He sat with his hands folded, watching him. I could get my letter back from my friend, Todd suddenly blurted. You know that? I could let you read it, and then you could watch me burn it. If if I would remove a certain document from my safety deposit box. Well . . . yeah. Dussander uttered a long, windy, rueful sigh. My boy, he said. Still you do not understand the situation. You never have, right from the beginning. Partly because you are only a boy, but not entirely... even in the beginning, you were a very old boy. No, the real villain was and is your absurd American selfconfidence that never allowed you to consider the possible consequences of what you were doing . . . which does not allow it even now. Todd began to speak and Dussander raised his hand adamantly, suddenly the worlds oldest traffic cop. No, dont contradict me. Its true. Go on if you like. Leave the house, get out of here, never come back. Can I stop you? No. Of course I cant. Enjoy yourself in Hawaii while I sit in this hot, greasesmelling kitchen and wait to see if the Schwarzen in Watts will decide to start killing policemen and burning their shitty tenements again this year. I cant stop you any more than I can stop getting older a day at a time. He looked at Todd fixedly, so fixedly that Todd looked away. Down deep inside, I dont like you. Nothing could make me like you. You forced yourself on me. You are an unbidden guest in my house. You have made me open crypts perhaps better left shut, because I have discovered that some of the corpses were buried alive, and that a few of those still have some wind left in them. You yourself have become enmeshed, but do I pity you because of that? Gott im Himmel! You have made your bed; should I pity you if you sleep badly in it? No ... I dont pity you, and I dont like you, but I have come to respect you a little bit. So dont try my patience by asking me to explain this twice. We could obtain our documents and destroy them here in my kitchen. And still it would not be over. We would, in fact, be no better off than we are at this minute. I dont understand you. No, because you have never studied the consequences of what you have set in motion. But attend me, boy. If we burned our letters here, in this jar cover, how would I know you hadnt made a copy? Or two? Or three? Down at the library they have a Xerox machine, for a nickle anyone can make a photocopy. For a dollar, you could post a copy of my deathwarrant on every streetcorner for twenty blocks. Two miles of deathwarrants, boy! Think of it! Can you tell me how I would know you hadnt done such a thing? I ... well, I ... I ... Todd realized he was floundering and forced himself to shut his mouth. All of a sudden his skin felt too warm, and for no reason at all he found himself remembering something that had happened when he was seven or eight. He and a friend of his had been crawling through a culvert which ran beneath the old Freight Bypass Road just out of town. The friend, skinnier than Todd, had had no problem ... but Todd had gotten stuck. He had become suddenly aware of the feet of rock and earth over his head, all that dark weight, and when an L.A.bound semi passed above, shaking the earth and making the corrugated pipe vibrate with a low, tuneless, and somehow sinister note, he had begun to cry and to struggle witlessly, throwing himself forward, pistoning with his legs, yelling for help. At last he had gotten moving again, and when he finally struggled out of the pipe, he had fainted. Dussander had just outlined a piece of duplicity so fundamental that it had never even crossed his mind. He could feel his skin getting hotter, and he thought I wont cry. And how would you know I hadnt made two copies for my safety deposit box ... that I had burned one and left the other there? Trapped. Im trapped just like in the pipe that time and who are you going to yell for now? His heart speeded up in his chest. He felt sweat break on the backs of his hands and the nape of his neck. He remembered how it had been in that pipe, the smell of old water, the feel of the cool, ribbed metal, the way everything shook when the truck passed overhead. He remembered how hot and desperate the tears had been. Even if there were some impartial third party we could go to, always there would be doubts. The problem is insoluble, boy. Believe it. Trapped. Trapped in the pipe. No way out of this one. He felt the world go gray. Wont cry. Wont faint. He forced himself to come back. Dussander took a deep drink from his cup and looked at Todd over the rim. Now I tell you two more things. First, that if your part in this matter came out, your punishment would be quite small. It is even possibleno, more than that, likelythat it would never come out in the papers at all. I frightened you with reform school once, when I was badly afraid you might crack and tell everything. But do I believe that? NoI used it the way a father will use the boogerman to frighten a child into coming home before dark. I dont believe that they would send you there, not in this country where they spank killers on the wrist and send them out onto the streets to kill again after two years of watching color TV in a penitentiary. But it might well ruin your life all the same. There are records . . . and people talk. Always, they talk. Such a juicy scandal is not allowed to wither; it is bottled, like wine. And, of course, as the years pass, your culpability will grow with you. Your silence will grow more damning. If the truth came out today, people would say, But he is just a child! ... not knowing, as I do, what an old child you are. But what would they say, boy, if the truth about me, coupled with the fact that you knew about me as early as 1974 but kept silent, came out while you are in high school? That would be bad. For it to come out while you are in college would be disaster. As a young man just starting out in business... Armageddon. You understand this first thing? Todd was silent, but Dussander seemed satisfied. He nodded. Still nodding, he said Second, I dont believe you have a letter. Todd strove to keep a poker face, but he was terribly afraid his eyes had widened in shock. Dussander was studying him avidly, and Todd was suddenly, nakedly aware that this old man had interrogated hundreds, perhaps thousands of people. He was an expert. Todd felt that his skull had turned to windowglass and all things were flashing inside in large letters. I asked myself whom you would trust so much. Who are your friends... whom do you run with? Whom does this boy, this selfsufficient, coldly controlled little boy, go to with his loyalty? The answer is, nobody. Dussanders eyes gleamed yellowly. Many times I have studied you and calculated the odds. I know you, and I know much of your characterno, not all, because one human being can never know everything that is in another human beings heartbut I know so little about what you do and whom you see outside of this house. So I think, Dussander, there is a chance that you are wrong. After all these years, do you want to be captured and maybe killed because you misjudged a boy? Maybe when I was younger I would have taken the chancethe odds are good odds, and the chance is a small chance. It is very strange to me, you knowthe older one becomes, the less one has to lose in matters of life and death... and yet, one becomes more and more conservative. He looked hard into Todds face. I have one more thing to say, and then you can go when you want. What I have to say is that, while I doubt the existence of your letter, never doubt the existence of mine. The document I have described to you exists. If I die today ... tomorrow... everything will come out. Everything. Then theres nothing for me, Todd said. He uttered a dazed little laugh. Dont you see that? But there is. Years will go by. As they pass, your hold on me will become worth less and less, because no matter how important my life and liberty remain to me, the Americans andyes, even the Israeliswill have less and less interest in taking them away. Yeah? Then why dont they let that guy Hess go? If the Americans had sole custody of himthe Americans who let killers out with a spank on the wristthey would have let him go, Dussander said. Are the Americans going to allow the Israelis to extradite an eightyyearold man so they can hang him as they hanged Eichmann? I think not. Not in a country where they put photographs of firemen rescuing kittens from trees on the front pages of city newspapers. No, your hold over me will weaken even as mine over you grows stronger. No situation is static. And there will come a timeif I live long enoughwhen I will decide what you know no longer matters. Then I will destroy the document. But so many things could happen to you in between! Accidents, sickness, disease Dussander shrugged.  There will be water if God wills it, and we will find it if God wills it, and we will drink it if God wills it. What happens is not up to us. Todd looked at the old man for a long timefor a very long time. There were flaws in Dussanders argumentsthere had to be. A way out, an escape hatch either for both of them or for Todd alone. A way to cry it offtimes, guys, I hurt my foot, alleealleeinfree. A black knowledge of the years ahead trembled somewhere behind his eyes; he could feel it there, waiting to be born as conscious thought. Everywhere he went, everything he did He thought of a cartoon character with an anvil suspended over its head. By the time he graduated from high school, Dussander would be eightyone, and that would not be the end; by the time he collected his B.A., Dussander would be eightyfive and he would still feel that he wasnt old enough, he would finish his masters thesis and graduate school the year Dussander turned eightyseven ... and Dussander still might not feel safe. No, Todd said thickly. What youre saying ... I cant face that. My boy, Dussander said gently, and Todd heard for the first time and with dawning horror the slight accent the old man had put on the first word. My boy ... you must. Todd stared at him, his tongue swelling and thickening in his mouth until it seemed it must fill his throat and choke him. Then he wheeled and blundered out of the house. Dussander watched all of this with no expression at all, and when the door had slammed shut and the boys running footsteps stopped, meaning that he had mounted his bike, he lit a cigarette. There was, of course, no safe deposit box, no document. But the boy believed those things existed; he had believed utterly. He was safe. It was ended. But it was not ended. That night they both dreamed of murder, and both of them awoke in mingled terror and exhilaration. Todd awoke with the now familiar stickiness of his lower belly. Dussander, too old for such things, put on the SS uniform and then lay down again, waiting for his racing heart to slow. The uniform was cheaply made and already beginning to fray. In Dussanders dream he had finally reached the camp at the top of the hill. The wide gate slid open for him and then rumbled shut on its steel track once he was inside. Both the gate and the fence surrounding the camp were electrified. His scrawny, naked pursuers threw themselves against the fence in wave after wave; Dussander had laughed at them and he had strutted back and forth, his chest thrown out, his cap cocked at exactly the right angle. The high, winey smell of burning flesh filled the black air, and he had awakened in southern California thinking of jackolanterns and the night when vampires seek the blue flame. Two days before the Bowdens were scheduled to fly to Hawaii, Todd went back to the abandoned trainyard where folks had once boarded trains for San Francisco, Seattle, and Las Vegas; where other, older folks had once boarded the trolley for Los Angeles. It was nearly dusk when he got there. On the curve of freeway nine hundred yards away, most of the cars were now showing