He certainly could not go home. If anyone was searching for him, his apartment on the Upper West Side would be the first place they would look. The dink was no good at this hour of the night, either. Someone could nab him there just as easily.

Look, I'm not very good at this. I'm just your average run-of-the mill doctor who went to college, went to medical school, got married, had a kid, finished residency, got divorced, lost custody of the kid, and now works too hard. I'm not up to playing I Spy.

But what other choice did he have? He could go to the police, but who would believe him? He had no real evidence yet. Hell, he wasn't even sure what was going on himself. What could he tell the police?

Try this on for size, Brucie: "Help! Protect me! Two people have already been murdered and countless others may join them including me!"

Maybe true. Maybe not. Question: what did he really know for sure?

Answer: not a hell of lot. More like nothing. By going to the police, Brace knew he would do little more than destroy the clinic and all the important work they had accomplished there.

He had dedicated the last three years to that research, and he was not about to give those damn bigots the weapon they needed to kill the project. No, he would have to handle it a different way.

But how?

He checked once more to make sure he was not being followed. All his enemy spies were gone now. That was good.

That was a nice bit of relief. He hailed a yellow taxi and jumped into the backseat.

"Where to?" Bruce thought for a moment, mulling over every thriller he had ever read. Where would George Smiley go, or better still, Travis Mcgee or Spenser?

"The Plaza, please."

The taxi pulled away. Bruce watched out the back window.

No cars seemed to be following as the taxi began its journey down the Van Wyck Expressway toward Manhattan. Bruce settled back, letting his head rest against the seat. He tried to breathe deeply and relax, but he still found himself trembling in fear.