Lansdale never stayed at the Main House—he had his own bungalow just beyond the infirmary, but it wasn’t visible from there owing to a strategically placed high picket fence. It wasn’t any nicer than the other bungalows, but it had its own clearing with a hammock and a little lawn Lansdale used to putt golf balls.

Lett had always believed what his good old friends told him, because the dead knew truth. But he had to see for himself, feel for himself.

Dusk had passed and the clearing was submerged in darkness. The open front door was a rectangle of light. Lett kept moving, past the fence and into the clearing and up the steps. He hit the screen door, kept going right through its feeble pine frame.

Lansdale was sitting in a rattan easy chair with his bare feet up on a matching ottoman. He wore short white pajama bottoms and a white tank top. His skin was nearly as white, his shoulders bony.

Lett stood in the middle of the room, catching his breath, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging out on one side, trousers stained and wrinkled, hair a greasy yarn mop.

Lansdale eyed him. “What are you doing here?” he said.

“Inject me,” Lett said, “give me another dose.”

Lansdale showed Lett his sneer of a grin. He snatched a robe from the neighboring coat rack and wrapped that around him. “What makes you think I should? You coming here like this.”

“Just give me the dose,” Lett repeated. “And I’ll be on my merry goddamn way.”

The sneer stuck to one side of Lansdale’s face. He eyed his telephone, on a side table by the doorway to the kitchen, just steps away.

Lett stood between Lansdale and the phone. Lansdale’s eyes darted. Lett stepped toward him. Lansdale tightened the belt of his robe.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to yourself,” Lansdale growled, leaning in close, and Lett smelled the stench of stale cigar ash.

“Give me the dose,” he said.

Lansdale’s eyes twinkled. “Yes! Right, all right. Let’s do that.” He stepped around the room until he found his bag. He pulled out a syringe ready to go, and he held it up.

“You first,” Lett said.

“What?” Lansdale laughed.

Lett came at him and Lansdale stabbed at him with the syringe. Lett was faster. He ducked and propelled Lansdale against the wall, Lansdale’s head knocking against it. It stunned him. His eyes rolled around. He let the syringe drop into Lett’s hand.

“Open your mouth,” Lett said.

Lansdale laughed again, this time loud and resounding, releasing more tobacco stench. “Open your own!” he chirped. “Go on. Have at it.”

Lett just stood there. “Don’t you think I’ve had enough already?”