Rutledge ignored her. He said to the trembling man whose face had turned away, toward the wall, “All right, soldier. Let’s get some air.”

It was the timbre of his voice that got through. An officer’s voice. Steady and assured.

For a long moment the tableau was unbroken: the furious woman, the man in the throes of a breakdown, and the outsider who had interfered.

And then it altered, dissolving into movement, the woman stepping aside, lips tightly shut and eyes worried, and Rutledge seeming to walk away, without looking back, his shoulders as ramrod straight as if he still wore a uniform.

An officer expected a soldier to obey. Unquestioned loyalty to rank was the hallmark of training. Rutledge drew on that now.

Hamish said, “He won’t follow. He’s beyond heeding!”

Rutledge had taken no more than two strides when the man moved away from the fallen bench and, with Rutledge just ahead of him, almost a shield, walked through the gauntlet of staring eyes and through the door, out into the night.

The woman, her face pale with distress, followed.

Outside, Rutledge didn’t stop until he was well away from The Pelican’s door, nearly to the quay. In the darkness of the waterside, he stood staring out to sea, not looking at the man who had stopped some little distance from him. Then he said, as if addressing a comrade, “There’s a wind coming up. But it’s a beautiful night, still.”

The man just behind him cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said roughly, as if finding it hard to speak. He hesitated. “There were too many people in there—”

Claustrophobia. Rutledge knew it all too well. . . .

“Yes.”

“Suddenly I couldn’t breathe—I thought I was dying. But I never do. Worst luck!”

There was almost a lightness in the words that belied their intensity. But Rutledge felt sure the man meant them. He had himself, on more than one occasion fraught with panic.

“In the War, were you?” It was a common enough question, but the man flinched.

“For a time,” he said. And then he walked away, unsteadily but strongly, as if wanting to be alone more than he needed human companionship.

The woman, watching the scene, said, “He was in the War. He was a sniper.”

She flung out the last word as if daring Rutledge to say anything. Daring him to condemn.

Rutledge said, “Snipers saved my life any number of times. And the lives of my men. Why should I find that so terrible?”

“Everyone else does.” Her voice was bitter. He tried to see her face, but it was hidden. The lights from The Pelican barely touched her hair, like a pale halo behind her head.

“Why?”