their parking lights. Although it was warm, Todd was wearing a light jacket. Tucked into his belt under it was a butcher knife wrapped in an old handtowel. He had purchased the knife in a discount department store, one of the big ones surrounded by acres of parking lot. He looked under the platform where the wino had been the month before. His mind turned and turned, but it turned on nothing; everything inside him at that moment was shades of black on black. What he found was the same wino or possibly another; they all looked pretty much the same. Hey! Todd said. Hey! You want some money? The wino turned over, blinking. He saw Todds wide, sunny grin and began to grin back. A moment later the butcher knife descended, all whickersnicker and chromewhite, slickerslicing through the stubbly right cheek. Blood sprayed. Todd could see the blade in the winos opening mouth... and then its tip caught for a moment in the left comer of the winos lips, pulling his mouth into an insanely cockeyed grin. Then it was the knife that was making the grin; he was carving the wino like a Halloween pumpkin. He stabbed the wino thirtyseven times. He kept count. Thirtyseven, counting the first strike, which went through the winos cheek and then turned his tentative smile into a great grisly grin. The wino stopped trying to scream after the fourth stroke. He stopped trying to scramble away from Todd after the sixth. Todd then crawled all the way under the platform and finished the job. On his way home he threw the knife into the river. His pants were bloodstained. He tossed them into the washing machine and set it to wash cold. There were still faint stains on the pants when they came out, but they didnt concern Todd. They would fade in time. He found the next day that he could barely lift his right arm to the level of his shoulder. He told his father he must have strained it throwing pepper with some of the guys in the park. Itll get better in Hawaii, Dick Bowden said, ruffling Todds hair, and it did; by the time they came home, it was as good as new. 13 It was July again. Dussander, carefully dressed in one of his three suits (not his best), was standing at the bus stop and waiting for the last local of the day to take him home. It was 1045 P.M. He had been to a film, a light and frothy comedy that he had enjoyed a great deal. He had been in a fine mood ever since the morning mail. There had been a postcard from the boy, a glossy color photo of Waikiki Beach with bonewhite highrise hotels standing in the background. There was a brief message on the reverse. Dear Mr. Denker, Boy this sure is some place. Ive been swimming every day. My dad caught a big fish and my mom is catching up on her reading (joke). Tomorrow were going to a volcano. Ill try not to fall in! Hope youre okay. Stay healthy, Todd He was still smiling faintly at the significance of that last when a hand touched his elbow. Mister? Yes? He turned, on his guardeven in Santo Donato, muggers were not unknownand then winced at the aroma. It seemed to be a combination of beer, halitosis, dried sweat, and possibly Musterole. It was a bum in baggy pants. Heitwore a flannel shirt and very old loafers that were currently being held together with dirty bands of adhesive tape. The face looming above this motley costume looked like the death of God. You got an extra dime, mister? I gotta get to L.A., me. Got a job offertunity. I need just a dime more for the express bus. I wudnt ask if it wadnt a big chance for me. Dussander had begun to frown, but now his smile reasserted itself. Is it really a bus ride you wish? The wino smiled sickly, not understanding. Suppose you ride the bus home with me, Dussander proposed. I can offer you a drink, a meal, a bath, and a bed. All I ask in return is a little conversation. I am an old man. I live alone. Company is sometimes very welcome. The drunks smile abruptly grew more healthy as the situation clarified itself. Here was a welltodo old faggot with a taste for slumming. All by yourself! Bitch, innit? Dussander answered the broad, insinuating grin with a polite smile. I only ask that you sit away from me on the bus. You smell rather strongly. Maybe you dont want me stinking up your place, then, the drunk said with sudden, tipsy dignity. Come, the bus will be here in a minute. Get off one stop after I do and then walk back two blocks. Ill wait for you on the corner. In the morning I will see what I can spare. Perhaps two dollars. Maybe even five, the drunk said brightly. His dignity, tipsy or otherwise, had been forgotten. Perhaps, perhaps, Dussander said impatiently. He could now hear the low diesel drone of the approaching bus. He pressed a quarter, the correct bus fare, into the bums grimy hand and strolled a few paces away without looking back. The bum stood undecided as the headlights of the local swept over the rise. He was still standing and frowning down at the quarter when the old faggot got on the bus without looking back. The bum began to walk away and thenat the last secondhe reversed direction and boarded the bus just before the doors folded closed. He put the quarter into the farebox with the expression of a man putting a hundred dollars down on a long shot. He passed Dussander without doing more than glancing at him and sat at the back of the bus. He dozed off a little, and when he woke up, the rich old faggot was gone. He got off at the next stop, not knowing if it was the right one or not, and not really caring. He walked back two blocks and saw a dim shape under the streetlight. It was the old faggot, all right. The faggot was watching him approach, and he was standing as if at attention. For just a moment the bum felt a chill of apprehension, an urge to just turn away and forget the whole thing. Then the old man was gripping him by the arm ... and his grip was surprisingly firm. Good, the old man said. Im very glad you came. My house is down here. Its not far. Maybe even ten, the bum said, allowing himself to be led. Maybe even ten, the old faggot agreed, and then laughed. Who knows? 14 The BiCentennial year arrived. Todd came by to see Dussander half a dozen times between his return from Hawaii in the summer of 1975 and the trip he and his parents took to Rome just as all the drumthumping, flagwaving, and Tall Shipswatching was approaching its climax. These visits to Dussander were lowkey and in no way unpleasant ; the two of them found they could pass the time civilly enough. They spoke more in silences than they did in words, and their actual conversations would have put an FBI agent to sleep. Todd told the old man that he had been seeing a girl named Angela Farrow off and on. He wasnt nuts about her, but she was the daughter of one of his mothers friends. The old man told Todd he had taken up braiding rugs because he had read such an activity was good for arthritis. He showed Todd several samples of his work, and Todd dutifully admired them. The boy had grown quite a bit, had he not? (Well, two inches.) Had Dussander given up smoking? (No, but he had been forced to cut down; they made him cough too much now.) How had his schoolwork been? (Challenging but exciting ; he had made all As and Bs, had gone to the state finals with his Science Fair project on solar power, and was now thinking of majoring in anthropology instead of history when he got to college.) Who was mowing Dussanders lawn this year? (Randy Chambers from just down the streeta good boy, but rather fat and slow.) During that year Dussander had put an end to three winos in his kitchen. He had been approached at the downtown bus stop some twenty times, had made the drinkdinnerbathandbed offer seven times. He had been turned down twice, and on two other occasions the winos had simply walked off with the quarters Dussander gave them for the farebox. After some thought, he had worked out a way around this; he simply bought a book of coupons. They were two dollars and fifty cents, good for fifteen rides, and nonnegotiable at the local liquor stores. On very warm days just lately, Dussander had noticed an unpleasant smell drifting up from his cellar. He kept his doors and windows firmly shut on these days. Todd Bowden had found a wino sleeping it off in an abandoned drainage culvert behind a vacant lot on Cienaga Waythis had been in December, during the Christmas vacation. He had stood there for some time, hands stuffed into his pockets, looking at the wino and trembling. He had returned to the lot six times over a period of five weeks, always wearing his light jacket, zipped halfway up to conceal the Craftsman hammer tucked into his belt. At last he had come upon the wino againthat one or some other, and who really gave a fuckon the first day of March. He had begun with the hammer end of the tool, and then at some point (he didnt really remember when; everything had been swimming in a red haze) he had switched to the claw end, obliterating the winos face. For Kurt Dussander, the winos were a halfcynical propitiation of gods he had finally recognized ... or rerecognized. And the winos were fun. They made him feel alive. He was beginning to feel that the years he had spent in Santo Donatethe years before the boy had turned up on his doorstep with his big blue eyes and his wide American grinhad been years spent being old before his time. He had been just past his midsixties when he came here. And he felt much younger than that now. The idea of propitiating gods would have startled Todd at firstbut it might have gained eventual acceptance. After stabbing the wino under the train platform, he had expected his nightmares to intensifyto perhaps even drive him crazy. He had expected waves of paralyzing guilt that might well end with a blurted confession or the taking of his own life. Instead of any of those things, he had gone to Hawaii with his parents and enjoyed the best vacation of his life. He had begun high school last September feeling oddly new and refreshed, as if a different person had jumped into his Todd Bowden skin. Things that had made no particular impression on him since earliest childhoodthe sunlight just after dawn, the look of the ocean off the Fish Pier, the sight of people hurrying on a downtown street at just that moment of dusk when the streetlights come onthese things now imprinted themselves on his mind again in a series of bright cameos, in images so clear they seemed electroplated. He tasted life on his tongue like a draught of wine straight from the bottle. After he had seen the stewbum in the culvert, but before he killed him, the nightmares had begun again. The most common one involved the wino he had stabbed to death in the abandoned trainyard. Home from school, he burst into the house, a cheery Hi, Monicababy! on his lips. It died there as he saw the dead wino in the raised breakfast nook. He was sitting slumped over their butcherblock table in his pukesmelling shirt and pants. Blood had streaked across the bright tiled floor; it was drying on the stainless steel counters. There were bloody handprints on the natural pine cupboards. Clipped to the noteboard by the fridge was a message from his mother ToddGoneto the store. Back by 330. The hands of the stylish sunburst clock over the JennAir range stood at 320 and the drunk was sprawled dead up there in the nook like some horrid oozing relic from the subcellar of a junkshop and there was blood everywhere, and Todd began trying to clean it up, wiping every exposed surface, all the time screaming at the dead wino that he had to go, had to leave him alone, and the wino just lolled there and stayed dead, grinning up at the ceiling, and freshets of blood kept pouring from the stabwounds in his dirty skin. Todd grabbed the O Cedar mop from the closet and began to slide it madly back and forth across the floor, aware that he was not really getting the blood up, only diluting it, spreading it around, but unable to stop. And just as he heard his mothers Town and Country wagon turn into the driveway, he realized the wino was Dussander. He woke from these dreams sweating and gasping, clutching double handfuls of the bedclothes. But after he finally found the wino in the culvert againthat wino or some otherand used the hammer on him, these dreams went away. He supposed he might have to kill again, and maybe more than once. It was too bad, but of course their time of usefulness as human creatures was over. Except their usefulness to Todd, of course. And Todd, like everyone else he knew, was only tailoring his lifestyle to fit his own particular needs as he grew older. Really, he was no different than anybody. You had to make your own way in the world; if you were going to get along, you had to do it by yourself. 