The mother threw the door open a moment. later and found nothing on the stoop but an eddy of night wind. In some way Morris felt that perhaps he did know where he and Denker had been acquainted, but that his knowledge was like the son of the old couple in the storyreturned from the grave, but not as he was in his mothers memory; returned, instead, horribly crushed and mangled from his fall into the gnashing, whirling machinery. He felt that his knowledge of Denker might be a subconscious thing, pounding on the door between that area of his mind and that of rational understanding and recognition, demanding admittance ... and that another part of him was searching frantically for the monkeys paw, or its psychological equivalent; for the talisman that would wish away the knowledge forever. Now he looked at Denker, frowning. Denker, Denker, Where have I known you, Denker? Was it Patin? Is that why I dont want to know? But surely, two survivors of a common horror do not have to be afraid of each other. Unless, of course ... He frowned. He felt very close to it, suddenly, but his feet were tingling, breaking his concentration, annoying him. They were tingling in just the way a limb tingles when youve slept on it and its returning to normal circulation. If it wasnt for the damned bodycast, he could sit up and rub his feet until that tingle went away. He could Morriss eyes widened. For a long time he lay perfectly still, Lydia forgotten, Denker forgotten, Patin forgotten, everything forgotten except that tingly feeling in his feet. Yes, both feet, but it was stronger in the right one. When you felt that tingle, you said My foot went to sleep. But what you really meant, of course, was My foot is waking up. Morris fumbled for a callbutton. He pressed it again and again until the nurse came. The nurse tried to dismiss itshe had had hopeful patients before. His doctor wasnt in the building, and the nurse didnt want to call him at home. Dr. Kemmelman had a vast reputation for evil temper ... especially when he was called at home. Morris wouldnt let her dismiss it. He was a mild man, but now he was prepared to make more than a fuss; he was prepared to make an uproar if thats what it took. The Braves had taken two. Lydia had sprained her hip. But good things came in threes, everyone knew that. At last the nurse came back with an intern, a young man named Dr. Timpnell whose hair looked as if it had been cut by a Lawn Boy with very dull blades. Dr. Timpnell pulled a Swiss Army knife from the pocket of his white pants, folded out the Phillips screwdriver attachment, and ran it from the toes of Morriss right foot down to the heel. The foot did not curl, but his toes twitchedit was an obvious twitch, too definite to miss. Morris burst into tears. Timpnell, looking rather dazed, sat beside him on the bed and patted his hand. This sort of thing happens from time to time, he said (possibly from his wealth of practical experience, which stretched back perhaps as far as six months). No doctor predicts it, but it does happen. And apparently its happened to you. Morris nodded through his tears. Obviously, youre not totally paralyzed. Timpnell was still patting his hand. But I wouldnt try to predict if your recovery will be slight, partial, or total. I doubt if Dr. Kemmelman will, either. I suspect youll have to undergo a lot of physical therapy, and not all of it will be pleasant. But it will be more pleasant than ... you know. Yes, Morris said through his tears. I know. Thank God! He remembered telling Lydia there was no God and felt his face fill up with hot blood. Ill see that Dr. Kemmelman is informed, Timpnell said, giving Morriss hand a final pat and rising. Could you call my wife? Morris asked. Because, doomcrying and handwringing aside, he felt something for her. Maybe it was even love, an emotion which seemed to have little to do with sometimes feeling like you could wring a persons neck. Yes, Ill see that its done. Nurse, would you? Of course, doctor, the nurse said, and Timpnell could barely stifle his grin. Thank you, Morris said, wiping his eyes with a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand. Thank you very much. Timpnell went out. At some point during the discussion, Mr. Denker had awakened. Morris considered apologizing for all the noise, or perhaps for his tears, and then decided no apology was necessary. You are to be congratulated, I take it, Mr. Denker said. Well see, Morris