Oh, yipe, should really set this one up now.

Read onward!

The elevator opened onto the fourth floor.

I was quick to discover it was more like a hotel room setup than anything else. I looked and upon testing one of the doors, discovered the locks had been disabled on them. (Somehow, again, that didn't surprise me.) And from the look of the interior, it was definitely not anywhere Starr had infiltrated.

This looked more like a police detective's setup – a bulletin board with a map pegged with pins, a bunch of photos similarly pinned to it. I spotted a chair and some tools for interrogation – a fluorescent lamp, a bucket of water and a cloth (for waterboarding, I guessed). Elsewhere, I spotted a rack with various pictures of ancient Egyptian items on it – sarcophagi, pyramids, tomb drawings, that kind of stuff. Spooky.

At least it was quiet in here. I took my pendant out from under my shirt.

Finally! it said in my mind. The original voice, not the one from the Heid. You realize how stuffy it was in there!

You're the one who wanted to hurt Starr, I thought back. At entirely the wrong time. And don't tell me you don't have eyes.

Whoa, dude, what flew up your butt?

"Excuse me if I'm kinda stressed here!" I snapped. I know, I sounded like I was going crazy, talking to a necklace, but I wasn't sure how well my connection was holding up under my present emotion. "There was a freaking missile strike in Palestine, you know!"

Miles away. You said so yourself. Starr's right here in this country, and I'd bet he put 'em up to it. Didn't you catch him at it?

I remembered Starr's conversation on the phone. I hadn't thought it told me much, but clearly my pendant had been able to catch a little more of that conversation. (Surprising, since, again, it didn't have ears.) Needless to say, I didn't like what my pendant was implying. The suggestion that it had been a member of Hamas on the phone with Starr, and that the latter had put the organization up to it… yeah, that wasn't good.

As if reading my thoughts, the pendant buzzed in my hand. You know, I pick up more than you think. Especially about that conversation with DJ earlier. She's right about talking it over with Imira. That might be the only way to get some form of peace.

"Really helpful," I muttered. "I just – I know you want to hurt Starr, but just don't blow my cover while you're–"

"I never said anything about hurting Starr."

Why do people have to keep sneaking up on me? It's like a really terrible pattern. They get behind me, without warning, just to get me to freak out. They had to stop doing that. Best-case scenario, I'll just jump out of my Adidases. Worst-case, they get a busted nose.

I whipped out my belt to thrash the unfortunate schmuck who'd sneaked up on me. Only that schmuck was–

"Oh, great, it's the Horse Vet," I said, before realizing I'd said it out loud.

It was, indeed, my favorite con man. And I imagined he was quite surprised to see a little boy in his study. (That had to be the room I'd wound up in.)

He certainly looked worse for wear. I hadn't gotten a good look at his face back at the Heid, because, well, I was hiding and preoccupied and didn't want Starr catching me. But up close and personal, I realized his face was quite haggard from little sleep. His blond hair was completely messed up. How long had he been stalking Starr? Clearly, long enough for it to really wreck his mental health.

"Ah, sorry," I began. Not that I wanted to apologize for my smack comment, but I had intruded on his study. Also, I was holding a belt like a whip. Not that Horzvedt would actually think I was any sort of threat, but he had looked at me strangely back at the Heid.

"It's all right, boy," Horzvedt said quietly, his tone conveying more amusement than aggravation. "The one thing I love about teenagers, in fact – they always say exactly what is on their mind."

"You've been tailing Starr for a long time, haven't you?" I answered, slipping my belt around my knuckles (I wasn't anxious to stand down). Not that I expected a straight answer from him. People like Horzvedt aren't inclined to give the truth if it doesn't directly benefit them. But it wouldn't hurt to ask.

Horzvedt frowned as if knowing I might not believe him. "I know you have no reason to trust me–"

"You're right about that."

"But yes, I have been on Starr for quite some time. Even at the risk of my reputation."

"You became a con man. The most infamous one in the West." Even saying that sounded a little obvious. Horzvedt's eyes were quite piercing, like they could see the truth in your statement – much like DJ's. I wondered how this guy got into his line of work in the first place. Did he lose a certain amount of reputation before he decided to swindle people?

I decided to divert back to the room. "What are all these pins for?" I asked, waving toward the pegboard. I recognized the setup of the room from police dramas, but I wasn't sure what the significance of the pins really was. Odd, for a fighter for humanity, but we were still getting on our feet. And it seemed a little weird for a criminal like Horzvedt to possess one of those tools.

I also noticed a pattern to the pins – they were pretty scattered in the East, only a few. The highest concentration of the pins was on the West Coast – the area where Horzvedt was predominantly active and had a reputation. However, I got the sense this layout did not pertain to him in the slightest.

"Odd you should ask, boy," Horzvedt said, his light smile flitting onto his face. "Those pins are indicators of bases Starr has had."