15 In the fall of his junior year, Todd played varsity tailback for the Santo Donato Cougars and was named AllConference. And in the second quarter of that year, the quarter which ended in late January of 1977, he won the American Legion Patriotic Essay Contest. This contest was open to all city high school students who were taking American history courses. Todds piece was called An Americans Responsibility. During the baseball season that year he was the schools star pitcher, winning four and losing none. His batting average was .361. At the awards assembly in June he was named Athlete of the Year and given a plaque by Coach Haines (Coach Haines, who had once taken him aside and told him to keep practicing his curve because none of these niggers can hit a curveball, Bowden, not one of them). Monica Bowden burst into tears when Todd called her from school and told her he was going to get the award. Dick Bowden strutted around his office for two weeks following the ceremony, trying not to boast. That summer they rented a cabin in Big Sur and stayed there for two weeks and Todd snorkled his brains out. During that same year Todd killed four derelicts. He stabbed two of them and bludgeoned two of them. He had taken to wearing two pairs of pants on what he now acknowledged to be hunting expeditions. Sometimes he rode the city busses, looking for likely spots. The best two, he found, were the Santo Donato Mission for the Indigent on Douglas Street, and around the comer from the Salvation Army on Euclid. He would walk slowly through both of these neighborhoods, waiting to be panhandled. When a wino approached him, Todd would tell him that he, Todd, wanted a bottle of whiskey, and if the wino would buy it, Todd would share the bottle. He knew a place, he said, where they could go. It was a different place every time, of course. He resisted a strong urge to go back either to the trainyard or to the culvert behind the vacant lot on Cienaga Way. Revisiting the scene of a previous crime would have been unwise. During the same year DussanJer smoked sparingly, drank Ancient Age bourbon, and watched TV. Todd came by once in awhile, but their conversations became increasingly arid. They were growing apart. Dussander celebrated his seventyninth birthday that year, which was also the year Todd turned sixteen. Dussander remarked that sixteen was the best year of a young mans life, fortyone the best year of a middleaged mans, and seventynine the best of an old mans. Todd nodded politely. Dussander had been quite drunk, and cackled in a way that made Todd distinctly uneasy. Dussander had dispatched two winos during Todds academic year of 197677. The second had been livelier than he looked; even after Dussander had gotten the man soddenly drunk he had tottered around the kitchen with the haft of a steakknife jutting from the base of his neck, gushing blood down the front of his shirt and onto the floor. The wino had rediscovered the front hall after two staggering circuits of the kitchen and had almost escaped the house. Dussander had stood in the kitchen, eyes wide with shocked unbelief, watching the wino grunt and puff his way toward the door, rebounding from one side of the hall to the other and knocking cheap Currier  Ives reproductions to the floor. His paralysis had not broken until the wino was actually groping for the doorknob. Then Dussander had bolted across the room, jerked open the utility drawer, and pulled out his meatfork. He ran down the hall with the meatfork held out in front of him and drove it into the winos back. Dussander had stood over him, panting, his old heart racing in a frightening way . . . racing like that of a heartattack victim on that Saturday night TV program he enjoyed, Emergency ! But at last it had slowed back into a normal rhythm and he knew he was going to be all right. There had been a great deal of blood to clean up. That had been four months ago, and since then he had not made his offer at the downtown bus stop. He was frightened of the way he had almost bungled the last one... but when he remembered the way he had handled things at the last moment, pride rose in his heart. In the end the wino had never made it out the door, and that was the important thing. 16 In the fall of 1977, during the first quarter of his senior year, Todd joined the Rifle Club. By June of 1978 he had qualified as a marksman. He made AllConference in football again, won five and lost one during the baseball season (the loss coming as the result of two errors and one unearned run), and made the third highest Merit Scholarship score in the schools history. He applied to Berkeley and was promptly accepted. By April he knew he would either be valedictorian or salutatorian on graduation night. He very badly wanted to be valedictorian. During the latter half of his senior year, an odd impulse came on himone which was as frightening to Todd as it was irrational. He seemed to be clearly and firmly in control of it, and that at least was comforting, but that such a thought should have occurred at all was scary. He had made an arrangement with life. He had worked things out. His life was much like his mothers bright and sunshiny kitchen, where all the surfaces were dressed in chrome, Formica, or stainless steela place where everything worked when you pressed the buttons. There were deep and dark cupboards in this kitchen, of course, but many things could be stored in them and their doors still be closed. This new impulse reminded him of the dream in which he had come home to discover the dead and bleeding wino in his mothers clean, welllighted place. It was as if, in the bright and careful arrangement he had made, in that aplaceforeverythingandeverythinginitsplace kitchen of his mind, a dark and bloody intruder now lurched and shambled, looking for a place to die conspicuously ... A quarter of a mile from the Bowden house was the freeway, running eight lanes wide. A steep and brushy bank led down to it. There was plenty of good cover on the bank. His father had given him a Winchester .30.30 for Christmas, and it had a removable telescopic sight. During rush hour, when all eight lanes were jammed, he could pick a spot on that bank and ... why, he could easily... Do what? Commit suicide? Destroy everything he had worked for these last four years? Say what? No sir, no maam, no way. It is, as they say, to laugh. Sure it was ... but the impulse remained. One Saturday a few weeks before his high school graduation, Todd cased the .30.30 after carefully emptying the magazine. He put the rifle in the back seat of his fathers new toya used Porsche. He drove to the spot where the brushy slope dropped steeply down to the freeway. His mother and father had taken the station wagon and had driven to L.A. for the weekend. Dick, now a full partner, would be holding discussions with the Hyatt people about a new Reno hotel. Todds heart bumped in his chest and his mouth was full of sour, electric spit as he worked his way down the grade with the cased rifle in his arms. He came to a fallen tree and sat crosslegged behind it. He uncased the rifle and laid it on the dead trees smooth trunk.


A branch jutting off at an angle made a nice rest for the barrel. He snugged the buttplate into the hollow of his right shoulder and peered into the telescopic sight. Stupid! his mind screamed at him. Boy, this is really stupid! If someone sees you, its not going to matter if the guns loaded or not! Youll get in plenty of trouble, maybe even end up with some Chippie shooting at you! It was midmorning and the Saturday traffic was light. He settled the crosshairs on a woman behind the wheel of a blue Toyota. The womans window was halfopen and the round collar of her sleeveless blouse was fluttering. Todd centered the crosshairs on her temple and dryfired. It was bad for the firingpin, but what the fuck. Pow, he whispered as the Toyota disappeared beneath the underpass half a mile up from the slope where Todd sat. He swallowed around a lump that tasted like a stucktogether mass of pennies. Here came a man behind the wheel of a Subaru Brat pickup truck. This man had a scuzzylooking gray beard and was wearing a San Diego Padres baseball hat. Youre . . . youre a dirty rat... the dirty rat that shot my bruddah, Todd whispered, giggling a little, and dryfired the .30.30 again. He shot at five others, the impotent snap of the hammer spoiling the illusion at the end of each kill. Then he cased the rifle again. He carried it back up the slope, bending low to keep from being seen. He put it into the back of the Porsche. There was a dry hot pounding in his temples. He drove home. Went up to his room. Masturbated. 17 The stewbum was wearing a ragged, unravelling reindeer sweater that looked so startling it almost seemed surreal here in southern California. He also wore seamans issue bluejeans which were out at the knees, showing white, hairy flesh and a number of peeling scabs. He raised the jellyglassFred and Wilma, Barney and Betty dancing around the rim in what might have been some grotesque fertility riteand tossed off the knock of Ancient Age at a gulp. He smacked his lips for the last time in this world. Mister, that hits the old spot. I dont mind saying so. I always enjoy a drink in the evening, Dussander agreed from behind him, and then rammed the butcher knife into the stewbums neck. There was the sound of ripping gristle, a sound like a drumstick being torn enthusiastically from a freshly roasted chicken. The jellyglass fell from the stewbums hand and onto the table. It rolled toward the edge, its movement enhancing the illusion that the cartoon characters on it were dancing. The stewbum threw his head back and tried to scream. Nothing came out but a hideous whistling sound. His eyes widened, widened . . . and then his head thumped soggily onto the red and white oilcloth check that covered Dussanders kitchen table. The stewbums upper plate slithered halfway out of his mouth like a semidetachable grin. Dussander yanked the knife freehe had to use both hands to do itand crossed to the kitchen sink. It was filled with hot water, Lemon Fresh Joy, and dirty supper dishes. The knife disappeared into a billow of citrussmelling suds like a very small fighter plane diving into a cloud. He crossed to the table again and paused there, resting one hand on the dead stewbums shoulder while a spasm of coughing rattled through him. He took his handkerchief from his back pocket and spat yellowishbrown phlegm into it. He had been smoking too much lately. He always did when he was making up his mind to do another one. But this one had gone smoothly; really very smoothly. He had been afraid after the mess he had made with the last one that he might be tempting fate sorely to try it again. Now, if he hurried, he would still be able to watch the second half of Lawrence Welk. He bustled across the kitchen, opened the cellar door, and turned on the light switch. He went back to the sink and got the package of green plastic garbage bags from the cupboard beneath. He shook one out as he walked back to the slumped wino. Blood had run across the oilcloth in all directions. It had