When Gurney awoke the following morning at seven-thirty, it was raining. It was the kind of light but steady rain that can go on for hours.

As usual, both windows were open a few inches from the top. The air in the bedroom was chilly and damp. Although it was officially almost an hour past sunrise, the skewed rectangle of sky visible from the position of his head on the pillow was the unpromising gray of a wet flagstone.

Madeleine was up before him. He stretched and rubbed his eyes. He had no desire to go back to sleep. His last dream, an uneasy one, had involved a black umbrella. As the umbrella opened, seemingly of its own volition, its unfolding fabric became the wings of an enormous bat. The bat shape-shifted into a black vulture, the curved umbrella handle sharpening into a hooked beak. And then, through the exotic sensory logic of dreams, the vulture was transformed into the cool draft from the open windows—the unpleasant touch of which had been the cause of his awakening.

He pushed himself out of bed, as a way of putting distance between himself and the dream. Then he took a hot shower for its mind-clearing and reality-simplifying benefits, shaved, brushed his teeth, dressed, and went out to the kitchen for coffee.

“Call Jack Hardwick,” said Madeleine from the stove, without looking up, as she added a handful of raisins to something she was simmering in a small pot.

“Why?”

“Because he called here about fifteen minutes ago and wanted to talk to you.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Said he had a question about your e-mail.”

“Hmm.” He went to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup. “I was dreaming about a black umbrella.”

“He seemed very eager to talk to you.”

“I’ll call him. But … tell me, how did that movie end?”

Madeleine emptied the little pot into her bowl and brought it to the breakfast table. “I don’t remember.”

“You described that scene in great detail—the guy the snipers were following, how he went into the church, and later, when he came out, they couldn’t tell who he was because everyone else coming out of the church with him was dressed in black and had a black umbrella. What happened after that?”

“I guess he got away. Because the snipers couldn’t shoot everybody.”

“Hmm.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Suppose they did shoot everybody.”

“They didn’t.”

“But suppose they did. Suppose they shot everybody, because that was the only way they could make sure they got the one they were after. And suppose the police arrived later and found all those bodies, all those people who’d been shot dead in the street. What would they think?”

“What would the police think? I have no idea. Maybe that some maniac wanted to kill churchgoers?”