Hook smiled coldly. “Someone like me?”

“Someone in your position. You know—someone with your problem.”

“Yes, my problem,” Hook nodded. “I take it you think I ought to just forget about it and go home.”

Shrugging, making a face of rueful regret, Parnelli saw no other course open to him. “Look, you may have a legitimate beef,” he admitted. “Who knows? Maybe your kid didn’t jump. But the point is, whether he did or didn’t—it’s got nothing to do with Jack Douglas. He wasn’t even there. He was with us, playing cards, just down the street here. Now maybe Mrs. Rubin was seeing things that night. Maybe she was—what’s the word?—hallucinating. Hell, she’s around fifty. Maybe she’s having a rough menopause—who knows? I sure as hell don’t. So all I’m saying is during this crusade of yours, Mr. Hook, try not to hurt the innocent, okay? The helpless. And by that I don’t just mean Jack Douglas. I mean all those people he’s going to help give a better life to. I know that sounds corny, but I can’t help it. That’s how I feel.”

Hook was looking down at his drink now, choosing not to meet Parnelli’s flat burning gaze, much as he did not like to stare into the eyes of a dead animal, like the sea lion on the beach or the dog he and Bobby had slain, for it was in the eyes that death spoke directly to you, there that it had its sting and victory, its last and final word, which of course was why those midwives to death, the doctors and clergy and morticians, were so quick to close the eyes of the newly deceased, to foster myths of rest and sleep and slumber that would never survive the open stare of the dead. And oddly, Hook saw something kindred to this in Parnelli’s eyes, a kind of death, a denial of humanness—the innocence of an animal, or an absolute corruption. He knew he would not get anywhere arguing with the man or even trying to discuss the matter with him, especially with Ferguson there to protect him and watch over him. No, Hook figured his only hope was the hour and the booze, that if he sat back and acknowledged the error of his ways, if he rolled over for the man—well, there was supposed to be truth in wine, was there not? So why should there not also be truth in martinis? Parnelli was a big man, well over two hundred pounds and very little of it fat, so chances were he would be able to drink a great deal without becoming falling-down drunk. Yet his temperament suggested to Hook that he would get high quickly and easily, on just a few drinks, that he had the kind of fragile ego that would enjoy the support of alcohol. For himself Hook was not worried. He had always been able to hold his liquor well, and since Chris’s death the stuff had seemed only to affect his body, to make it dull and heavy while his mind burned colder, clearer than ever.