John and I wait patiently for Crystal to go to the bathroom so we can talk without her listening in.

"Have you got a plan?" I ask him.

"Sure," he says. "We tell her that we're going to the corner store for drinks or something. That should give us fifteen minutes at least. Then we get the plate numbers off that car, take them to the motel office and say we scraped his paint while parking. We ask for his room number so we can exchange insurance information. Then we go to his room, knock, and when he opens the door we grab him and get him to answer some hard questions."

"All in fifteen minutes."

John shrugs. "Yeah. Plenty of time."

"What if they don't take plate numbers at the check in desk? A lot of motels don't."

"Well, then we leave a note in his windshield wiper inviting him to come and chat with us. Then, when he comes to the door, we grab him."

"Kind of setting ourselves up for an ambush then, aren't we?"

"We don't tell him who it is. We'll kick in his car door, say it was a parking lot mishap and ask him to stop by our room to do the insurance shit."

"Look," I say, "you think that he knows we're here. No coincidences, right? Don't you think he'll figure out your note?"

"What are you guys talking about?" Crystal stands at the door to the washroom. She has a bath towel wrapped around her curvy form.

"Nothing," I say, getting to my feet. "We're going down the block to get some drink. Want anything?"

"No. I'm taking a shower." She disappears into the bathroom. The door lock clicks.

John and I head down to the motel office, but the clerk doesn't have plate numbers for guest vehicles. "Look, it's just as well," I tell him as we stand in front of the office. "We're unarmed. If he is here to kill us, we'd probably do well just to avoid him. We'd be smart to stay in the room with Crystal. She's pretty much a sexy engine of death, you know."

He doesn't pay attention to my words. He's staring down the block. "Do you see what I see?" he asks.

I follow his gaze. There are different businesses, mostly with the lights out. A tire shop. A burger joint. A bar is lit up with gaudy orange neon. "That's a nudie bar," John says. "And I bet that's where out killer is right now."

"Ha! You wish. You just want to get in there and see some tits."

"If you were a killer who did nothing but drive day and night hunting human prey, what would you do to unwind? I'll bet a grand we find him in there."

"Okay. I can see you really want to go. I'll tell you what. If he's in there, I owe you a beer."

John nods. "Deal."

Chapter One Hundred Twelve

The strip bar, operating under the name "Pink's," is an unattractive standalone building with a gravel parking lot. The exterior is all weathered wood and blacked-out windows. The hum of road house rock is audible as we walk up.

I pull open the heavy door and John walks in first. I follow. A burly goateed bouncer with pompadour hairstyle greets us, ushering us into the main room. Despite never having been in a strip bar before (as much as I can remember--I may have been in thousands for all I know), this place is pretty much how I expected it. Near the entrance is a pool table with a couple of fat men with moustaches and plaid jackets rattling the balls around. There are tables, booths against the walls, and a line of chairs in front of the stage, where a girl in a tight orange dress struts around. The bar is illuminated with neon, and a motley assortment of rough customers and tired looking staff make their rounds.

"As glamorous as you imagined?" I ask John.

"Do you see him?" John asks. He's all business. I look around, but no one in the place stands out. Would I recognize the man we're looking for? Hard to say. I saw him by moonlight, and only for a moment. Would he recognize me? Even harder to say. I was jamming a gun in his face.

"We look conspicuous here," I tell him. "Let's just sit down. Don't worry. If he's here, we'll find him."

A waitress takes our order of coffees. She looks worn out, in her forties with bags under her eyes. "Probably a mother of four," I say to John when she's out of earshot. "She has to work here six nights a week to make rent because her old man is in the clink."

"Shit, would you focus? I'm telling you, our guy is here."

I twist around and check out the other patrons. They all keep their eyes on the dancer, who has slipped down the top of her dress. Most of the men in the crowd are older. Locals probably, or truckers passing through. Too old to be our guy. We need someone between twenty-five and thirty (if moonlight is anything to go by).

"Nothing."

"Just wait," John responds. The waitress brings the coffee and collects an outrageous price.

"Remember, you're paying for the atmosphere," I quip. While John continues craning his neck around to see the ugly mug of every guy in the place, I sip my cup of bad instant coffee and watch the dancer. She has charm. She looks like she knows where she is, but she's professional enough to put on a happy face for these dirt bags.

Some of the dancers make their way through the tables, offering private dances to the customers. One girl slides up next to me, puts her hand on my shoulder, and asks if she can sit down. She's standing behind me, so I can't see her face, but I slide the chair out and gesture for her to join us.

John's eyes are wide and his mouth is open. He's staring at her, but not just in the way that a man will stare at a knock-out woman. He's staring like he's shocked.

The girl lowers herself into the chair. I turn and look into her face, and it's a face I've seen a few times before. It's Beth. Her hair is long and blonde now, and she's dressed up in a leopard-print halter top and miniskirt, but she is still Beth. "Hi guys," she says. "Having a good time?"

