When I got back to the car I stretched the seat out as flat as I could and lay there, limp. I’d thrown up after leaving Mrs. Frizell, a sudden spontaneous retching to purge myself from the lie I’d had to tell. Nelle McDowell had produced a woman with a mop who refused to let me clean up the mess for her.

“Don’t worry about it, honey; it’s my job. And it’s good to see someone care enough about that poor old lady to be sick for her. You just get yourself a glass of water and put your feet up for a minute.”

I felt ashamed to lose control in front of Steve and Nelle McDowell, and brushed off their offers of help. “Your kids are going to be furious if you stand them up much longer, Steve. You go on home—I’m okay.”

And I was okay, sort of. I’d been out of control since ringing Todd Pichea’s doorbell last night. Why worry about losing it further at Cook County Hospital?

It was noon when I finally pulled myself together and started the car. I was on the South Side already, two blocks from Damen; a few more miles south and I could start checking the bars near Mitch Kruger’s old home. I just didn’t have the stomach for any more broken-down lives today.

Instead I turned toward Lake Michigan and drove north, past the city to the tony suburbs, where private grounds hid the lake from view, and finally to the open land beyond them. Although the day was clear and the water blue and calm, it was still much too cold for swimming. Clumps of picnickers dotted the lakefront, but I was able to find a stretch of deserted beach where I could take off my clothes and go into the water in my underwear. Within a few minutes my feet and my ears were aching with cold, but I kept pushing myself until I felt a roaring in my head and the world turned black around me. I stumbled to the shore and lay panting on the sand.

When I woke up the sun was low in the sky. I’d made a fine spectacle for passing voyeurs all afternoon, but no one had bothered me. I put my jeans and shirt back on and headed back to town.

Depression over my failure with Mrs. Frizell made me sleep heavily that night, too heavily, so that I woke late on Sunday feeling thick and unrefreshed. The air outside had turned unexpectedly thick and heavy, too, not good for jogging. Ninety degrees and muggy in early June? Did this mean that the dread greenhouse effect was kicking in and I should trade in my high-performance car for a bicycle? I didn’t think I could worry about Mrs. Frizell, Mitch Kruger, and the environment all on the same weekend.