puddled in the winos lap and on the hilly, faded linoleum. It would be on the chair, too, but all of those things would clean up. Dussander grabbed the stewbum by the hair and yanked his head up. It came with boneless ease, and a moment later the wino was lolling backwards, like a man about to get a prehaircut shampoo. Dussander pulled the garbage bag down over the winos head, over his shoulders, and down his arms to the elbows. That was as far as it would go. He unbuckled his late guests belt and pulled it free of the fraying beltloops. He wrapped the belt around the garbage bag two or three inches above the elbows and buckled it tight. Plastic rustled. Dussander began to hum under his breath. The winos feet were clad in scuffed and dirty Hush Puppies. They made a limp V on the floor as Dussander seized the belt and dragged the corpse toward the cellar door. Something white tumbled out of the plastic bag and clicked on the floor. It was the stewbums upper plate, Dussander saw. He picked it up and stuffed it into one of the winos front pockets. He laid the wino down in the cellar doorway with his head now lolling backward onto the second stairlevel. Dussander climbed around the body and gave it three healthy kicks. The body moved slightly on the first two, and the third sent it slithering bonelessly down the stairs. Halfway down, the feet flew up over the head and the body executed an acrobatic roll. It bellywhopped onto the packed dirt of the cellar floor with a solid thud. One Hush Puppy flew off, and Dussander made a mental note to pick it up. He went down the stairs, skirted the body, and approached his toolbench. To the left of the bench a spade, a rake, and a hoe leaned against the wall in a neat rank. Dussander selected the spade. A little exercise was good for an old man. A little exercise could make you feel young. The smell down here was not good, but it didnt bother him much. He limed the place once a month (once every three days after he had done one of his winos) and he had gotten a fan which he ran upstairs to keep the smell from permeating the house on very warm still days. Josef Kramer, he remembered, had been fond of saying that the dead speak, but we hear them with our noses. Dussander picked a spot in the cellars north comer and went to work. The dimensions of the grave were two and a half feet by six feet. He had gotten to a depth of two feet, half deep enough, when the first paralyzing pain struck him in the chest like a shotgun blast. He straightened up, eyes flaring wide. Then the pain rolled down his arm ... unbelievable pain, as if an invisible hand had seized all the bloodvessels in there and was now pulling them. He watched the spade tumble sideways and felt his knees buckle. For one horrible moment he felt sure that he was going to fall into the grave himself. Somehow he staggered backwards three paces and sat down on his workbench with a plop. There was an expression of stupid surprise on his facehe could feel itand he thought he must look like one of those silent movie comedians after hed been hit by the swinging door or stepped in the cow patty. He put his head down between his knees and gasped. Fifteen minutes crawled by. The pain had begun to abate somewhat, but he did not believe he would be able to stand. For the first time he understood all the truths of old age which he had been spared until now. He was terrified almost to the point of whimpering. Death had brushed by him in this dank, smelly cellar; it had touched Dussander with the hem of its robe. It might be back for him yet. But he would not die down here; not if he could help it. He got up, hands still crossed on his chest, as if to hold the fragile machinery together. He staggered across the open space between the workbench and the stairs. His left foot tripped over the dead winos outstretched leg and he went to his knees with a small cry. There was a sullen flare of pain in his chest. He looked up the stairsthe steep, steep stairs. Twelve of them. The square of light at the top was mockingly distant. Ein,  Kurt Dussander said, and pulled himself grimly up onto the first stairlevel. Zwei, Drei,Vier. It took him twenty minutes to reach the linoleum floor of the kitchen. Twice, on the stairs, the pain had threatened to come back, and both times Dussander had waited with his eyes closed to see what would happen, perfectly aware that if it came back as strongly as it had come upon him down there, he would probably die. Both times the pain had faded away again. He crawled across the kitchen floor to the table, avoiding the pools and streaks of blood, which were now congealing. He got the bottle of Ancient Age, took a swallow, and closed his eyes. Something that had been cinched tight in his chest seemed to loosen a little. The pain faded a bit more. After another five minutes he began to work his way slowly down the hall. His telephone sat on a small table halfway down. It was quarter past nine when the phone rang in the Bowden house. Todd was sitting crosslegged on the couch, going over his notes for the trig final. Trig was a bitch for him, as all maths were and probably always would be. His father was seated across the room, going through the checkbook stubs with a portable calculator on his lap and a mildly disbelieving expression on his face. Monica, closest to the phone, was watching the James Bond movie Todd had taped off HBO two evenings before. Hello? She listened. A faint frown touched her face and she held the handset out to Todd. Its Mr. Denker. He sounds excited about something. Or upset. Todds heart leaped into his throat, but his expression hardly changed. Really? He went to the phone and took it from her. Hi, Mr. Denker. Dussanders voice was hoarse and short. Come over right away, boy. Ive had a heart attack. Quite a bad one, I think. Gee, Todd said, trying to collect his flying thoughts, to see around the fear that now bulked huge in his own mind. Thats interesting, all right, but its pretty late and I was studying I understand that you cannot talk, Dussander said in that harsh, almost barking voice. But you can listen. I cannot call an ambulance or dial twotwotwo, boy ... at least not yet. There is a mess here. I need help... and that means you need help. Well . . . if you put it that way . . . Todds heartbeat had reached a hundred and twenty beats a minute, but his face was calm, almost serene. Hadnt he known all along that a night like this would come? Yes, of course he had. Tell your parents Ive had a letter, Dussander said. An important letter. You understand? Yeah, okay, Todd said. Now we see, boy. We see what you are made of. Sure, Todd said. He suddenly became aware that his mother was watching him instead of the movie, and he forced a stiff grin onto his face. Bye. Dussander was saying something else now, but Todd hung up on it. Im going over to Mr. Denkers for awhile, he said, speaking to both of them but looking at his motherthat faint expression of concern was still on her face. Can I pick up anything for either of you at the store? Pipe cleaners for me and a small package of fiscal responsibility for your mother, Dick said. Very funny, Monica said. Todd, is Mr. Denker What in the name of God did you get at Fieldings? Dick interrupted. That knickknack shelf in the closet. I told you that. Theres nothing wrong with Mr. Denker, is there, Todd? He sounded a little strange. There really are such things as knickknack shelves? I thought those crazy women who write British mysteries made them up so there would always be a place where the killer could find a blunt instrument. Dick, can I get a word in edgeways? Sure. Be my guest. But for the closet? Hes okay, I guess, Todd said. He put on his letter jacket and zipped it up. But he was excited. He got a letter from a nephew of his in Hamburg or Dsseldorf or someplace. He hasnt heard from any of his people in years, and now hes got this letter and his eyes arent good enough for him to read it. Well isnt that a bitch, Dick said. Go on, Todd. Get over there and ease the mans mind. I thought he had someone to read to him, Monica said. A new boy. He does, Todd said, suddenly hating his mother, hating the halfinformed intuition he saw swimming in her eyes. Maybe he wasnt home, or maybe he couldnt come over this late. Oh. Well ... go on, then. But be careful. I will. You dont need anything at the store? No. Hows your studying for that calculus final going? Its trig, Todd said. Okay, I guess. I was just getting ready to call it a night. This was a rather large lie. You want to take the Porsche? Dick asked. No, Ill ride my bike. He wanted the extra five minutes to collect his thoughts and get his emotions under controlto try, at least. And in his present state, he would probably drive the Porsche into a telephone pole. Strap your reflectorpatch on your knee, Monica said, and tell Mr. Denker hello for us. Okay. That doubt was still in his mothers eyes but it was less evident now. He blew her a kiss and then went out to the garage where his bikea racingstyle Italian bike rather than a Schwinn nowwas parked. His heart was still racing in his chest, and he felt a mad urge to take the .30.30 back into the house and shoot both of his parents and then go down to the slope overlooking the freeway. No more worrying about Dussander. No more bad dreams, no more winos. He would shoot and shoot and shoot, only saving one bullet back for the end. Then reason came back to him and he rode away toward Dussanders, his reflectorpatch revolving up and down just above his knee, his long blonde hair streaming back from his brow. Holy Christ! Todd nearly screamed. He was standing in the kitchen door. Dussander was slumped on his elbows, his china cup between them. Large drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. But it was not Dussander Todd was looking at. It was the blood. There seemed to be blood everywhereit was puddled on the table, on the empty kitchen chair, on the floor. Where are you bleeding? Todd shouted, at last getting his frozen feet to move againit seemed to him that he had been standing in the doorway for at least a thousand years. This is the end, he was thinking, this is the absolute end of everything. The balloon is going up high, baby, all the way to the sky, baby, and its toottoottootsie, goodbye. All the same, he was careful not to step in any of the blood. I thought you said you had a fucking heart attack! Its not my blood, Dussander muttered. What? Todd stopped. What did you say? Go downstairs. You will see what has to be done. What the hell is this? Todd asked. A sudden terrible idea had come into his head. Dont waste our time, boy. I think you will not be too surprised at what you find downstairs. I think you have had experience in such matters as the one in my cellar. Firsthand experience. Todd looked at him, unbelieving, for another moment, and then he plunged down the cellar stairs two by two. His first look in the feeble yellow glow of the basements only light made him think that Dussander had pushed a bag of garbage down here. Then he saw the protruding legs, and the dirty hands held down at the sides by the cinched belt. Holy Christ, he repeated, but this time the words had no force at allthey emerged in a slight, skeletal whisper. He pressed the back of his right hand against lips that were as dry as sandpaper. He closed his eyes for a moment... and when he opened them again, he felt in control of himself at last. Todd started moving. He saw the spadehandle protruding from a shallow hole in the far corner and understood at once what Dussander had been doing when his ticker had seized up. A moment later he became fully aware of the cellars fetid aromaa smell like rotting tomatoes. He had smelled it before, but upstairs it was much fainterand, of course, he hadnt been here very often over the past couple of years. Now he understood exactly what that smell meant and for several moments