John looks at me. I look at Beth. "Um, yes. It's a fine place. I didn't expect to see you here, though."

She looks pleasantly surprised. "Oh, have we met before?"

She doesn't know us? "No. I'm not sure. Maybe in another club. Say, we're uh, looking for a friend of ours."

John picks up on my lead. "Yeah. Dark haired guy, probably around our age. Have you seen a guy like that come through tonight?"

She shrugs. "No, I don't think so. This place gets an older crowd. Are you guys just passing through?"

Beth, or the girl who looks exactly like Beth, introduces herself as Candy, and starts running us through a routine of chit-chat. Where from, where headed, whadya do, etc, etc. It grates on me because I've kissed her and watched her die twice, and now I find her in this get-up. But I know it's her. John is right: there are no coincidences here.

I leave them to chat and weave through the tables to the bathroom. I look into faces as I pass. Our man isn't here. I step up to the urinal. I wait. Another man steps in behind me and I turn expectantly, ready for it to be him, ready to fight with my dick out if necessary. It's one of the fat pool players. I blow out a sigh and finish my piss.

At our table, John is waiting, but Beth (Candy?) is gone. He's sitting with a foot up on an empty chair. There are two beers on the table.

"You ordered beers?" I say. "Come on, our man isn't here. Let's get the fuck out of here."

"Relax Bill," he says. "Yeah, he's not here. Let's relax for a few minutes. Do you know what's about to start?"

I roll my eyes. "What?"

"Beth is dancing next."

Anger wells up inside me. I pick up the beer, drink half of it down and say in his face, "I'm leaving." I walk to the door and out into the night.

Chapter One Hundred Thirteen

John hurries out of the strip bar and catches up to me, sulking about what a party killer I am. I give him the silent treatment and stomp across the gravel parking lot towards our hotel. It's not worth explaining to him that I actually have feeling for Beth, much as I have feeling for Crystal, the assassin. I don't even know which side these people are on, but I have feelings for them. I don't even know what side I'm on. Am I a good guy in all this? I am being played.

I hold up as I spot a dark figure striding toward us. John halts and peers into the darkness. The man walks into the light of the parking lot lights then stops and regards us. He's wearing a black trench coat over black jeans and a grey shirt. His dark hair looks unwashed and his beard is filling in around a moustache and goatee. Army boots complete the look. He is all anti-hero, a model of the nihilist under-grounder.

He pulls a cigarette out of a pack and lights up, flicking a used match into the gravel. We face off at twenty paces.

"I've seen you fellows in the dark before, haven't I?" His voice sounds rough, like he spends a lot of time smoking and shouting.

"Long time, no see," I say. "Have much trouble getting those tired patched?"

"I keep a kit in the trunk. I don't want to sound all dramatic or anything, but I've had my tires shot out before. So. What happened to the girl?"

"She's safe. She's got a ninja taking care of her now."

He drags on the cigarette and shakes his head as he exhales. "Yeah, but whose ninja? Everybody who is anybody has a private ninja army now. Hell, they're not even real ninjas, just thugs in black pajamas. You don't know where she is. She might be dead, or she might be doing things she really shouldn't be doing. Maybe screwing us all over, you know? No, you don't know. You have no idea, do you?"

John speaks: "You're trying to keep us from reaching End City, aren't you?"

"I'm trying to keep the game fair," the young man says. "You guys might not like to hear it, but you don't belong here. You are outsiders brought in to interfere with something that doesn't involve you, and there's a chance you could really fuck things up. Can't let that happen."

"We're going to End City," I tell him.

With a shrug he takes a final drag off his cigarette and discards it. "Okay boys," he says, starting toward us, "Let's do it."

John and I split off from each other and the three of us start circling. The dark guy starts for me, making a sudden leap to close the distance between us, and grabs for me. I try to block him, but he clamps his hand on my forearm and slugs me in the face. I reel, tottering backwards.

He spins and turns on John, who is rushing for him. They collide and roll to the ground, grappling and struggling for control. John ends up on the bottom and takes a few punches to the face and a knee to the chest, which make him wheeze and gasp.

I step forward to kick the man off John, but he rolls and gains his feet, snapping into a fighting stance. With my fists up like a boxer, I gingerly move toward him. We swing a few punches at each other and I manage to grab the lapel of his coat. I pull him violently to me so I can throw punches at him with my free hand, which he deftly blocks. He brings the heel of his hand swiftly up into my chin, and I stumble back again, but I keep my grip and swing wildly at him.

John gains his feet and rushes to help, but our opponent swings me around like a dance partner and throws a kick into John's gut. John staggers, but his momentum carries him forward and the three of us end up on the ground.

We eventually manage to get on top of him, and throw some punches into his face until he stops struggling.

John is furious, screaming in the guy's face, "All right, you motherfuck! You're going to answer some fucking questions!"

He responds calmly. "Okay, okay, you guys. Let's talk. Look, why don't we head back into the bar? I could use a beer."

March 3, 2010.