“No,” Corey shouted, and then knew that words wouldn’t stop him, knew there was only one way to stop Grogan.

He aimed the gun and fired.

The can of lye fell out of Grogan’s hand. It hit the floor and some of the contents spilled out, eating away at the carpet. Corey glanced at it for a moment, then looked up and focused on Grogan’s arm, expecting to see a bullet hole in the wrist or in the forearm near the wrist. He was sure he’d aimed the gun at Grogan’s wrist and he knew his aim was always precise, his gun hand was always steady. He was a sharpshooter and he was absolutely sure he’d hit the mark where he’d aimed.

There was no bullet hole in Grogan’s wrist or anywhere near the wrist. Grogan turned slowly and faced Corey Bradford and Corey saw the bullet-scorched hole in the yellow pajama blouse. The hole was high up on the blouse, near the middle of Grogan’s chest.

But it can’t be, Corey said to himself. You aimed at his wrist. You know you aimed at his wrist.

Grogan stood there looking at Corey. Grogan’s eyes looked puzzled giving way to something deeper, a kind of mystical wonder. Then Grogan faced away from Corey and moved steadily and very slowly toward the ebony armchair near the bronze Buddha.

On the sofa, Lita had fainted. Corey didn’t look at her. He was staring in disbelief at Grogan, at the hole in Grogan’s chest. It just can’t be, he was thinking. Or maybe—

As Grogan sat sprawled in the ebony armchair, Corey stared past him at the dim all-knowing smile on the face of the bronze Buddha.

Without sound the bronze image said, no maybes. Because you didn’t aim at his wrist. You hit him where you wanted to hit him. You wanted to put him away and that’s what you did.

But why? Corey wondered. He focused on the bullet hole in Grogan’s chest. He moved closer and saw that Grogan wasn’t breathing. So he’s finished. You finished him, all right. And why? What does it gain you?

If it does anything at all, it puts you in the loss column. Because what you’ve done, you’ve just thrown away fifteen grand.

And you, he said without sound to the Buddha. You sit there grinning, as if it’s some kind of a joke. And if it is, the least you can do is let me in on it. Because I swear, I don’t know why I bumped him, I don’t know why I don’t know why—