He brought two lawn chairs onto the balcony. There was no coffee.

I held out the photos again. “So, what can you tell me?”

But Fusk didn’t answer. He’d taken a gun out from under an overturned pot next to his chair. So casual. Like he’d done it a lot over the years. And yet beatific in its purpose, that action. I saw a light in his eyes that showed me how he’d been much younger.

The adrenaline left me, and I felt so ancient and so weary. My mind didn’t want to focus. All I saw was the gun. Heavy and dangerous-looking, with six chambers. Old, but clean and well-maintained.

He could have shot me. I would have done nothing. That’s how helpless I was back then.

“Listen to me and really hear me,” Fusk said. “Understand this: I don’t know who you think you are, but if I ever see you again, I will use this thing. Get out of here and never come back. Don’t ask questions. Don’t show people these photographs. I’d say take another case, except you’re not a private eye.”

I didn’t argue, like a switch had clicked off.

Stumbled out of my seat and stumbled back into the living room and stumbled down the stairs and stumbled out into the shop and then through the front door, out into the light of the street.

I didn’t stop until I had walked another four blocks and had no real idea where I was, caught my breath, tried to slow everything down.

A coffee shop looked like a kind of haven. I sat down heavy in a seat, ignoring the frown of the barista cleaning tables.

I kept picking up my regular phone to call the police. Putting it back down again on the table. I ordered a Red Eye. I drank it quick, even though it scalded my throat. Should I call the police? And tell them what? That Fusk had threatened me after I impersonated a detective? What kind of offense was that in this state? How would this tip my hand to people who might be watching? To whoever had tracked my search on Larry’s computer.

Had I given my real name? I couldn’t remember. Had I done anything that Fusk could trace back to me? Didn’t think so. Couldn’t be sure.

I was still clutching the book about fur. Even though the words were meaningless now.

[34]

A layover in Chicago on the way back, because of bad weather in our path. The kind you can’t fly through. Also, once we landed, some mechanical issue. So we would have to change planes. Another delay. Well, that was the way of it with miracles like flight. The magic had become tawdry, tattered, excruciating.