he had to struggle with his gorge. A series of choked gagging sounds, muffled by the hand he had clapped over his mouth and nose, came from him. Little by little he got control of himself again. He seized the winos legs and dragged him across to the edge of the hole. He dropped them, skidded sweat from his forehead with the heel of his left hand, and stood absolutely still for a moment, thinking harder than he ever had in his life. Then he seized the spade and began to deepen the hole. When it was five feet deep, he got out and shoved the derelicts body in with his foot. Todd stood at the edge of the grave, looking down. Tattered bluejeans. Filthy, scabencrusted hands. It was a stewbum, all right. The irony was almost funny. So funny a person could scream with laughter. He ran back upstairs. How are you? he asked Dussander. Ill be all right. Have you taken care of it? Im doing it, okay? Be quick. Theres still up here. Id like to find some pigs and feed you to them, Todd said, and went back down cellar before Dussander could reply. He had almost completely covered the wino when he began to think there was something wrong. He stared into the grave, grasping the spades handle with one hand. The winos legs stuck partway out of the mound of dirt, as did the tips of his feetone old shoe, possibly a Hush Puppy, and one filthy athletic sock that might actually have been white around the time that Taft was President. One Hush Puppy? One? Todd halfran back around the furnace to the foot of the stairs. He glanced around wildly. A headache was beginning to thud against his temples, dull drillbits trying to work their way out. He spotted the old shoe five feet away, overturned in the shadow of some abandoned shelving. Todd grabbed it, ran back to the grave with it, and threw it in. Then he started to shovel again. He covered the shoe, the legs, everything. When all the dirt was back in the hole, he slammed the spade down repeatedly to tamp it. Then he grabbed the rake and ran it back and forth, trying to disguise the fact the earth here had been recently turned. Not much use; without good camouflage, a hole that has been recently dug and then filled in always looks like a hole that has been recently dug and then filled in. Still, no one would have any occasion to come down here, would they? He and Dussander would damn well have to hope not. Todd ran back upstairs. He was starting to pant. Dussanders elbows had spread wide and his head had sagged down to the table. His eyes were closed, the lids a shiny purplethe color of asters. Dussander! Todd shouted. There was a hot, juicy taste in his mouththe taste of fear mixed with adrenaline and pulsing hot blood. Dont you dare die on me, you old fuck! Keep your voice down, Dussander said without opening his eyes. Youll have everyone on the block over here. Wheres your cleaner? Lestoil ... Top Job ... something like that. And rags. I need rags. All that is under the sink. A lot of the blood had now dried on. Dussander raised his head and watched as Todd crawled across the floor, scrubbing first at the puddle on the linoleum and then at the drips that had straggled down the legs of the chair the wino had been sitting in. The boy was biting compulsively at his lips, champing at them, almost, like a horse at a bit. At last the job was finished. The astringent smell of cleaner filled the room. There is a box of old rags under the stairs, Dussander said. Put those bloody ones on the bottom. Dont forget to wash your hands. I dont need your advice. You got me into this. Did I? I must say you took hold well. For a moment the old mockery was in Dussanders voice, and then a bitter grimace pulled his face into a new shape. Hurry. Todd took care of the rags, then hurried up the cellar stairs for the last time. He looked nervously down the stairs for a moment, then snapped off the light and closed the door. He went to the sink, rolled up his sleeves, and washed in the hottest water he could stand. He plunged his hands into the suds ... and came up holding the butcher knife Dussander had used. Id like to cut your throat with this, Todd said grimly. Yes, and then feed me to the pigs. I have no doubt of it. Todd rinsed the knife, dried it, and put it away. He did the rest of the dishes quickly, let the water out, and rinsed the sink. He looked at the clock as he dried his hands and saw it was twenty minutes after ten. He went to the phone in the hallway, picked up the receiver, and looked at it thoughtfully. The idea that he had forgotten somethingsomething as potentially damning as the winos shoenagged unpleasantly at his mind. What? He didnt know. If not for the headache, he might be able to get it. The tripledamned headache. It wasnt like him to forget things, and it was scary. He dialed 222 and after a single ring, a voice answered This is Santo Donato MEDQ. Do you have a medical problem? My name is Todd Bowden. Im at 963 Claremont Street. I need an ambulance. Whats the problem, son? Its my friend, Mr. D He bit down on his lip so hard that it squirted blood, and for a moment he was lost, drowning in the pulses of pain from his head. Dussander. He had almost given this anonymous MEDQ voice Dussanders real name. Calm down, son, the voice said. Take it slow and youll be fine. My friend Mr. Denker, Todd said. I think hes had a heart attack. His symptoms? Todd began to give them, but the voice had heard enough as soon as Todd described the chest pain that had migrated to the left arm. He told Todd the ambulance would arrive in ten to twenty minutes, depending on the traffic. Todd hung up and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Did you get it? Dussander called weakly. Yes! Todd screamed. Yes, I got it! Yes goddammit yes! Yes yes yes! Just shut up! He pressed his hands even harder against his eyes, creating first senseless starflashes of light and then a bright field of red. Get hold of yourself, Toddbaby. Get down, get funky, get cool. Dig it. He opened his eyes and picked up the telephone again. Now the hard part. Now it was time to call home. Hello? Monicas soft, cultured voice in his ear. For a momentjust a momenthe saw himself slamming the muzzle of the .30.30 into her nose and pulling the trigger into the first flow of blood. Its Todd, Mommy. Let me talk to Dad, quick. He didnt call her mommy anymore. He knew she would get that signal quicker than anything else, and she did. Whats the matter? Is something wrong, Todd? Just let me talk to him! But what The phone rattled and clunked. He heard his mother saying something to his father. Todd got ready. Its Mr. Denker, Daddy. He ... its a heart attack, I think. Im pretty sure it is. Jesus! His fathers voice lagged away for a moment and Todd heard him repeating the information to his wife. Then he was back. Hes still alive? As far as you can tell? Hes alive. Conscious. All right, thank God for that. Call an ambulance. I just did. Twotwotwo? Yes. Good boy. How bad is he, can you tell? I dont know, Dad. They said the ambulance would be here soon, but... Im sorta scared. Can you come over and wait with me? You bet. Give me four minutes. Todd could hear his mother saying something else as his father hung up, breaking the connection. Todd replaced the receiver on his end. Four minutes. Four minutes to do anything that had been left undone. Four minutes to remember whatever it was that had been forgotten. Or had he forgotten anything? Maybe it was just nerves. God, he wished he hadnt had to call his father. But it was the natural thing to do, wasnt it? Sure. Was there some natural thing that he hadnt done? Something? Oh, you shitforbrains! he suddenly moaned, and bolted back into the kitchen. Dussanders head lay on the table, his eyes halfopen, sluggish. Dussander! Todd cried. He shook Dussander roughly, and the old man groaned. Wake up! Wake up, you stinking old bastard! What? Is it the ambulance? The letter! My father is coming over, hell be here in no time. Wheres the fucking letter? What . . . what letter? You told me to tell them you got an important letter. I said ... His heart sank. I said it came from overseas ... from Germany. Christ! Todd ran his hands through his hair. A letter. Dussander raised his head with slow difficulty. His seamed cheeks were an unhealthy yellowishwhite, his lips blue. From Willi, I think. Willi Frankel. Dear ... dear Willi. Todd looked at his watch and saw that already two minutes had passed since he had hung up the phone. His father would not, could not make it from their house to Dussanders in four minutes, but he could do it damn fast in the Porsche. Fast, that was it. Everything was moving too fast. And there was still something wrong here; he felt it. But there was no time to stop and hunt around for the loophole. Yes, okay, I was reading it to you, and you got excited and had this heart attack. Good. Where is it? Dussander looked at him blankly. The letter! Where is it? What letter? Dussander asked vacantly, and Todds hands itched to throttle the drunken old monster. The one I was reading to you! The one from Willi Whatshisface! Where is it? They both looked at the table, as if expecting to see the letter materialize there. Upstairs, Dussander said finally. Look in my dresser. The third drawer. There is a small wooden box in the bottom of that drawer. You will have to break it open. I lost the key a long time ago. There are some very old letters from a friend of mine. None signed. None dated. All in German. A page or two will serve for windowfittings, as you would say. If you hurry Are you crazy? Todd raged. I dont understand German! How could I read you a letter written in German, you numb fuck? Why would Willi write me in English? Dussander countered wearily. If you read me the letter in German, I would understand it even if you did not. Of course your pronunciation would be butchery, but still, I could Dussander was rightright again, and Todd didnt wait to hear more. Even after a heart attack the old man was a step ahead. Todd raced down the hall to the stairs, pausing just long enough by the front door to make sure his fathers Porsche wasnt pulling up even now. It wasnt, but Todds watch told him just how tight things were getting; it had been five minutes now. He took the stairs two at a time and burst into Dussanders bedroom. He had never been up here before, hadnt even been curious, and for a moment he only looked wildly around at the unfamiliar territory. Then he saw the dresser, a cheap item done in the style his father called Discount Store Modern. He fell on his knees in front of it and yanked at the third drawer. It came halfway out, then jigged sideways in its slot and stuck firmly. Goddam you, he whispered at it. His face was dead pale except for the spots of dark, bloody color flaring at each cheek and his blue eyes, which looked as dark as Atlantic stormclouds. Goddam you fucking thing come out! He yanked so hard that the entire dresser tottered forward and almost fell on him before deciding to settle back. The drawer shot all the way out and landed in Todds lap. Dussanders socks and underwear and handkerchiefs spilled out all around him. He pawed through the stuff that was still in the drawer and came out with a wooden box about nine inches long and three inches deep. He tried to pull up the lid. Nothing happened. It was locked, just as Dussander had said. Nothing was free tonight. He stuffed the spilled clothes back into the drawer and then rammed the drawer back into its oblong slot. It stuck again. Todd worked to free it, wiggling it back and forth, sweat running freely down his face. At last he was able to slam it shut. He got up with the box. How much time had passed now? Dussanders bed was the type with posts at the foot and Todd brought the lock side of the box down on one of these posts as hard as he could, grinning at the shock of pain that vibrated in his hands and travelled all the way up to his elbows. He looked at the