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brought a bunch of other supplies, too, including a packet of Flents ear–loop surgical masks. We armored ourselves with them and spent the rest of the hour treating the sick. And by we, I really mean her. While I stayed on relatively undemanding bucket–emptying and sheet–changing patrol, she took care of dispensing medicine and getting the survivors ready for school.
    Within twenty minutes, the moans of the dying had stopped, and the living were in the front hall, lined up, scrubbed, combed, and even wearing correct socks. My private Florence Nightingale had done the impossible. The insanity was almost under control.
    Almost. On the way out the door, Brian, my oldest boy, suddenly bent double, clutching his belly.
    “Ohhhh, I don’t feel so hot,” he groaned.
    Mary Catherine didn’t hesitate a second. She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead to feel his temperature, then lightly swatted her fingers against the side of his ear.
    “The ‘didn’t–study’ flu is what you’ve got, as if I didn’t know about your math test,” she said. “Get moving, you malingerer. I’ve well enough to do around this house than to deal with your messin’.”
    As they left, I did something I’d written off for this morning. I smiled with genuine good humor.
    Cancel the National Guard, I thought. All this situation required was one petite young Irish lass.
     
    Chapter 9
     
    The Teacher walked into Bryant Park, behind the New York Public Library, at eleven A.M. — still ahead of schedule. He’d stopped by his headquarters, a rented apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, and changed his appearance from head to toe. The Rolex was gone, replaced by a Casio sports watch. So was the Givenchy suit. Now he was wearing wraparound shades, a Jets cap, a traffic–cone–orange Mets spring training jersey, and baggy yellow basketball shorts.
    No one could possibly have recognized him as the elegant businessman who’d pushed that worthless bitch in front of the train — which was precisely the point. To make the mission succeed, speed and surprise were key. He needed to strike like a cobra, get in and back out again before anyone even knew he’d been there. Melt into the crowds and use them as human shields. Exploit the multilevel, mazelike streetscape of Manhattan. Totally change his appearance — then strike again.
    He found an empty folding chair in the park, removed his Palm Treo from his fanny pack, and brought up the other vital document it contained. To accompany his mission statement, the Plan was a fourteen–page blueprint for what he needed to accomplish. He scrolled to its last and most important page, a long bullet–pointed list. Almost in a trance, he read it over slowly, mentally rehearsing each and every possibility as he went along, visualizing how he would perform every act with calm, serious perfection.
    He’d first learned about the power of visualization when he was a pitcher on the baseball team at Princeton. He wasn’t especially gifted — just a basic power righty, with a fastball in the low nineties. But his coach had taught him to go over the lineup of the opposing team before every game, imagining each strikeout in detail.
    That coach had taught him a couple of more down–to–earth techniques, too. One was a velvety smooth delivery that made him seem faster. Another was to throw inside, which led to his well–deserved reputation as a headhunter.
    And that was what had gotten him kicked off the team in his junior year. He’d plunked some blond pansy from Dartmouth so hard that the baseball cracked his helmet and gave him a concussion. The Dartmouth team assumed that he’d done it on purpose, because the asshole had gone three for three against him. The field had erupted in a bench–clearing brawl.
    They were right that the Teacher had thrown the beaner deliberately, but wrong about the reason. What had pissed him off was the other guy’s hot girlfriend, sitting in the front row of the stands,