Now that the dermatologist, who looked to them like a child playing a doctor in a school play, had come and gone, confirming the existing diagnosis, they were waiting for some insurance confusion to be sorted out and paperwork to be completed. Someone’s computer system was down—it wasn’t quite clear whose—and they’d been cheerily advised that the whole process might take a while.

Kyle, who had accompanied Madeleine to the hospital, was roaming between Gurney’s room and the waiting room, the gift shop and the cafeteria, the nurses’ station and the parking lot. It was clear that he wanted to be there, and equally clear that he was frustrated by the lack of anything useful to do. He’d been in and out of Gurney’s little room numerous times that morning. After several awkward beginnings, he finally managed to make a request he said had been on his mind ever since Madeleine had mentioned to him that Gurney’s old motorcycle helmet was stored away in their attic.

“You know, Dad, our heads are about the same size. I wonder … if it would be okay … I mean … I was wondering if could I have your helmet?”

“Sure, absolutely. I’ll give it to you when we get back to the house.” Gurney smiled at the thought that Kyle apparently had inherited his father’s roundabout way of expressing affection. “Thanks, Dad. That’s great. Wow. Thanks.”

Kim had called—twice—to find out how Gurney was, to apologize for not being able to come to the hospital, to thank him profusely for risking his life to confront the Shepherd, and to let him know she’d been interviewed at length the previous day by Detective Schiff in connection with the Robby Meese homicide. She’d explained that she’d been appropriately cooperative. However, when Schiff had been joined that morning by Agent Trout of the FBI to reinterview her in light of the fiery drama at Max Clinter’s, she’d decided it would be wise to have an attorney present—putting that new interview temporarily on hold.

Hardwick strode into Gurney’s room a minute before noon. After giving Madeleine a grin and a reassuring wink, he gave Gurney a frowning once-over and burst into laughter—more of a rhythmic growling than an expression of merriment. “Jesus, man, what the hell did you do to your eyebrows?”

“I decided to burn them off and start over.”

“Did you also decide to turn your face into a fucking pomegranate?”

“Nice of you to drop by, Jack. I need the encouragement.”

“Christ, on the TV you look like James Bond. Here you look like—”

“What do you mean, on TV?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it.”

“Seen what?”