Theo stopped halfway down the hall and set his hand on a doorknob. He glanced up at me; for a moment I thought he’d speak. Then the moment was gone, and he opened the door.

There was a lamp lit on the nightstand, and a bulky figure on the bed; there was the sound of harsh, irregular breathing. It was Albrecht, gray-skinned, slack-mouthed, aged by ten years, sick. But alive. Theo hunched over the bed as if looking for some microscopic, encouraging signal.

I couldn’t find any resemblance between Theo and his father. Maybe he looked like his mother. That would be interesting, to be able to see your nose on someone else’s face, and know it was only the outward sign of an interior connection, a similarity in the blood. And the emotional connection: Was it different from friendship? What did Theo feel now? Would I feel the same, if it were Theo lying stricken on the bedspread?

I heard something click to my right and looked up. Dusty, my nemesis from the Night Fair and the Underbridge, stood in the connecting door to the next room. He wore a knee-length black robe that was too big around for him, and his shell-pink hair was in disarray. I’d never seen him without the silvertones; his eyes were narrow and deep-set and very dark. He held a long-barreled pistol in both hands. “Hey,” he said, “it’s Sonnyboy and the Whatchacallit.”

I stood very still at the foot of the bed. LeRoy’s injection and a bolt of fear combined to make a buzzing noise in my head. I waited for a sign from heaven.

Theo hadn’t moved, either. His back was to the connecting door. Did he recognize — yes, he’d known Dusty as one of Tom Worecski’s henchmen. Theo’s eyes widened, and closed; his lips pressed tight, and his shoulders rose as he filled his lungs in a rush.

“God damn it,” Theo said, heated and drawling, still facing the bed, “I thought I told you to watch him!”

My teeth snapped closed, an involuntary motion. I knew that voice.

Dusty’s head turned, just a little, and he frowned. “Boss?”

Theo scowled over his shoulder. “What the fuck were you doin’? How long has he been like this?”

There was a little of the bad truck driver from Rainbow Express in it, and some of Jack Nicholson in Easy Rider. But it was mostly the voice of Tom Worecski. Monte Cristo, indeed, Theo. But it would only buy a few minutes, nothing else.

“Like what?” said Dusty. He took a step closer, and the gun barrel wavered.

“If he dies, I’m gonna have your ass for breakfast. Go call downstairs for a doctor.” Theo made a little business out of checking his father’s pulse. Careful, careful — the body language would be harder than doing the voice. But of course, that was why Theo hadn’t moved from the bedside.

Dusty was still frowning. “What happened upstairs? And who’s that with you?”