Decker said, “All right. If I’d be brutally honest with myself, I’d say there was an off-chance that he freaked and did it. But we were in combat together for a while. I never saw him explode. Abel had a rep for being coolheaded. Type of guy the COs chose for pointman—lead-off guy in foot patrol—because he was careful and didn’t panic when things got hot.”

“Ever see him kill anybody?”

“You saw smoke, you busted some caps. Simple as that. When everything cooled off and you went in for cleanup, you’d see all these fucking bodies. Well, they didn’t drop dead from birdshit. You were shooting to kill, you killed. In answer to your question, I never saw him waste anyone for the sake of killing, and there was plenty of that going around!”

Decker stopped, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“Abel could have been something if the war hadn’t left him paralyzed. Matter of fact, he wanted to be a cop, but Charlie blew off his leg and ended that dream.”

He snapped a pencil in half.

“I’m his dream, Marge. Maybe I feel guilty because Abel had all the fantasies, and I wound up with his dream.”

The phone was ringing when Decker opened the door. He raced over to the kitchen wall, his Irish setter, Ginger, nipping at his heels, and picked up the receiver.

“Did you just walk in?” Rina asked.

“Yeah,” Decker said. “I didn’t even close the front door. Hang on a sec.”

“Sure.”

He walked through his living room, Ginger following him, barking for attention. The room was comfortable, full of furniture made in his size—an overstuffed sofa, two buckskin chairs, and a leather recliner that sat in front of a picture window. In the heat, the room seemed alive, seemed to sweat. Decker quieted the dog and shut the front door. He drew open the front-window curtains, and a white square of sinking sun fell upon his Navajo rug.

He picked up the receiver and pulled out a kitchen chair with his foot. He sat down and petted Ginger’s head.

“I’ve got all the time in the world for you now. Speak.”

“That’s why I called.” She dropped her voice a notch. “The kids are home. I can’t really talk. We’ve got to leave any moment for my brother-in-law’s birthday party.”

“You sound thrilled.”

“I’m nearly faint with excitement.”

“Don’t go, if you don’t want to.”

“I can’t get out of it. At least not without lying.”

“Then be honest. Just say, ‘I find all this family stuff boring—’”

“Boring is the least of it.”

“Troubles with the family?”

“Something like that.”

“They’re giving you a hard time because they don’t approve of me.”

“Much more than that. Hold on.”