The Punisher

was the bureau’s National Crime Information Center, the biggest database of its kind in the country. “See what we can find on the two dead guys.”

Morris nodded. “Still having a hard time thinking that Howard Saint’s involved in any of this, I have to say. The good that man’s done for the city . . .”

Weeks took a sip of coffee from the plastic cup in his hand. Cold, had been cold the last half hour, but God knows he needed the caffeine.

“Let’s not rush to judgment,” he said. “For all we know, this may not have anything to do with Saint.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that.” Morris hesitated. “Can we speak frankly, Agent Weeks?”

“Of course.”

Morris lowered his voice. “Your man Brent seems to have it in for Howard Saint.”

Weeks almost smiled. This was going to be a lot easier than he thought.

“Kevin’s been investigating him for a long time, Chief. Put a lot of work into the case, with very little to show for it.”

“With nothing to show for it, as far as I can tell.” Morris shook his head. “I am not going to make this case into a referendum on Howard Saint.”

“I understand that. And I agree a hundred percent. For what it’s worth.”

“So you’ll keep your friend on a leash?” Morris’s eyes bore into his.

Weeks suddenly wondered if he was on Saint’s payroll, too.

“I’ll make sure he understands that you’re looking for facts. Not his interpretation of facts.”

“Good.”

They’d reached the front door. Weeks pushed it open and was almost instantly overwhelmed by a crowd of reporters who’d gathered on the steps of the Federal Building, clearly hoping for a further scrap of news on the day’s biggest story.

“Chief Morris!”

“Chief! The shooting at the Saint building!”

“Just a couple questions, Chief!”

A handful of patrolmen managed to hold the reporters at bay long enough for Weeks and Morris to move past the gauntlet and start down the stairs.

Starting down them was about as far as Weeks got.

He dropped his coffee cup.

Frank Castle stood at the bottom of the steps, waiting for him.

His old friend, his Fort Lee running buddy, his Desert Shield compadre, the best man at his wedding, the only man he’d trusted with the truth about why his marriage had fallen apart, the best agent he’d ever worked with . . .

The man whose death—whose family’s death—had been on his conscience for the past three months, every minute of every hour.

It couldn’t be.

“What’s the matter, Jimmy? See a ghost?” Castle asked.

He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“Frank?” he croaked.

Next to him, Morris had stopped, too.

“Castle?”

Weeks heard movement—the shuffle of feet—behind them on the marble steps. The crowd of reporters, still trying to get to Chief Morris.

A voice came from over his shoulder.

“Wait a minute . . . the Frank Castle? Mr. Castle . . . a few questions!”

Weeks turned and saw Danny Palmer, from the Tampa Times , push to the head of the crowd. Christ. Palmer had already sniffed out a few things Mr. Saint would have preferred to keep private; if he hooked up with Castle—

“Hold ’em back!” Morris yelled.

More cops surged up the steps to handle the media; Weeks and the chief started down them again, toward Castle.

Frank didn’t look good. His skin was as white as—well, as a ghost, just like his old friend had said. Except, with all that black he was wearing—leather jacket, pants, boots— he looked more like someone from one of those goth bands his daughter always used to listen to: Rage Red, Cardiak. The skull T-shirt only added to the effect. Made him look a little comical. Cartoonish, almost.

Except there was nothing at all cartoonish about the look on his face.

“Jimmy,” Castle said. “Morris.”

His friend’s voice was different, too, Weeks realized. Harsher, more gravelly. As if he’d been drinking all night.

“Jesus, Frank . . .” Weeks tried to think of something intelligent to say. “What are you . . . where have you been?”

“I forget.”

Weeks and Morris exchanged a look. The chief stepped forward.

“Castle, I’m not holding this conversation on the sidewalk. A number of individuals are going to have questions—”

“About Puerto Rico?” Castle interrupted. “Don’t bother. I got shot. I woke up. That’s what I remember.”

“You remember that a lot of other people died there, too, I trust?” Morris asked. “There’s a whole task force of agencies going to want to talk to you about what you saw—”

“Nothing. You subpoena me, that’s what I’ll say. That, and one more thing.” Castle pulled out his wallet, took something out of it, and handed it to Weeks. His FBI shield.

“I quit,” he said.

The two men locked eyes then, and it was all Weeks could do not to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness right then and there.

“You can quit the bureau if you want,” Morris said, “but that doesn’t absolve you of your responsibilities as a citizen, Castle. I want you to—”

“What you want,” Frank interrupted, “doesn’t matter.”

The two of them glared at each other a moment.

Weeks didn’t know what to do. He should call Saint and tell him Castle was back. He should tell Frank to run for his life. He should run for his own life.

“If you’re not going to cooperate,” Morris began, “then you leave me no choice but to—”

“Whoa.” Weeks stepped between the two of them. “Chief, this man has been through hell. Who’s he supposed to trust right now? Let’s get him to a safe house.”

Frank wasn’t having any of it. “I don’t want a safe house. I don’t want witness protection, I don’t want anything. It’s been months since my family was killed. I don’t see one man in jail. All I want to know is, who gave me up.”

Weeks nodded, trying to look sympathetic while, inside, his heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

Morris tried again.

“Obviously, you’re upset—”

“Upset?” Frank wasn’t having any of that, either. “Is that the word? I used to get upset when I had a flat tire. I used to get upset when a plane was delayed. I used to get upset when the Yankees won the Series. So if that’s what upset means— then how do I feel now? If you know the word, tell me, ’cause I don’t know the word for what I really feel.”

“Frank.” Weeks shook his head. “If these people know you’re still alive, they will kill you. We’re trying to protect you.”

Castle turned the full force of his gaze on Weeks.

“Don’t bother keeping me a secret. I’m in the phone book. Don’t be a stranger, Jimmy.”

And with that, he walked away.

Weeks watched him cross the street and climb into a car that was double-parked directly opposite the