“I really like this place,” he said. “Despite all the queer art. Nice, crisp, cruel, L.A. ambience. Much better than that little yuppie log cabin of yours. And cliffside—talk about perfect. Not to mention your little friend's truck—unbelievable. Couldn't have set it up better myself.”

He winked. “Almost makes you believe in God, doesn't it? Fate, karma, predestination, collective unconscious—choose your dogma . . . do you have any idea what I'm talking about?”

“Delmar Parker,” I said.

The dead boy's name blotted out his smile.

“I'm talking about consonance,” he said. “Making it right.”

“But Delmar has something to do with it, doesn't he? Something beyond bad love.”

He uncrossed his legs. The gun made a small arc. “What do you know about bad love, you pretentious yuppie prick?”

The gun arm was board rigid. Then it began vibrating. He looked at it for just a second. Laughed, as if trying to erase his outburst.

Scratch, bump. The dog was throwing himself hard against the glass.

Coburg snickered. “Little pit puppy. Maybe after it's over I'll take him home with me.”

Smiling but sweating. The rosy cheeks deep with color.

Trying to keep my face neutral, I strained to hear sounds from the bedrooms. Nothing.

“So you think you know about bad love,” said Coburg.

“Meredith told me about it,” I said.

His brow tightened and mottled.

The dog kept scraping. The old-man whining sound filtered through the glass. Coburg gave a disgusted look.

“You don't know anything,” he said.

“So tell me.”

“Shut your mouth.” The gun arm shot forward again.

I didn't move.

He said, “You don't know a tenth of it. Don't flatter yourself with empathy, fuck your empathy.”

The dog bumped some more. Coburg's eyes flattened.

“Maybe I'll just shoot it . . . skin it and gut it . . . how good can a shrink's dog be, anyway? How many shrinks does it take to change a lightbulb? None. They're all dead.”

He laughed a bit more. Wiped sweat from his nose. I concentrated on the gun arm. It remained firmly in place, as if cut off from the rest of him.

“Do you know what my sin was?” he said. “The great transgression that bought me a ticket to hell?”

Ticket to hell. Meredith had called the school the same thing.

I shook my head. My armpits were aching, my fingers turning numb.

He said, “Enuresis. When I was a kid I used to piss my bed.” He laughed.

“They treated me as if I liked it,” he said. “Mumsy and Evil Stepdaddy. As if I liked clammy sheets and that litter-box smell. They were convinced I was doing it on purpose, so they beat me. So I got more nervous and pissed gallons. So then what did they do?”

Looking at me, waiting.

“They beat you some more.”

“Bingo. And washed my dick with lye soap and all sorts of other wonderful stuff.”