said, but like Timpnell, he was barely able to stifle his grin. Well see. Things have a way of working out, Denker replied vaguely, and then turned on the TV with the remote control device. It was now quarter to six, and they watched the last of Hee Haw. It was followed by the evening news. Unemployment was worse. Inflation was not so bad. Billy Carter was thinking about going into the beer business. A new Gallup poll showed that, if the election were to be held right then, there were four Republican candidates who could beat Billys brother Jimmy. And there had been racial incidents following the murder of a black child in Miami. A night of violence, the newscaster called it. Closer to home, an unidentified man had been found in an orchard near Highway 46, stabbed and bludgeoned. Lydia called just before sixthirty. Dr. Kemmelman had called her and, based on the young interns report, he had been cautiously optimistic. Lydia was cautiously joyous. She vowed to come in the following day even if it killed her. Morris told her he loved her. Tonight he loved everyoneLydia, Dr. Timpnell with his Lawn Boy haircut, Mr. Denker, even the young girl who brought in the supper trays as Morris hung up. Supper was hamburgers, mashed potatoes, a carrotsandpeas combination, and small dishes of ice cream for dessert. The candy striper who served it was Felice, a shy blonde girl of perhaps twenty. She had her own good newsher boyfriend had landed a job as a computer programmer with IBM and had formally asked her to marry him. Mr. Denker, who exuded a certain courtly charm that all the young ladies responded to, expressed great pleasure. Really, how wonderful. You must sit down and tell us all about it. Tell us everything. Omit nothing. Felice blushed and smiled and said she couldnt do that. Weve still got the rest of the B Wing to do and C Wing after that. And look, here it is sixthirty! Then tomorrow night, for sure. We insist ... dont we, Mr. Heisel? Yes, indeed, Morris murmured, but his mind was a million miles away. (you must sit down and tell us all about it) Words spoken in that exactsame bantering tone. He had heard them before; of that there could be no doubt. But had Denker been the one to speak them? Had he? (tell us everything) The voice of an urbane man. A cultured man. But there was a threat in the voice. A steel hand in a velvet glove. Yes. Where? (tell us everything. omit nothing.) (? PATIN ?) Morris Heisel looked at his supper. Mr. Denker had already fallen to with a will. The encounter with Felice had left him in the best of spiritsthe way he had been after the young boy with the blonde hair came to visit him. A nice girl, Denker said, his words muffled by a mouthful of carrots and peas. Oh yes (you must sit down) Felice, you mean. Shes (and tell us all about it.) very sweet. (tell us everything. omit nothing.) He looked down at his own supper, suddenly remembering how it got to be in the camps after awhile. At first you would have killed for a scrap of meat, no matter how maggoty or green with decay. But after awhile, that crazy hunger went away and your belly lay inside your middle like a small gray rock. You felt you would never be hungry again. Until someone showed you food. (tell us everything, my friend. omit nothing. you must sit down and tell us AAALLLLL about it.) The main course on Morriss plastic hospital tray was hamburger. Why should it suddenly make him think of lamb? Not mutton, not chopsmutton was often stringy, chops often tough, and a person whose teeth had rotted out like old stumps would perhaps not be overly tempted by mutton or a chop. No, what he thought of now was a savory lamb stew, gravyrich and full of vegetables. Soft tasty vegetables. Why think of lamp stew? Why, unless The door banged open. It was Lydia, her face rosy with smiles. An aluminum crutch was propped in her armpit and she was walking like Marshal Dillons friend Chester. Morris! she trilled. Trailing her and looking just as tremulously happy was Emma Rogan from next door. Mr. Denker, startled, dropped his fork. He cursed softly under his breath and picked it up off the floor with a wince. Its so WONDERFUL! Lydia was almost baying with excitement. I called Emma and asked her if we could come tonight instead of tomorrow, I had the crutch already, and I said, Em, I said, if I cant bear this agony for Morris, what kind of wife am I to him? Those were my very words, werent they, Emma? Emma