Neil wiped soot from his face. “I was just breaking up that old wardrobe,” he said. “I guess I had an accident with the matches.”

Officer Turnbull sniffed. “Pretty disastrous accident, I’d say. You sure you weren’t bent on burning the place down?”

“Why the hell would I do that? I had an accident. I told you.”

“Well,” said Officer Turnbull, “some folks who find themselves short of cash think they can make a little extra from torching their houses. It’s the insurance money, you understand?”

Neil looked at him, disgusted. “Get out of here,” he said sharply.

“I’ll go when I know what happened,” Officer Turnbull told him. “What was that you just said about Misky-something?”

“It’s a pet name,” said Neil. “It’s something we call Toby. Now, will you please get out of here and give me the chance to clean the place up?”

Officer Turnbull took out his pen and studiously wrote in his police notebook. Then he cast his eyes around the room again, and said, “Let’s make this the last fire we have in here, huh? Bodega’s a nice little community, and the last thing we want is to have it looking like the South Bronx.”

“Is there anything else?” asked Neil, with thinly disguised impatience.

“I reckon that’s all. But I’ll have to file a report.”

“You can do what you like. Thanks for dropping round. It’s nice to know that you can count on the cops, as long as you’ve done something they can understand.”

Officer Turnbull tucked away his notebook, shrugged, and went downstairs. They heard the kitchen door close, and the sound of his patrol car leaving the yard. Neil sighed, and stepped over the ash and debris to the landing.

Susan said, “You didn’t have to speak to him like that. He was only doing his job. You should be grateful he came.”

“Yes,” said Neil dully. “I suppose I should. Where’s Toby?”

“He’s downstairs in the kitchen. I think he’s all right now. After you went into his bedroom—well, he seemed to relax. He became his normal self again.”

“That was because Misquamacus left him, and took on the shape of a wooden man.”

Susan didn’t answer that. She said, “Let’s go downstairs. Maybe I should bathe those blisters. Those hands are going to be sore in the morning.”

Neil leaned against the wall. He felt suddenly exhausted, and his eyes hurt. It seemed almost too much to fight this frightening thing on his own. If only Susan believed him. If only one person believed him, apart from old Billy Ritchie.

He said, “I’m okay. I guess my arm could use a little ointment, but everything else is all right. Could you make me some coffee?”

She kissed his cheek solicitously. “Sure. Whatever you want. You just rest up tonight, and in the morning you’ll feel fine.”