“I have to go,” Vanessa said. “Goodbye, Charlie.”

I put the phone down. There was nothing else to do but go find Arch.

When I reached the office, he was in a meeting. I sat in front of his desk until he came in.

“What the hell, bud,” he said. “We’ve been worried about you.”

I shut the door behind me. Arch sat down behind the desk. I told him everything Nick Averett had told me, what he had shown me on his computer, what he wanted. Arch crossed his arms behind his head. I thought I detected a hint of worry in his expression. It might just as likely have been a projection of my wish to see him squirm for once.

“I need to tell you what I did while you were in Chattanooga. Do you want to know what I was doing?” I asked. “Who I was with?”

He shifted in his chair. A look of mild contempt came over his face. I took out a cigarette.

“Don’t smoke in here,” Arch said.

“You’d better call Averett,” I said. “The clock is ticking.” I took a long drag and let the smoke trickle out through my nostrils.

“There’s something else,” I said.

“Do tell.”

“I went out to the farm last night.”

“You told Jim?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin to answer that,” I said. “But that’s not why I mention it. Jim gave me something. Something of my mother’s.” I took the lighter out of my pocket and handed it to him.

“That belonged to my father,” I said.

I told Arch about the widows and Norman Hatcher and the pictures and the letters.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

He eased back into his chair and fondled the Zippo just as I had, flipping the lid open and closed, and then placed it on the desk. He slumped back into his chair. I slipped the lighter back into my pocket.

“Arch,” I said. “I think I’m done.”

“You’re just hungover.”

“No,” I said. “Really. Consider this my resignation.”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “We can get past this. We love each other, right? All of us. We’ll figure it out.”

“Not this time,” I said.

“What are you going to do?” he said. “Go back to painting portraits?”

“There’s a war going on, you know,” I said. “Maybe I’ll follow in my father’s footsteps and be all that I can be.”

Arch laughed. “What, you’re going to join the Army? You? You’re not your father, Charlie. You’re an artist. Besides, you’re too old.”

“I hear they’ll take anyone these days.”

“Now I think you’re still drunk.”

I doused my cigarette in a half-filled Styrofoam coffee cup.