Rogan, perhaps remembering that her collie pup had caused at least some of the problem, nodded eagerly. So I called the hospital, Lydia said, shrugging her coat off and settling in for a good long visit, and they said it was past visiting hours but in my case they would make an exception, except we couldnt stay too long because we might bother Mr. Denker. We arent bothering you, are we, Mr. Denker? No, dear lady, Mr. Denker said resignedly. Sit down, Emma, take Mr. Denkers chair, hes not using it. Here, Morris, stop with the ice cream, youre slobbering it all over yourself, just like a baby. Never mind, well have you up and around in no time. Ill feed it to you. Googoo, gaga. Open wide ... over the teeth, over the gums ... look out, stomach, here it comes! ... No, dont say a word, Mommy knows best. Would you look at him, Emma, he hardly has any hair left and I dont wonder, thinking he might never walk again. Its Gods mercy. I told him that stepladder was wobbly. I said, Morris, I said, come down off there before  She fed him ice cream and chattered for the next hour and by the time she left, hobbling ostentatiously on the crutch while Emma held her other arm, thoughts of lamb stew and voices echoing up through the years were the last things in Morris Heisels mind. He was exhausted. To say it had been a busy day was putting it mildly. Morris fell deeply asleep. He awoke sometime between 300 and 400 A.M. with a scream locked behind his lips. Now he knew. He knew exactly where and exactly when he had been acquainted with the man in the other bed. Except his name had not been Denker then. Oh no, not at all. He had awakened from the most terrible nightmare of his whole life. Someone had given him and Lydia a monkeys paw, and they had wished for money. Then, somehow, a Western Union boy in a Hitler Youth uniform had been in the room with them. He handed Morris a telegram which read REGRET TO INFORM YOU BOTH DAUGHTERS DEAD STOP PATIN CONCENTRATION CAMP STOP GREATEST REGRETS AT THIS FINAL SOLUTION STOP COMMANDANTS LETTER FOLLOWS STOP WILL TELL YOU EVERYTHING AND OMIT NOTHING STOP PLEASE ACCEPT OUR CHECK FOR 100 REICHMARKS ON DEPOSIT YOUR BANK TOMORROW STOP SIGNED ADOLF HITLER CHANCELLOR. A great wail from Lydia, and although she had never even seen Morriss daughters, she held the monkeys paw high and wished for them to be returned to life. The room went dark. And suddenly, from outside, came the sound of dragging, lurching footfalls. Morris was down on his hands and knees in a darkness that suddenly stank of smoke and gas and death. He was searching for the paw. One wish left. If he could find the paw he could wish this dreadful dream away. He would spare himself the sight of his daughters, thin as scarecrows, their eyes deep wounded holes, their numbers burning on the scant flesh of their arms. Hammering on the door. In the nightmare, his search for the paw became ever more frenzied, but it bore no fruit. It seemed to go on for years. And then, behind him, the door crashed open. No, he thought. I wont look. Ill close my eyes. Rip them from my head if I have to, but I wont look. But he did look. He had to look. In the dream it was as if huge hands had grasped his head and wrenched it around. It was not his daughters standing in the doorway; it was Denker. A much younger Denker, a Denker who wore a Nazi SS uniform, the cap with its deathshead insignia cocked rakishly to one side. His buttons gleamed heartlessly, his boots were polished to a killing gloss. Clasped in his arms was a huge and slowly bubbling pot of lamb stew. And the dreamDenker, smiling his dark, suave smile, said You must sit down and tell us all about itas one friend to another, hein? We have heard that gold has been hidden. That tobacco has been hoarded. That it was not foodpoisoning with Schneibel at all but powdered glass in his supper two nights ago. You must not insult our intelligence by pretending you know nothing. You knew EVERYTHING. So tell it all. Omit nothing. And in the dark, smelling the maddening aroma of the stew, he told them everything. His stomach, which had been a small gray rock, was now a ravening tiger. Words spilled helplessly from his lips. They spewed from him in the senseless sermon of a lunatic, truth and falsehood all mixed together. Brodin has his mothers wedding ring taped below his scrotum! (you must sit down) Laslo and Herman Dorksy have talked about rushing guard tower number three! (and tell