“What the fuck?” signals his discovery of the disabled lock.

To convict, I think. They convict, he convicts, I am convicted.

In the reflection of a picture’s glass I can see Schermer stalk- ing down the entryway.54 He inserts a hand into the coat closet and it reappears grasping a massive shotgun.

This more or less eliminates all verbs from my head except for “to die,” which presses against my skull with formidable energy.

“Whoever you are,” says Schermer, “I know you know what this sound means.” In the picture I see his hand jerk up and down, making the unmistakable and terrifying sound of a shotgun chambering: chick-CHICK! “This is a Remington 870. At fifty feet an 870 will knock you head over heels. At ten feet it will blow your head clean off. If you want to live, come out now with your hands up.”

From the kitchen Herk is waving at me like mad and making a clasping gesture, up and down, in front of his face. Then I get it: the ski mask. I crane around but Cupid is in the corner twenty feet away. I cast about for a weapon of some sort but outside of coasters and crystal candleholders there is nothing within reach. The footsteps get closer. A drop of sweat falling from my brow to the floor sounds, to me, as loud as a snare drum. It occurs to me that this may be a metaphor of some sort: Otto Starks, betrayed by his conscience.

Maybe killed by his conscience.

Then the footsteps retreat. Schermer’s reflection turns his back to me and enters the bedroom. Herk makes avid shooing gestures at me, urging me to the mask, and I make a madcap, tiptoe dash to the Cupid and run back behind the bookshelf, for which I at first congratulate myself. But Herk isn’t celebrating. In fact, during my daring expedition across the room and back I see Herk waving me off like a baseball manager. He wants me to do something else. But I can’t think on more than one thing when I’m tempting death, and it isn’t until I return to my hiding spot behind the bookcase that I notice Herk pointing wildly at the sofa. I pull the ski mask on and shrug at him. What does he want me to do this time? Stuff my shirt with pillows?

Then his hand assumes the shape of a gun.

The Glock is in the bag, he’s telling me. The bag is on the sofa. The sofa is thirty feet away from Herk. It is five feet away from me.