Chapter Three

      This isn’t supposed to be happening, Jack Thompson thought.

      He couldn’t even begin to explain why he had come over to confront the two men. When he had seen that camera, for some reason he had been overcome by an overpowering wave of anger.

      The doctors had warned him. They had said that a tendency to impulsive and risky behavior was a fairly common result of head trauma. He hadn’t paid much attention, because up until now he hadn’t sensed any lack of restraint within himself.

      Up until now, he thought grimly, aware that the guy he was struggling with for control of the camera was reaching into his pocket with his other hand. And he knew with cold certainty, a feeling which tightened all the muscles of his stomach, that the cameraman was going for a gun.

      Something Jack wished he had. He could almost feel the solid, reassuring weight of a weapon in his hand. Except he didn’t have a gun, and he couldn’t remember ever having touched one. Couldn’t consciously remember, he amended, because somehow he knew that he had. And he wanted to again. Right about now would be a real good time.

      The fumbling hand finally emerged from the side pocket of the guy’s coat. And he hadn’t been wrong, Jack thought, seeing what it held. He wished to hell he had been. He also wished that he hadn’t started this. What could it possibly matter that someone was videotaping him while he was talking to a woman? A stranger. It sure wasn’t worth getting killed over.

      He willed his fingers to release their grip on the camera they were struggling over. The unexpected loss of opposition unbalanced the cameraman. He staggered backward, crashing into the open door of the car. Both hands rose automatically, almost shoulder high, as he tried to regain his balance.