us everything!) Rachel Tannenbaums husband has tobacco, he gave the guard who comes on after Zeickert, the one they call BoogerEater because he is always picking his nose and then putting his fingers in his mouth. Tannenbaum, some of it to BoogerEater so he wouldnt take his wifes pearl earrings! (oh that makes no sense no sense at all youve mixed up two different stories I think but thats all right quite all right wed rather have you mix up two stories than omit one completely you must omit NOTHING!) There is a man who has been calling out his dead sons name in order to get double rations! (tell us his name) I dont know it but I can point him out to you please yes I can show him to you I will I will I will I (tell us everything you know) will I will I will I will I will I will I will I Until he swam up into consciousness with a scream in his throat like fire. Trembling uncontrollably, he looked at the sleeping form in the other bed. He found himself staring particularly at the wrinkled, cavedin mouth. Old tiger with no teeth. Ancient and vicious rogue elephant with one tusk gone and the other rotted loose in its socket. Senile monster. Oh my God, Morris Heisel whispered. His voice was high and faint, inaudible to anyone but himself. Tears trickled down his cheeks toward his ears. Oh dear God, the man who murdered my wife and my daughters is sleeping in the same room with me, my God, oh dear dear God, he is here with me now in this room. The tears began to flow faster nowtears of rage and horror, hot, scalding. He trembled and waited for morning, and morning did not come for an age. 21 The next day, Monday, Todd was up at six oclock in the morning and poking listlessly at a scrambled egg he had fixed for himself when his father came down still dressed in his monogrammed bathrobe and slippers. Mumph, he said to Todd, going past him to the refrigerator for orange juice. Todd grunted back without looking up from his book, one of the 87th Squad mysteries. He had been lucky enough to land a summer job with a landscaping outfit that operated out of Pasadena. That would have been much too far to commute ordinarily, even if one of his parents had been willing to loan him a car for the summer (neither was), but his father was working onsite not far from there, and he was able to drop Todd off at a bus stop on his way and pick him up at the same place on his way back. Todd was less than wild about the arrangement; he didnt like riding home from work with his father and absolutely detested riding to work with him in the morning. It was in the mornings that he felt the most naked, when the wall between what he was and what he might be seemed the thinnest. It was worse after a night of bad dreams, but even if no dreams had come in the night, it was bad. One morning he realized with a fright so suddenly it was almost terror that he had been seriously considering reaching across his fathers briefcase, grabbing the wheel of the Porsche, and sending them corkscrewing into the two express lanes, cutting a swath of destruction through the morning commuters. You want another egg, ToddO? No thanks, Dad. Dick Bowden ate them fried. How could anyone stand to eat a fried egg? On the grill of the JennAir for two minutes, then over easy. What you got on your plate at the end looked like a giant dead eye with a cataract over it, an eye that would bleed orange when you poked it with your fork. He pushed his scrambled egg away. He had barely touched it. Outside, the morning paper slapped the step. His father finished cooking, turned off the grill, and came to the table. Not hungry this morning, ToddO? You call me that one more time and Im going to stick my knife right up your fucking nose . . . DadO. Not much appetite, I guess. Dick grinned affectionately at his son; there was still a tiny dab of shaving cream on the boys right ear. Betty Trask stole your appetite. Thats my guess. Yeah, maybe thats it. He offered a wan smile that vanished as soon as his father went down the stairs from the breakfast nook to get the paper. Would it wake you up if I told you what a cunt she is, DadO? How about if I said, Oh, by the way, did you know your good friend Ray Trasks daughter is one of the biggest sluts in Santo Donato? Shed kiss her own twat if she was doublejointed, DadO. Thats how much she thinks of it. Just a stinking little slut. Two lines of coke and shes yours for the night. And if you dont happen to have any