lock. The lock looked a bit dented, but it was intact. He brought it down on the post again, even harder this time, heedless of the pain. This time a chunk of wood flew off the bedpost, but the lock still didnt give. Todd uttered a little shriek of laughter and took the box to the other end of the bed. He raised it high over his head this time and brought it down with all his strength. This time the lock splintered. As he flipped the lid up, headlights splashed across Dussanders window. He pawed wildly through the box. Postcards. A locket. A muchfolded picture of a woman wearing frilly black garters and nothing else. An old billfold. Several sets of ID. An empty leather passport folder. At the bottom, letters. The lights grew brighter, and now he heard the distinctive beat of the Porsches engine. It grew louder... and then cut off. Todd grabbed three sheets of airmailtype stationery, closely written in German on both sides of each sheet, and ran out of the room again. He had almost gotten to the stairs when he realized he had left the forced box lying on Dussanders bed. He ran back, grabbed it, and opened the third dresser drawer. It stuck again, this time with a firm shriek of wood against wood. Out front, he heard the ratchet of the Porsches emergency brake, the opening of the drivers side door, the slam shut. Faintly, Todd could hear himself moaning. He put the box in the askew drawer, stood up, and lashed out at it with his foot. The drawer closed neatly. He stood blinking at it for a moment and then fled back down the hall. He raced down the stairs. Halfway down them, he heard the rapid rattle of his fathers shoes on Dussanders walk. Todd vaulted over the bannister, landed lightly, and ran into the kitchen, the airmail pages fluttering from his hand. A hammering on the door. Todd? Todd, its me! And he could hear an ambulance siren in the distance as well. Dussander had drifted away into semiconsciousness again. Coming, Dad! Todd shouted. He put the airmail pages on the table, fanning them a little as if they had been dropped in a hurry, and then he went back down the hall and let his father in. Where is he? Dick Bowden asked, shouldering past Todd. In the kitchen. You did everything just right, Todd, his father said, and hugged him in a rough, embarrassed way. I just hope I remembered everything, Todd said modestly, and then followed his father down the hall and into the kitchen. In the rush to get Dussander out of the house, the letter was almost completely ignored. Todds father picked it up briefly, then put it down when the medics came in with the stretcher. Todd and his father followed the ambulance, and his explanation of what had happened was accepted without question by the doctor attending Dussanders case. Mr. Denker was, after all, eighty years old, and his habits were not the best. The doctor also offered Todd a brusque commendation for his quick thinking and action. Todd thanked him wanly and then asked his father if they could go home. As they rode back, Dick told him again how proud of him he was. Todd barely heard him. He was thinking about his .30.30 again. 18 That was the same day Morris Heisel broke his back. Morris had never intended to break his back; all he had intended to do was nail up the comer of the raingutter on the west side of his house. Breaking his back was the furthest thing from his mind, he had had enough grief in his life without that, thank you very much. His first wife had died at the age of twentyfive, and both of their daughters were also dead. His brother was dead, killed in a tragic car accident not far from Disneyland in 1971. Morris himself was nearing sixty, and had a case of arthritis that was worsening early and fast. He also had warts on both hands, warts that seemed to grow back as fast as the doctor could burn them off. He was also prone to migraine headaches, and in the last couple of years, that potzer Rogan next door had taken to calling him Morris the Cat.


Morris had wondered aloud to Lydia, his second wife, how Rogan would like it if Morris took up calling him Rogan the hemorrhoid. Quit it, Morris, Lydia said on these occasions. You cant take a joke, you never could take a joke, sometimes I wonder how I could marry a man with absolutely no sense of humor. We go to Las Vegas, Lydia had said, addressing the empty kitchen as if an invisible horde of spectators which only she could see were standing there, we see Buddy Hackett, and Morris doesnt laugh once. Besides arthritis, warts, and migraines, Morris also had Lydia, who, God love her, had developed into something of a nag over the last five years or so ... ever since her hysterectomy. So he had plenty of sorrows and plenty of problems without adding a broken back. Morris! Lydia cried, coming to the back door and wiping suds from her hands with a dishtowel. Morris, you come down off that ladder right now! What? He twisted his head so he could see her. He was almost at the top of his aluminum stepladder. There was a bright yellow sticker on this step which said DANGER! BALANCE MAY SHIFT WITHOUT WARNING ABOVE THIS STEP! Morris was wearing his carpenters apron with the wide pockets, one of the pockets filled with nails and the other filled with heavyduty staples. The ground under the stepladders feet was slightly uneven and the ladder rocked a little when he moved. His neck ached with the unlovely prelude to one of his migraines. He was out of temper. What? Come down from there, I said, before you break your back. Im almost finished. Youre rocking on that ladder like you were on a boat, Morris. Come down. Ill come down when Im done! he said angrily. Leave me alone! Youll break your back, she reiterated dolefully, and went into the house again. Ten minutes later, as he was hammering the last nail into the raingutter, tipped back nearly to the point of overbalancing, he heard a feline yowl followed by fierce barking. What in Gods name? He looked around and the stepladder rocked alarmingly. At that same moment, their catit was named Lover Boy, not Morristore around the comer of the garage, its fur bushed out into hackles and its green eyes flaring. The Rogans collie pup was in hot pursuit, its tongue hanging out and its leash dragging behind it. Lover Boy, apparently not superstitious; ran under the stepladder. The collie pup followed. Look out, look out, you dumb mutt! Morris shouted. The ladder rocked. The pup bunted it with the side of its body. The ladder tipped over and Morris tipped with it, uttering a howl of dismay. Nails and staples flew out of his carpenters apron. He landed half on and half off the concrete driveway, and a gigantic agony flared in his back. He did not so much hear his spine snap as feel it happen. Then the world grayed out for awhile. When things swam back into focus, he was still lying half on and half off the driveway in a litter of nails and staples. Lydia was kneeling over him, weeping. Rogan from next door was there, too, his face as white as a shroud. I told you! Lydia babbled. I told you to come down off that ladder! Now look! Now look at this! Morris found he had absolutely no desire to look. A suffocating, throbbing band of pain had cinched itself around his middle like a belt, and that was bad, but there was something much worse he could feel nothing below that belt of painnothing at all. Wail later, he said huskily. Call the doctor now. Ill do it, Rogan said, and ran back to his own house. Lydia, Morris said. He wet his lips. What? What, Morris? She bent over him and a tear splashed on his cheek. It was touching, he supposed, but it had made him flinch, and the flinch had made the pain worse. Lydia, I also have one of my migraines. Oh, poor darling! Poor Morrist But I told you Ive got the headache because that potzer Rogans dog barked all night and kept me awake. Today the dog chases my cat and knocks over my ladder and I think my back is broken. Lydia shrieked. The sound made Morriss head vibrate. Lydia, he said, and wet his lips again. What, darling? I have suspected something for many years. Now I am sure. My poor Morris! What? There is no God, Morris said, and fainted. They took him to Santo Donato and his doctor told him, at about the same time that he would have ordinarily been sitting down to one of Lydias wretched suppers, that he would never walk again. By then they had put him in a bodycast. Blood and urine samples had been taken. Dr. Kemmelman had peered into his eyes and tapped his knees with a little rubber hammerbut no reflexive twitch of the leg answered the taps. And at every turn there was Lydia, the tears streaming from her eyes, as she used up one handkerchief after another. Lydia, a woman who would have been at home married to Job, went everywhere wellsupplied with little lace snotrags, just in case reason for an extended crying spell should occur. She had called her mother, and her mother would be here soon (Thats nice, Lydiaalthough if there was anyone on earth Morris honestly loathed, it was Lydias mother). She had called the rabbi, he would be here soon, too (Thats nice, Lydiaalthough he hadnt set foot inside the synagogue in five years and wasnt sure what the rabbis name was). She had called his boss, and while he wouldnt be here soon, he sent his greatest sympathies and condolences (Thats nice, Lydiaalthough if there was anyone in a class with Lydias mother, it was that cigarchewing putz Frank Haskell). At last they gave Morris a Valium and took Lydia away. Shortly afterward, Morris just drifted awayno worries, no migraines, no nothing. If they kept giving him little blue pills like that, went his last thought, he would go on up that stepladder and break his back again. When he woke upor regained consciousness, that was more like itdawn was just breaking and the hospital was as quiet as Morris supposed it ever got. He felt very calm... almost serene. He had no pain; his body felt swaddled and weightless. His bed had been surrounded by some sort of contraption like a squirrel cagea thing of stainless steel bars, guy wires, and pulleys. His legs were being held up by cables attached to this gadget. His back seemed to be bowed by something beneath, but it was hard to tellhe had only the angle of his vision to judge by. Others have it worse, he thought. All over the world, others have it worse. In Israel, the Palestinians kill busloads of farmers who were committing the political crime of going into town to see a movie. The Israelis cope with this injustice by dropping bombs on the Palestinians and killing children along with whatever terrorists may be there. Others have it worse than me ... which is not to say this is good, dont get that idea, but others have it worse. He lifted one hand with some effortthere was pain somewhere in his body, but it was very faintand made a weak fist in front of his eyes. There. Nothing wrong with his hands. Nothing wrong with his arms, either. So he couldnt feel anything below the waist, so what? There were people all over the world paralyzed from the neck down. There were people with leprosy. There were people dying of syphilis. Somewhere in the world right now, there might be people walking down the jetway and onto a plane that was going to crash. No, this wasnt good, but there were worse things in the world. And there had been, once upon a time, much worse things in the world. He raised his left arm. It seemed to float, disembodied, before his eyesa scrawny old mans arm with the muscles deteriorating. He was in a hospital johnny but it had short sleeves and he could still read the numbers on the forearm, tattooed there in faded blue ink. P499965214. Worse things, yes, worse things than falling off a suburban stepladder and breaking your back and being taken to a clean and sterile metropolitan hospital and being given a Valium that was guaranteed to bubble your troubles away. There were the showers, they were worse. His first wife, Ruth, had died in one of their