favor, after all, and the man with the awkward flesh wound might be willing to point him in the right direction.

Even if Ed hadn't stolen his file, David would have had no way to get ahold of him without going out and tracking him down. David had not been surprised to find that he was unlisted-the only Ed Pinkerton in the area had turned out to be a ninety-year-old veteran of the Second World War-so he only had the bookmark to go on.

David parked at a broken meter in front of a shop that advertised inflatable sheep. He walked toward Amok, enjoying a small flare of pride at operating like a noir detective. Any notion of pride quickly vanished, however, when he entered and realized just how out of his league he was.

A twanging East Asian tune played over the speakers, interspersed with pleading in a foreign tongue and screams that David, who had heard a fair variety of screams at work each day, could not dismiss as staged. Wraiths of incense smoke curled in the air, dispersing, disappearing. The narrow store was lined with bookcases that displayed books cover-out, and a sinewy man in a leather vest leered across an old cash register at the front, tufts of grayish hair escaping from the V above the vest's buttons. Massive spiderweb tattoos worked their way up both his arms and clutched the balls of his shoulders. A bar pierced his septum, protruding a few centimeters beyond each nostril.

Several customers perused the shelves, indifferent to the ambient wailing. David pretended to do the same, though he could not shake the cashier's stare or the feeling that he'd been immediately recognized as an impostor. A book called Jugular Wine, positioned between Red Stains and the more respectable-looking Sodomy and the Pirate Tradition, caught his attention. He flipped through a few pages with a sort of horrified interest, then lowered the book and risked a look around.

A man too predictably clad in an overcoat shuffled through the front door to the counter, his nose glowing the broken-vessel red of a confirmed alcoholic. The tattooed cashier hunched over the counter, speaking in a lowered voice that David had to strain to make out. "Got something up your alley."

The alcoholic made some gesture that rippled his overcoat, and the worker pulled an unlabeled VHS videocassette from beneath the counter and slid it toward him.

David only heard bits and pieces of the cashier's next comment. "Buddy of mine… crime-scene guy in Tokyo… "