coke, shes still yours for the night. Shed fuck a dog if she couldnt get a man. Think thatd wake you up, DadO? Get you a flying start on the day? He pushed the thoughts back away viciously, knowing they wouldnt stay gone. His father came back with the paper. Todd glimpsed the headline SPACE SHUTTLE WONT FLY, EXPERT SAYS. Dick sat down. Bettys a finelooking girl, he said. She reminds me of your mother when I first met her. Is that so? Pretty ... young ... fresh ... Dick Bowdens eyes had gone vague. Now they came back, focusing almost anxiously on his son. Not that your mother isnt still a finelooking woman. But at that age a girl has a certain ... glow, I guess youd say. Its there for awhile, and then its gone. He shrugged and opened the paper. Cest la vie, I guess. Shes a bitch in heat. Maybe thats what makes her glow. Youre treating her right, arent you, ToddO? His father was making his usual rapid trip through the paper toward the sports pages. Not getting too fresh? Everythings cool, Dad. (if he doesnt stop pretty soon Ill Ill do something. scream. throw his coffee in his face. something.) Ray thinks youre a fine boy, Dick said absently. He had at last reached the sports. He became absorbed. There was blessed silence at the breakfast table. Betty Trask had been all over him the very first time they went out. He had taken her to the local lovers lane after the movie because he knew it would be expected of them; they could swap spits for half an hour or so and have all the right things to tell their respective friends the next day. She could roll her eyes and tell how she had fought off his advancesboys were so tiresome, really, and she never fucked on the first date, she wasnt that kind of girl. Her friends would agree and then all of them would troop into the girls room and do whatever it was they did in thereput on fresh makeup, smoke Tampax, whatever. And for a guy ... well, you had to make out. You had to get at least to second base and try for third. Because there were reputations and reputations. Todd couldnt have cared less about having a stud reputation; he only wanted a reputation for being normal. And if you didnt at least try, word got around. People started to wonder if you were all right. So he took them up on Janes Hill, kissed them, felt their tits, went a little further than that if they would allow it. And that was it. The girl would stop him, he would put up a little goodnatured argument, and then take her home. No worries about what might be said in the girls room the next day. No worries that anyone was going to think Todd Bowden was anything but normal. Except Except Betty Trask was the kind of girl who fucked on the first date. On every date. And in between dates. The first time had been a month or so before the goddam Nazis heart attack, and Todd thought he had done pretty well for a virgin ... perhaps for the same reason a young pitcher will do well if hes tapped to throw the biggest game of the year with no forewarning. There had been no time to worry, to get all strung up about it. Always before, Todd had been able to sense when a girl had made up her mind that on the next date she would just allow herself to be carried away. He was aware that he was personable and that both his looks and his prospects were good. The kind of boy their cunty mothers regarded as a good catch. And when he sensed that physical capitulation about to happen, he would start dating some other girl. And whatever it said about his personality, Todd was able to admit to himself that if he ever started dating a truly frigid girl, he would probably be happy to date her for years to come. Maybe even marry her. But the first time with Betty had gone fairly wellshe was no virgin, even if he was. She had to help him get his cock into her, but she seemed to take that as a matter of course. And halfway through the act itself she had gurgled up from the blanket they were lying on I just love to fuck! It was the tone of voice another girl might have used to express her love for strawberry whirl ice cream. Later encountersthere had been five of them (five and a half, he supposed, if you wanted to count last night)hadnt been so good. They had, in fact, gotten worse at what seemed an exponential rate ... although he didnt believe even now that Betty had been aware of that (at least not until last night). In fact, quite the opposite. Betty apparently believed she had found the batteringram of her