filthy showers. There were the trenches that became graveshe could close his eyes and still see the men lined up along the open maw of the trenches, could still hear the volley of riflefire, could still remember the way they flopped backwards into the earth like badly made puppets. There were the crematoriums, they were worse, too, the crematoriums that filled the air with the steady sweet smell of Jews burning like torches no one could see. The horrorstruck faces of old friends and relatives... faces that melted away like guttering candles, faces that seemed to melt away before your very eyesthin, thinner, thinnest. Then one day they were gone. Where? Where does a torchflame go when the cold wind has blown it out? Heaven. Hell? Lights in the darkness, candles in the wind. When Job finally broke down and questioned, God asked him Where were you when I made the world? If Morris Heisel had been Job, he would have responded Where were You when my Ruth was dying, You potzer, You? Watching the Yankees and the Senators? If You cant pay attention to Your business better than this, get out of my face. Yes, there were worse things than breaking your back, he had no doubt of it. But what sort of God would have allowed him to break his back and become paralyzed for life after watching his wife die, and his daughters, and his friends? No God at all, that was Who. A tear trickled from the comer of his eye and ran slowly down the side of his head to his ear. Outside the hospital room, a bell rang softly. A nurse squeaked by on white crepesoled shoes. His door was ajar, and on the far wall of the corridor outside he could read the letters NSIVE CA and guessed that the whole sign must read INTENSIVE CARE. There was movement in the rooma rustle of bedclothes. Moving very carefully, Morris turned his head to the right, away from the door. He saw a nighttable next to him with a pitcher of water on it. There were two callbuttons on the table. Beyond it was another bed, and in the bed was a man who looked even older and sicker than Morris felt. He was not hooked into a giant exercisewheel for gerbils like Morris was, but an IV feed stood beside his bed and some sort of monitoring console stood at its foot. The mans skin was sunken and yellow. Lines around his mouth and eyes had driven deep. His hair was yellowishwhite, dry and lifeless. His thin eyelids had a bruised and shiny look, and in his big nose Morris saw the burst capillaries of the lifelong drinker. Morris looked away ... and then looked back. As the dawnlight grew stronger and the hospital began to wake up, he began to have the strangest feeling that he knew his roommate. Could that be? The man looked to be somewhere between seventyfive and eighty, and Morris didnt believe he knew anyone quite that oldexcept for Lydias mother, a horror Morris sometimes believed to be older than the Sphinx, whom the woman closely resembled. Maybe the guy was someone he had known in the past, maybe even before he, Morris, came to America. Maybe. Maybe not. And why all of a sudden did it seem to matter? For that matter, why had all his memories of the camp, of Patin, come flooding back tonight, when he always tried toand most times succeeded inkeeping those things buried? He broke out in a sudden rash of gooseflesh, as if he had stepped into some mental haunted house where old bodies were unquiet and old ghosts walked. Could that be, even here and now in this clean hospital, thirty years after those dark times had ended? He looked away from the old man in the other bed, and soon he had begun to feel sleepy again. Its a trick of your mind that this other man seems familiar. Only your mind, amusing you in the best way it can, amusing you the way it used to try to amuse you in But he would not think of that. He would not allow himself to think of that. Drifting into sleep, he thought of a boast he had made to Ruth (but never to Lydia; it didnt pay to boast to Lydia; she was not like Ruth, who would always smile sweetly at his harmless puffing and crowing) I never forget a face. Here was his chance to find out if that was still so. If he had really known the man in the other bed at some time or other, perhaps he could remember when... and where. Very close to sleep, drifting back and forth across its threshold, Morris thought Perhaps I knew him in the camp. That would be ironic indeedwhat they called a jest of God. What God? Morris Heisel asked himself again, and slept. 19 Todd graduated salutatorian of his class, just possibly because of his poor grade on the trig final he had been studying for the night Dussander had his heart attack. It dragged his final grade in the course down to 89, one point below an Aminus average. A week after graduation, the Bowdens went to visit Mr. Denker at Santo Donato General. Todd fidgeted through fifteen minutes of banalities and thankyous and howdoyoufeels and was grateful for the break when the man in the other bed asked him if he could come over for a minute. Youll pardon me, the other man said apologetically. He was in a huge bodycast and was for some reason attached to an overhead system of pulleys and wires. My name is Morris Heisel. I broke my back. Thats too bad, Todd said gravely. Oy, too bad, he says! This boy has the gift of understatement! Todd started to apologize, but Heisel raised his hand, smiling a little. His face was pale and tired, the face of any old man in the hospital facing a life full of sweeping changes just aheadand surely few of them for the better. In that way, Todd thought, he and Dussander were alike. No need, Morris said. No need to answer a rude comment. You are a stranger. Does a stranger need to be inflicted with my problems? No man is an island, entire of itself  Todd began, and Morris laughed. Donne, he quotes at me! A smart kid! Your friend there, is he very bad off? Well, the doctors say hes doing fine, considering his age. Hes eighty. That old! Morris exclaimed. He doesnt talk to me much, you know. But from what he does say, Id guess hes naturalized. Like me. Im Polish, you know. Originally, I mean. From Radom. Oh? Todd said politely. Yes. You know what they call an orange manhole cover in Radom? No, Todd said, smiling. Howard Johnsons, Morris said, and laughed. Todd laughed, too. Dussander glanced over at them, startled by the sound and frowning a little. Then Monica said something and he looked back at her again. Is your friend naturalized? Oh, yes, Todd said. Hes from Germany. Essen. Do you know that town? No, Morris said, but I was only in Germany once. I wonder if he was in the war. I really couldnt say. Todds eyes had gone distant. No? Well, it doesnt matter. That was a long time ago, the war. In another three years there will be people in this country constitutionally eligible to become PresidentPresident!who werent even born until after the war was over. To them it must seem there is no difference between the Miracle of Dunkirk and Hannibal taking his elephants over the Alps Were you in the war? Todd asked. I suppose I was, in a manner of speaking. Youre a good boy to visit such an old man ... two old men, counting me. Todd smiled modestly. Im tired now, Morris said. Perhaps Ill sleep. I hope youll feel better very soon, Todd said. Morris nodded, smiled, and closed his eyes. Todd went back to Dussanders bed, where his parents were just getting ready to leavehis dad kept glancing at his watch and exclaiming with bluff heartiness at how late it was getting. Two days later, Todd came back to the hospital alone. This time, Morris Heisel, immured in his bodycast, was deeply asleep in the other bed. You did well, Dussander said quietly. Did you go back to the house later? Yes. I burned the damned letter. I dont think anyone was too interested in that letter, and I was afraid ... I dont know. He shrugged, unable to tell Dussander hed been almost superstitiously afraid about the letterafraid that maybe someone would wander into the house who could read German, someone who would notice references in the letter that were ten, perhaps twenty years out of date. Next time you come, smuggle me in something to drink, Dussander said. I find I dont miss the cigarettes, but I wont be back again, Todd said flatly. Not ever. Its the end. Were quits. Quits. Dussander folded his hands on his chest and smiled. It was not a gentle smile ... but it was perhaps as close as Dussander could come to such a thing. I thought that was in the cards. They are going to let me out of this graveyard next week ... or so they promise. The doctor says I may have a few years left in my skin yet. I ask him how many, and he just laughs. I suspect that means no more than three, and probably no more than two. Still, I may give him a surprise. Todd said nothing. But between you and me, boy, I have almost given up my hopes of seeing the century turn. I want to ask you about something, Todd said, looking at Dussander steadily. Thats why I came in today. I want to ask you about something you said once. Todd glanced over his shoulder at the man in the other bed and then drew his chair closer to Dussanders bed. He could smell Dussanders smell, as dry as the Egyptian room in the museum. So ask. That wino. You said something about me having experience. Firsthand experience. What was that supposed to mean? Dussanders smile widened a bit. I read the newspapers, boy. Old men always read the newspapers, but not in the same way younger people do. Buzzards are known to gather at the ends of certain airport runways in South America when the crosswinds are treacherous, did you know that? That is how an old man reads the newspaper. A month ago there was a story in the Sunday paper. Not a frontpage story, no one cares enough about bums and alcoholics to put them on the front page, but it was the lead story in the feature section. is SOMEONE STALKING SANTO DONATOS DOWNANDOUT?thats what it was called. Crude. Yellow journalism. You Americans are famous for it. Todds hands were clenched into fists, hiding the butchered nails. He never read the Sunday papers, he had better things to do with his time. He had of course checked the papers every day for at least a week following each of his little adventures, and none of his stewbums had ever gotten beyond page three. The idea that someone had been making connections behind his back infuriated him. The story mentioned several murders, extremely brutal murders. Stabbings, bludgeonings. Subhuman brutality was how the writer put it, but you know reporters. The writer of this lamentable piece admitted that there is a high deathrate among these unfortunates, and that Santo Donato has had more than its share of the indigent over the years. In any given year, not all of these men die naturally, or of their own bad habits. There are frequent murders. But in most cases the murderer is usually one of the deceased degenerates compatriots, the motive no more than an argument over a pennyante cardgame or a bottle of muscatel. The killer is usually happy to confess. He is filled with remorse. But these recent killings have not been solved. Even more ominous, to this yellow journalists mindor whatever passes for his mindis the high disappearance rate over the last few years. Of course, he admits again, these men are not much more than modernday hoboes. They come and go. But some of these left without picking up welfare checks or daylabor checks from Spell O Work, which only pays on Fridays. Could some of these have been victims of this yellow journalists Wino Killer, he asks? Victims who havent been found? Pah! Dussander waved his hand in the air as if to dismiss such arrant irresponsibility. Only titillation, of course. Give people a comfortable little scare on Sunday morning. He calls up old bogies, threadbare but still usefulthe Cleveland Torso Murderer, Zodiac, the mysterious Mr. X who killed the Black Dahlia, Springheel Jack. Such drivel. But it makes me think. What does an old man have to do but think when old friends dont come to visit anymore? Todd shrugged. I thought If I wished to help this odious yellowdog journalist, which I certainly do not, I could explain some of the disappearances. Not the corpses found stabbed or bludgeoned, not them, God rest their besotted souls, but some of the disappearances. Because at least some of the buns who disappeared are in my cellar.  