His thoughts were cut off. The shooting had stopped and he sat up straighter and listened for any noise at all. There was complete silence. A minute passed. Another minute. And then he heard a voice calling his name.

He got down behind the rock, crouching.

The voice came closer, calling his name. It was an unfamiliar voice, and he crouched lower. The voice kept calling, coming closer to the other side of the quagmire.

He breathed very slowly, telling himself not to move, not to make the slightest sound.

“Bradford—Bradford—”

Go away, he said to the voice.

“Bradford—you there? Where are you?”

Go away, mister. I don’t know who you are and I’m not sure you’re a friend.

“Bradford.”

Will you do me a favor and go away?

The voice continued to call his name. Then the voice receded and finally stopped calling.

He remained motionless behind the rock waiting several minutes, listening for the slightest sound; but there was no noise and he told himself to move.

Maneuvering carefully, he lowered himself from the rock, going into the quagmire, holding onto the rock with his feet, searching for a foothold. Some minutes later he arrived on the other side of the bog. Far in the distance he could see the bright yellow face of the clock in the tower of city hall. The hands pointed to nine-ten.

***

In the bathroom on the second floor of the rooming house there was a small clock on top of the medicine cabinet. The hands pointed to nine thirty-seven. Corey was sitting in a tub of warm water, soaping himself, scrubbing hard to get the slime off his body. It clung to him like axle grease and he wished the water was warmer. The rooming house lacked a hot-water heater, and he didn’t feel like making a trip down to the kitchen to fill the kettle and put it on the stove. He stayed in the tub more than a quarter of an hour, changing the water several times until it finally drained out clear.

He shaved, put on clean clothes. As he left the rooming house it occurred to him that he’d forgotten something. He went back to his room, opened the dresser drawer and took out the .38 that Grogan had given him. He put the gun under his belt, the polo shirt over the gun, the lower edge of the shirt flapping loose around his thighs. He went out of the room and was going down the stairs when he stopped and bit the corner of his mouth. He was wondering if he really needed the gun.

It ain’t like you’re gonna go lookin’ for targets, he told himself. You’ll just drift over to the Hangout and socialize awhile. But even so, you better hold on to the gun.