dreams. Todd hadnt felt any of the things he was supposed to feel at a time like that. Kissing her lips was like kissing warm but uncooked liver. Having her tongue in his mouth only made him wonder what kind of germs she was carrying, and sometimes he thought he could smell her fillingsan unpleasant metallic odor, like chrome. Her breasts were bags of meat. No more. Todd had done it twice more with her before Dussanders heart attack. Each time he had more trouble getting erect. In both cases he had finally succeeded by using a fantasy. She was stripped naked in front of all their friends. Crying. Todd was forcing her to walk up and down before them while he cried out Show your tits! Let them see your snatch, you cheap slut! Spread your cheeks! Thats right, bend over and SPREAD them! Bettys appreciation was not at all surprising. He was a good lover, not in spite of his problems but because of them. Getting hard was only the first step. Once you achieved erection, you had to have an orgasm. The fourth time they had done itthis was three days after Dussanders heart attackhe had pounded away at her for over ten minutes. Betty Trask thought she had died and gone to heaven; she had three orgasms and was trying for a fourth when Todd recalled an old fantasy ... what was, in fact, the First Fantasy. The girl on the table, clamped and helpless. The huge dildo. The rubber squeezebulb. Only now, desperate and sweaty and almost insane with his desire to come and get this horror over with, the face of the girl on the table became Bettys face. That brought on a joyless, rubbery spasm that he supposed was, technically, at least, an orgasm. A moment later Betty was whispering in his ear, her breath warm and redolent of Juicy Fruit gun Lover, you do me any old time. Just call me. Todd had nearly groaned aloud. The nub of his dilemma was this Wouldnt his reputation suffer if he broke off with a girl who obviously wanted to put out for him? Wouldnt people wonder why? Part of him said they would not. He remembered walking down the hall behind two senior boys during his freshman year and hearing one of them tell the other he had broken off with his girlfriend. The other wanted to know why. Fucked er out, the first said, and both of them bellowed goatish laughter. If someone asks me why I dropped her, Ill just say I fucked her out. But what if she says we only did it five times? Is that enough? What? ... How much? ... How many? ... Wholl talk? ... Whatll they say? So his mind ran on, as restless as a hungry rat in an insoluble maze. He was vaguely aware that he was turning a minor problem into a big problem, and that this very inability to solve the problem had something to say about how shaky he had gotten. But knowing it brought him no fresh ability to change his behavior, and he sank into a black depression. College. College was the answer. College offered an excuse to break with Betty that no one could question. But September seemed so far away. The fifth time it had taken him almost twenty minutes to get hard, but Betty had proclaimed the experience well worth the wait. And then, last night, he hadnt been able to perform at all. What are you, anyway? Betty had asked petulantly. After twenty minutes of manipulating his lax penis, she was dishevelled and out of patience. Are you one of those ACDC guys? He very nearly strangled her on the spot. And if hed had his .30.30 Well, Ill be a son of a gun! Congratulations, son! Huh? He looked up and out of his black study. You made the Southern Cal High School AllStars! His father was grinning with pride and pleasure. Is that so? For a moment he hardly knew what his father was talking about; he had to grope for the meaning of the words. Say, yeah, Coach Haines mentioned something to me about that at the end of the year. Said he was putting me and Billy DeLyons up. I never expected anything to happen. Well Jesus, you dont seem very excited about it! Im still trying (who gives a ripe fuck?) to get used to the idea. With a huge effort, he managed a grin. Can I see the article? His father handed the paper across the table to Todd and got to his feet. Im going to wake Monica up. Shes got to see this before we leave. No, GodIcant face both of them this morning. Aw, dont do that. You know she wont be able to get back to sleep if you wake her up. Well leave it for her on the table. Yes, I suppose we could do that. Youre a damned thoughtful boy, Todd. He clapped Todd on the back, and Todd squeezed his eyes closed. At the same time he shrugged his shoulders in an awshucks gesture that made his father laugh. Todd opened his eyes again and looked at the paper. 