I observed the pins – more than a couple dozen, scattered all over a map of the United States. I let out a low whistle. "He's got a lot."

Horzvedt nodded. "Multiple bases in many states. Predominantly in the West, as far as I can tell. I've been tailing him for thirty years, and I still haven't found how many. And quite a few of them he's had to abandon for… one reason or another."

I was afraid to ask what reason Starr might have for abandoning a base. But then I noticed something else about the pins. "Anything special about the color-coding?" I asked, pointing to the pins, which were in varying colors – most red, some blue, one gray. I couldn't help noticing his fingers weren't tapping the whole time we'd talked.

That's his tell, I realized. He doesn't smile when he lies. He taps his fingers. I didn't say that out loud, though. People tend to hide their tell when others let them know about it. Come to think of it, Horzvedt might've even let them think smiling was his tell when it was really something else. I'd both seen and heard so many unsurprising things in the last ten hours that this wouldn't be my first.

"The red pins are the ones that are still active," Horzvedt said. No tapping. "The bases marked by blue pins are the same way, but he doesn't frequent them as much. And the gray one right there – abandoned completely."

He pointed toward the gray pin on the map, which was positioned in the San Francisco Bay Area. San Francisco… that triggered my memory.

I was probably pushing my luck asking a predisposed liar about it, but I remembered a conversation with Jay about Horzvedt – something about that particular city. "How long has he abandoned it?" I asked Horzvedt.

"Thirty years. Why?" No tapping. He was for real.

"Just curious." I was reeling inside. If Horzvedt was to be believed, Starr had abandoned this base around the same time the fire in San Francisco had occurred. Around the time Horzvedt had started tailing him. Somehow, that didn't seem like just a coincidence.

"Why were you tailing Starr?" I asked. "Didn't it occur to you that he's a sleaze bag?"

"Why do you suspect me of the fire even though I wasn't responsible?"

I hate it when people answer a question with a question. It took all my willpower not to punch Horzvedt's face in. There was no tapping, which suggested he might be telling the truth. But if he wasn't responsible for the fire, then who was?

Scary question. Starr had been there.

"A better question would be, why did I help you retrieve the censer at the Heid?" Horzvedt asked.

How the heck did he know that very question was on my mind? Stupid con men.

"Well," he continued on, glancing at my pendant. "You had a David's star pendant when I saw you. I've always had a soft spot for Jews, you should know. And you reminded me of one that I knew once – a boy named Jethro Stein."

At the name, my pendant gave a loud buzz against my chest – not the Kill Starr! buzz I'd been getting constantly, but more of recognition. Had this Jethro Stein kid once owned my pendant? And what was that about Horzvedt–? Probably just a lie to gain my trust, but I was intrigued by the story. There certainly hadn't been any tapping, either. And something told me he wouldn't have sought me out if he didn't think me an asset in some way.

And if he was legit about the Jew thing…

"Something you should know," I said in a whisper. I didn't really know who else was in here, besides me and Horse Vet. "And I won't lie."

"Of course you won't." Horzvedt eyed my Comclip this time. "You're a fighter for virtue, from what I've heard. And I've heard quite a few rumors concerning you. I don't doubt you won't lie."

Man, he was good.

I hesitated, not sure how to put it. "When I went through his room at the Heid, I saw a Palestine flag. He covered it up when you came in–"

Horzvedt's face turned quite pale. "That's… good to know."

Yeah, he was for real about the Jewish sympathizer part. Why else would he react that way to the news of a Palestine flag in his target's hotel room?

"Well," Horzvedt said, "I'd love to chat further about this, but I reckon this is about as far as you'll trust me. And I'm a busy man. I've got folks to swindle, money to gain, a forger to keep tabs on–" He stopped. I got the sense he was going to tell me something very important. Something I really might want to pay attention to.

"I'm listening," I said nervously.

"Neither of us are really on the 'right side,' boy," Horzvedt said in a whisper. "And by us, I mean me and Starr. This isn't your normal conflict of good versus evil. You're facing a forger with unknown connections, possibly dangerous ones. And bad guys often fight amongst themselves. We're all quite selfish that way. The question here isn't who's guilty. It rather should be: whose heart is heaviest?"

What was that supposed to mean?

"Tell your friends that," Horzvedt said. "If they're not already aware."

He then pulled on his trench coat and exited the room. Before he closed the door, he waved in my direction – but not triumphantly. More like he'd found a way to get a one-up on his opponent. Gosh, how much did he hate Starr?

More importantly, what the heck was going on?

I scanned the desk and spotted a small photograph. The picture bore the image of a younger-looking Horzvedt with a teenage boy in a baseball cap – Jethro Stein, I presumed. I quickly pocketed the photograph; in case it proved useful.

Then I exited the room, because suddenly I didn't want to be alone in it.

Let's see how he handles it, shall we?

Verse for the update: Jeremiah 17:5-6. Stay tuned!