He thought of renting a car, already preparing himself for the possibility that the body would be Chris’s and he would want to stay on and find out the truth of what had happened, but it was a good ten miles to the city and he did not want to risk driving that distance feeling the way he did. As it was, he practically had to drag himself into a cab at the front of the terminal. The driver, a young man with long hair and a beard, did not open the door for him or take his bag. And they were a good distance from the terminal before he even bothered to ask Hook’s destination.

“The sheriff’s office,” Hook said.

The young man laughed. “Gonna turn yourself in, huh?”

Hook made no response.

“Just a little joke.”

Hook said nothing, hoping the youth would shut up.

But he did not. To the tune of “Till Somebody Loves You,” he sang out: “You’re nobody, till somebody busts you.” Laughing again, he searched for Hook’s reaction in the rearview mirror. Finding none, he wagged his head. “Boy, you ain’t much of a talker, are you?”

Hook told him to shut up and drive.

The downtown was pretty much as Hook remembered it, only bigger and busier. The streets were still lined with palm and hibiscus trees; the buildings were still all peach and white and buff adobe, with dark wood trim and tile roofs. Hook recognized the library, and then suddenly they were at the courthouse, styled by the natives as “the most beautiful public building in America,” a great white Moorish castle set on grounds as lushly green as mortician’s grass and covered with palm trees and other tropical flora.

The driver, surly now, had pulled over to the curb. “The sheriff’s office is over on the other side there,” he said, pointing. “The street’s one-way—I can’t go no closer. You owe me five-eighty.”

Hook fumbled in his wallet. It would be a half-block walk, and he was not sure he could make it. His bowels felt loose again; his limbs were quivering. He handed the driver a bill.

“That’s a five, man. I said five-eighty.”

Hook barely heard him. He took out another dollar and gave it to him, and the youth wagged his head again, amused, unbelieving.

“Man, you’re really with it. Now how about my tip?”

Ignoring him, Hook picked up his overnight case and walked away, vaguely aware that the young man was shouting at him, calling him a cheap sonofabitch and a motherfucker. But Hook did not stop. He was halfway to the entrance, a massive stone archway leading into the castle-like structure, and he had to concentrate all his energies on making it there. When he did finally, he was momentarily confused by a stone wall dead ahead, and then he saw the small sign stating that the coroner’s and sheriff’s offices were to the right. He went up a few stairs into a huge hall-like room with cool white walls and a wood counter behind which two uniformed officers sat at desks doing paper work while a pretty young woman worked at a switchboard off in a corner. There were other desks and tables, all empty. It was after five.