4 BOYS NAMED TO SOUTHERN CAL ALLSTARS, the headline read. Beneath were pictures of them in their uniformsthe catcher and leftfielder from Fairview High, the harp southpaw from Mountford, and Todd to the far right, grinning openly out at the world from beneath the bill of his baseball cap. He read the story and saw that Billy DeLyons had made the second squad. That, at least, was something to feel happy about. DeLyons could claim he was a Methodist until his tongue fell out, if it made him feel good, but he wasnt fooling Todd. He knew perfectly well what Billy DeLyons was. Maybe he ought to introduce him to Betty Trask, she was another sheeny. He had wondered about that for a long time, and last night he had decided for sure. The Trasks were passing for white. One look at her nose and that olive complexionher old mans was even worseand you knew. That was probably why he hadnt been able to get it up. It was simple his cock had known the difference before his brain. Who did they think they were kidding, calling themselves Trask? Congratulations again, son. He looked up and first saw his fathers hand stuck out, then his fathers foolishly grinning face. Your buddy Trask is a yid! he heard himself yelling into his fathers face. Thats why I was impotent with his slut of a daughter last night! Thats the reason! Then, on the heels of that, the cold voice that sometimes came at moments like this rose up from deep inside him, shutting off the rising flood of irrationality, as if (GET HOLD OF YOURSELF RIGHT NOW) behind steel gates. He took his fathers hand and shook it. Smiled guilelessly into his fathers proud face. Said Jeez, thanks, Dad. They left that page of the newspaper folded back and a note for Monica, which Dick insisted Todd write and sign Your AllStar Son, Todd. 22 Ed French, aka Pucker French, aka Sneaker Pete and The Ked Man, also aka Rubber Ed French, was in the small and lovely seaside town of San Remo for a guidance counsellors convention. It was a waste of time if ever there had been oneall guidance counsellors could ever agree on was not to agree on anythingand he grew bored with the papers, seminars, and discussion periods after a single day. Halfway through the second day, he discovered he was also bored with San Remo, and that of the adjectives small, lovely, and seaside, the key adjective was probably small. Gorgeous views and redwood trees aside, San Remo didnt have a movie theater or a bowling alley, and Ed hadnt wanted to go in the places only barit had a dirt parking lot filled with pickup trucks, and most of the pickups had Reagan stickers on their rusty bumpers and tailgates. He wasnt afraid of being picked on, but he hadnt wanted to spend an evening looking at men in cowboy hats and listening to Loretta Lynn on the jukebox. So here he was on the third day of a convention which stretched out over an incredible four days; here he was in room 217 of the Holiday Inn, his wife and daughter at home, the TV broken, an unpleasant smell hanging around in the bathroom. There was a swimming pool, but his eczema was so bad this summer that he wouldnt have been caught dead in a bathing suit. From the shins down he looked like a leper. He had an hour before the next workshop (Helping the Vocally Challenged Childwhat they meant was doing something for kids who stuttered or who had cleft palates, but we wouldnt want to come right out and say that, Christ no, someone might lower our salaries), he had eaten lunch at San Remos only restaurant, he didnt feel like a nap, and the TVs one station was showing a rerun of Bewitched. So he sat down with the telephone book and began to flip through it aimlessly, hardly aware of what he was doing, wondering distantly if he knew anyone crazy enough about either small, lovely, or seaside to live in San Remo. He supposed this was what all the bored people in all the Holiday Inns all over the world ended up doinglooking for a forgotten friend or relative to call up on the phone. It was that, Bewitched, or the Gideon Bible. And if you did happen to get hold of somebody, what the hell did you say? Frank! How the hell are you? And by the way, which was itsmall, lovely, or seaside? Sure. Right. Give that man a cigar and set him on fire. Yet, as he lay on