Healy looked out the gap. Traffic moved slowly by on the street. Horns screamed and drivers hooted and gestured, everyone in a hurry. A half-dozen people stood outside, gawking up at the hole. He looked at her for a moment, in a probing way that made her uncomfortable. “What they did here — Healy nodded at the cratered floor — ”that was real slick. Real professional. I were you, I'd think about a new subject for your film. At least until we find this Sword of Jesus."

Rune was looking down, playing with the plastic controls on her Sony. “I have to make my film.”

“I've been in ordnance disposal for fifteen years. The thing about explosives is that they're not like guns. You don't have to look the person in the eyes when you kill them. You don't have to be anywhere near. You don't worry about hurting innocent people. Hurting innocent people is part of the message.”

“I told Shelly I was going to make this film. And I am. Nothing's going to stop me.”

Healy shrugged. “I'm just telling you what I'd want you to do, you were my girlfriend. Or something.”

Rune said, “Can I have my wallet back?”

“No. Let me destroy the evidence.”

“It cost me fifty bucks.”

“Fifty? For a phony shield?” Healy laughed. “You're not only breaking the law, you're getting ripped off in the process. Now get out of here. And think about what I said.”

“About the Mossad and bombs and C-4?”

“About making a different kind of movie.”

Son of a bitch.

That night, home from work, Rune stood in the doorway of her houseboat and looked at the damage. Every drawer was open. The thief hadn't been very careful — just dumping clothes helter-skelter, opening notebooks and dressers and galley drawers and looking under futons. Clothes, papers, books, tapes, food, utensils, stuffed animals... everything everywhere.

Son of a bitch.

Rune pulled a new tear gas canister out of a closet near the door and walked through the boat.

The burglar had left.

She stepped into the middle of the mess, picked up a few things — a couple of socks, the book of Grimms' fairy stories. Her shoulders slumped and she set the objects on the floor again. There was too much to do, and none of it was going to get done tonight.

“Damn.”

Rune turned a chair right side up and sat on it. She felt queasy. Somebody had touched that sock, touched the book, touched her underwear and maybe her toothpaste... Throw them out, she thought. She shuddered from the sense of violation.

Why?

She had valuables, fifty-eight Indian head nickels, which she thought were the neatest coins ever made and would have to be worth something. About three hundred dollars in cash, wadded up and stuffed in an old box of cornflakes. Some of the old books would be worth something. The VCR.

Then she thought: Shit, the Sony.

L&R's camera!