Eady handed him his scotch and took a seat in a wingback chair, crossing one leg over his other knee. Eady reminded Klay of his grandfather. He had the same full white head of hair parted straight as a rifle barrel, same blue eyes and strong jaw. Even the same leathery neck skin with crosshatching that, in Klay’s grandfather, had fascinated Klay as a child. Physically, the main difference between the two men was in their smile. When he was amused, his grandfather had broken into a broad, chipped-tooth grin. Eady’s smile was always controlled. Even when he was pleased, Eady’s mouth barely opened.

“You look like death itself, Tom,” Eady said.

“I’ve been better.” Klay shifted his position, trying to get comfortable.

Eady shook his head. “It’s good to have you home.” He raised his glass. “To Ellsworth.”

Ellsworth, Klay thought.

Porfle had his sniper-spotter fantasy, and Eady had his Ellsworth. Every year, during a cocktail reception for incoming journalists, Eady stood on the roof of The Sovereign and gave a toast to Elmer Ellsworth, the young Union colonel who crossed the Potomac to Alexandria, Virginia, cut down a confederate flag for the president, and was promptly shot dead with the rebel banner in his arms—making him the first casualty of the Civil War. “Remember Ellsworth!” became a Union rallying cry.

“For a scrap of cloth,” Eady liked to say, lifting his glass, “that wasn’t.” The implication as subtle as a cannon ball: Bring me back stories. Survive if you can. I am your Lincoln.

“To Bernard,” Klay countered quietly, and drained his glass.

“Any more on the shooter, or shooters?”

Klay studied Eady, surprised. “I was hoping you might help with that.”

Eady nodded, sipped his drink. “Botha’s gone quiet?”

“Why would he do the politician?” Klay said.

Eady gestured for Klay to repeat his question.

“Why kill Lekorere?” Klay asked. “He wasn’t a threat.”

Eady shrugged. “Wrong place, wrong time. Shooters took your vehicle to get away. For some reason Lekorere was in it. That was a mistake.” Eady repeated his question. “Have you heard more on Botha?”

Klay’s mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about Bernard on his hands and knees outside his mother’s hut searching for his rungu. Klay teasing him for losing his club again. “You should put a string on it.” Bernard smiling his joy-filled smile, leading Klay on a hike, his gold belt jingling. “This blue flower tells us rain is coming. This is the candelabra tree. The sap will blind you. The only cure is to wash your eye out with blood.” Klay, bandaged, standing beside Bernard’s mother as she poured milk on her son’s grave.

“Tom?”

“I don’t know, Vance,” Klay said. “He texted me while I was in the hospital.”

“Texted you?”

Klay nodded. “‘Hope your food’s worse than mine,’ it said. ‘Get well soon. Hahaha.’”