Still smiling, but his cheeks were scarlet. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shoulders hunched under the designer sweatshirt.

My first thought, seeing those rosy cheeks, had been: a beautiful baby.

“So I started to do other things,” he said. “Really naughty things. Could anyone blame me? Being tortured for something that I had no control over?”

I shook my head again. For a split second I felt my agreement meant something to him. Then a distracted look came into his eyes. The gun arm pushed forward and the black-metal barrel edged closer to my heart.

“What's the current lowdown on enuresis, anyway?” he said. “Do you pricks still tell parents it's a mental disease?”

“It's genetic,” I said. “Related to sleep patterns. Generally it goes away by itself.”

“You don't treat it anymore?”

“Sometimes behavior therapy is used.”

“You ever treat kids for it?”

“When they want to be treated.”

“Sure,” he grinned. “You're a real humanitarian.” The grin died. “So what were you doing making speeches—paying homage to Hitler?”

“I—”

“Shut up.” The gun jabbed my chest. “That was rhetorical, don't speak unless you're spoken to . . . sleep patterns, huh? You quacks weren't saying that back when I was getting beaten with a strap. You had all sorts of other voodoo theories back then—one of your fellow quacks told Mumsy and Evil that I was screwed up sexually. Another said I was seriously depressed and needed to be hospitalized. And one genius told them I was doing it because I was angry about their marriage. Which was true. But I wasn't pissing because of it. That one they bought. Evil really got into expressing his anger. Big financial man, spiffy dresser—he had a whole collection of fancy belts. Lizard, alligator, calfskin, all with nice sharp buckles. One day I went to school with an especially nice collection of welts on my arm. A teacher started asking questions and the next thing I knew I was on a plane with dear old Mumsy to sunny California. Go west, little bad boy.”

He let his free hand drop to his lap. His eyes looked tired and his shoulders rounded.

The dog was still throwing himself against the glass.

Coburg stared straight at me.

I said, “How old were you when they put you in the school?”

The gun jabbed again, forcing me backward against the couch. All at once his face was up against mine, breathing licorice. I could see dried mucus in his nostrils. He spat. His saliva was cold and thick as it oozed down the side of my face.

“I'm not there, yet,” he said, between barely moving lips. “Why don't you shut up and let me tell it?”

Breathing hard and fast. I made myself look into his eyes, feeling the gun without seeing it. My pulse thundered in my ears. The spit continued its downward trail. Reaching my chin. Dripping onto my shirt.