How many down there? Todd asked in a low voice. Six, Dussander said calmly. Counting the one you helped me dispose of, six. Youre really nutso, Todd said. The skin below his eyes had gone white and shiny. At some point you just blew all your fucking wheels.  Blew my wheels. What a charming idiom! Perhaps youre right! But then I said to myself This newspaper jackal would love to pin the murders and the disappearances on the same somebodyhis hypothetical Wino Killer. But I think maybe thats not what happened at all. Then I say to myself Do I know anybody who might be doing such things? Somebody who has been under as much strain as I have during the last few years? Someone who has also been listening to old ghosts rattle their chains? And the answer is yes. I know you, boy. Ive never killed anyone. The image that came was not of the winos; they werent people, not really people at all. The image that came was of himself crouched behind the dead tree, peering through the telescopic sight of his .30.30, the crosshairs fixed on the temple of the man with the scuzzy beard, the man driving the Brat pickup. Perhaps not, Dussander agreed, amicably enough. Yet you took hold so well that night. Your surprise was mostly anger at having been put in such a dangerous position by an old mans infirmity, I think. Am I wrong? No, youre not wrong, Todd said. I was pissed off at you and I still am. I covered it up for you because youve got something in a safety deposit box that could destroy my life. No. I do not. What? What are you talking about? It was as much a bluff as your letter left with a friend. You never wrote such a letter, there never was such a friend, and I have never written a single word about our ... association, shall I call it? Now I lay my cards on the table. You saved my life. Never mind that you acted only to protect yourself; that does not change how speedily and efficiently you acted. I cannot hurt you, boy. I tell you that freely. I have looked death in the face and it frightens me, but not as badly as I thought it would. There is no document. It is as you say we are quits. Todd smiled a weird upward corkscrewing of the lips. A strange, sardonic light danced and fluttered in his eyes. Herr Dussander, he said, if only I could believe that. In the evening Todd walked down to the slope overlooking the freeway, climbed down to the dead tree, and sat on it. It was just past twilight. The evening was warm. Car headlights cut through the dusk in long yellow daisy chains. There is no document. He hadnt realized how completely irretrievable the entire situation was until the discussion that had followed. Dussander suggested Todd search the house for a safety deposit key, and when he didnt find one, that would prove there was no safety deposit box and hence no document. But a key could be hidden anywhereit could be put in a Crisco can and then buried, it could be put in a Sucrets tin and slid behind a board that had been loosened and then replaced; he might even have ridden the bus to San Diego and put it behind one of the rocks in the decorative stone wall which surrounded the bears environmental area. For that matter, Todd went on, Dussander could even have thrown the key away. Why not? He had only needed it once, to put his written documents in. If he died, someone else would take it out. Dussander nodded reluctantly at this, but after a moments thought he made another suggestion. When he got well enough to go home, he would have the boy call every single bank in Santo Donato. He would tell each bank official he was calling for his grandfather. Poor grandfather, he would say, had grown lamentably senile over the last two years, and now he had misplaced the key to his safety deposit box. Even worse, he could no longer remember which bank the box was in. Could they just check their files for an Arthur Denker, no middle initial? And when Todd drew a blank at every bank in town Todd was already shaking his head again. First, a story like that was almost guaranteed to raise suspicions. It was too pat. They would probably suspect a congame and get in touch with the police. Even if every one of them bought the story, it would do no good. If none of the almost nine dozen banks in Santo Donato had a box in the Denker name, it didnt mean that Dussander hadnt rented one in San Diego, L.A., or any town in between. At last Dussander gave up. You have all the answers, boy. All, at least, but one. What would I stand to gain by lying to you? I invented this story to protect myself from youthat is a motive. Now I am trying to uninvent it. What possible gain do you see in that? Dussander got laboriously up on one elbow. For that matter, why would I need a document at all, at this point? I could destroy your life from this hospital bed, if that was what I wanted. I could open my mouth to the first passing doctor, they are all Jews, they would all know who I am, or at least who I was. But why would I do this? You are a fine student. You have a fine career ahead of you ... unless you get careless with those winos of yours. Todds face froze. I told you I know. You never heard of them, you never touched so much as a hair on their scaly, tickridden heads, all right, good, fine. I say no more about it. Only tell me, boy why should I lie about this? We are quits, you say. But I tell you we can only be quits if we can trust each other. Now, sitting behind the dead tree on the slope which ran down to the freeway, looking at all the anonymous headlights disappearing endlessly like slow tracer bullets, he knew well enough what he was afraid of. Dussander talking about trust. That made him afraid. The idea that Dussander might be tending a small but perfect flame of hatred deep in his heart, that made him afraid, too. A hatred of Todd Bowden, who was young, cleanfeatured, unwrinkled; Todd Bowden, who was an apt pupil with a whole bright life stretching ahead of him. But what he feared most was Dussanders refusal to use his name. Todd. What was so hard about that, even for an old kraut whose teeth were mostly false? Todd. One syllable. Easy to say. Put your tongue against the roof of your mouth, drop your teeth a little, replace your tongue, and it was out. Yet Dussander had always called him boy. Only that. Contemptuous. Anonymous. Yes, that was it, anonymous. As anonymous as a concentration camp serial number. Perhaps Dussander was telling the truth. No, not just perhaps; probably. But there were those fears ... the worst of them being Dussanders refusal to use his name. And at the root of it all was his own inability to make a hard and final decision. At the root of it all was a rueful truth even after four years of visiting Dussander, he still didnt know what went on in the old mans head. Perhaps he wasnt such an apt pupil after all. Cars and cars and cars. His fingers itched to hold his rifle. How many could he get? Three? Six? An even bakers dozen? And how many miles to Babylon? He stirred restlessly, uneasily. Only Dussanders death would tell the final truth, he supposed. Sometime during the next five years, maybe even sooner. Three to five ... it sounded like a prison sentence. Todd Bowden, this court hereby sentences you to three to five for associating with a known war criminal. Three to five at bad dreams and cold sweats. Sooner or later Dussander would simply drop dead. Then the waiting would begin. The knot in the stomach every time the phone or the doorbell rang. He wasnt sure he could stand that. His fingers itched to hold the gun and Todd curled them into fists and drove both fists into his crotch. Sick pain swallowed his belly and he lay for some time afterwards in a writhing ball on the ground, his lips pulled back in a silent shriek. The pain was dreadful, but it blotted out the endless parade of thoughts. At least for a while. 20 For Morris Heisel, that Sunday was a day of miracles. The Atlanta Braves, his favorite baseball team, swept a doubleheader from the high and mighty Cincinnati Reds by scores of 71 and 80. Lydia, who boasted smugly of always taking care of herself and whose favorite saying was An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, slipped on her friend Janets wet kitchen floor and sprained her hip. She was at home in bed. It wasnt serious, not at all, and thank God (what God) for that, but it meant she wouldnt be able to visit him for at least two days, maybe as long as four. Four days without Lydia! Four days that he wouldnt have to hear about how she had warned him that the stepladder was wobbly and how he was up too high on it in the bargain. Four days when he wouldnt have to listen to her tell him how shed always said the Rogans pup was going to cause them grief, always chasing Lover Boy that way. Four days without Lydia asking him if he wasnt glad now that she had kept after him about sending in that insurance application, for if she had not, they would surely be on their way to the poorhouse now. Four days without having Lydia tell him that many people lived perfectly normal livesalmost, anywayparalyzed from the waist down; why, every museum and gallery in the city had wheelchair ramps as well as stairs, and there were even special busses. After the observation, Lydia would smile bravely and then inevitably burst into tears. Morris drifted off into a contented late afternoon nap. When he woke up it was halfpast five in the afternoon. His roommate was asleep. He still hadnt placed Denker, but all the same he felt sure that he had known the man at some time or other. He had begun to ask Denker about himself once or twice, but then something kept him from making more than the most banal conversation with the manthe weather, the last earthquake, the next earthquake, and yeah, the Guide says Myron Floren is going to come back for a special guest appearance this weekend on the Welk show. Morris told himself he was holding back because it gave him a mental game to play, and when you were in a bodycast from your shoulders to your hips, mental games can come in handy. If you had a little mental contest going on, you didnt have to spend quite so much time wondering how it was going to be, pissing through a catheter for the rest of your life. If he came right out and asked Denker, the mental game would probably come to a swift and unsatisfying conclusion. They would narrow their pasts down to some common experiencea train trip, a boat ride, possibly even the camp. Denker might have been in Patin; there had been plenty of German Jews there. On the other hand, one of the nurses had told him Denker would probably be going home in a week or two. If Morris couldnt figure it out by then, he would mentally declare the game lost and ask the man straight out Say, Ive had the feeling I know you But there was more to it than just that, he admitted to himself. There was something in his feelings, a nasty sort of undertow, that made him think of that story The Monkeys Paw, where every wish had been granted as the result of some evil turn of fate. The old couple who came into possession of the paw wished for a hundred dollars and received it as a gift of condolence when their only son was killed in a nasty mill accident. Then the mother had wished for the son to return to them. They had heard footsteps dragging up their walk shortly afterward; then pounding on the door. The mother, mad with joy, had gone rushing down the stairs to let in her only child. The father, mad with fear, scrabbled through the darkness for the dried paw, found it at last, and wished his son dead again.