the bed flipping through the thin San Remo white pages and halfscanning the columns, it seemed to him that he did know somebody in San Remo. A book salesman? One of Sondras nieces or nephews, of which there were marching battalions? A poker buddy from college? The relative of a student? That seemed to ring a bell, but he couldnt fine it down any more tightly. He kept thumbing, and found he was sleepy after all. He had almost dozed off when it came to him and he sat up, wideawake again. Lord Peter! They were rerunning those Wimsey stories on PBS just latelyClouds of Witness, Murder Must Advertise, The Nine Tailors. He and Sondra were hooked. A man named Ian Carmichael played Wimsey, and Sondra was nuts for him.


So nuts, in fact, that Ed, who didnt think Carmichael looked like Lord Peter at all, actually became quite irritated. Sandy, the shape of his face is all wrong. And hes wearing false teeth, for heavens sake! Poo, Sondra had replied airily from the couch where she was curled up. Youre just jealous. Hes so handsome. Daddys jealous, Daddys jealous, little Norma sang, prancing around the living room in her duck pajamas. You should have been in bed an hour ago, Ed told her, gazing at his daughter with a jaundiced eye. And if I keep noticing youre here, Ill probably remember that you arent there. Little Norma was momentarily abashed. Ed turned back to Sondra. I remember back three or four years ago. I had a kid named Todd Bowden, and his grandfather came in for a conference. Now that guy looked like Wimsey. A very old Wimsey, but the shape of his face was right, and Wimzee, Wimzee, Dimzee, Jimzee, little Norma sang. Wimzee, Bimzee, doodleoodleooodoo Shh, both of you, Sondra said. I think hes the most beautiful man. Irritating woman! But hadnt Todd Bowdens grandfather retired to San Remo? Sure. It had been on the forms. Todd had been one of the brightest boys in that years class. Then, all at once, his grades had gone to hell. The old man had come in, told a familiar tale of marital difficulties, and had persuaded Ed to let the situation alone for awhile and see if things didnt straighten themselves out. Eds view was that the old laissezfaire bit didnt workif you told a teenage kid to root, hog, or die, he or she usually died. But the old man had been almost eerily persuasive (it was the resemblance to Wimsey, perhaps), and Ed had agreed to give Todd to the end of the next Flunk Card period. And damned if Todd hadnt pulled through. The old man must have gone right through the whole family and really kicked some ass, Ed thought. He looked like the type who not only could do it, but who might derive a certain dour pleasure from it. Then, just two days ago, he had seen Todds picture in the paperhe had made the Southern Cal AllStars in baseball. No mean feat when you consider that about five hundred boys were nominated each spring. He supposed he might never have come up with the grandfathers name if he hadnt seen the picture. He flicked through the white pages more purposefully now, ran his finger down a column of fine type, and there it was. BOWDEN, VICTOR s. 403 Ridge Lane. Ed dialed the number and it rang several times at the other end. He was just about to hang up when an old man answered. Hello? Hello, Mr. Bowden. Ed French. From Santo Donato Junior High. Yes? Politeness, but no more. Certainly no recognition. Well, the old guy was three years further along (werent they all!) and things undoubtedly slipped his mind from time to time. Do you remember me, sir? Should I? Bowdens voice was cautious, and Ed smiled. The old man forgot things, but he didnt want anybody to know if he could help it. His own old man had been that way when his hearing started to go. I was your grandson Todds guidance counsellor at S.D.J.H.S. I called to congratulate you. He sure tore up the peapatch when he got to high school, didnt he? And now hes AllConference to top it off. Wow! Todd! the old man said, his voice brightening immediately. Yes, he certainly did a fine job, didnt he? Second in his class! And the girl who was ahead of him took the business courses. A sniff of disdain in the old mans voice. My son called and offered to take me to Todds commencement, but Im in a wheelchair now. I broke my hip last January. I didnt want to go in a wheelchair. But I have his graduation picture right in the hall, you bet! Todds made his parents very proud. And me, of course. Yes, I guess we got him over the hump, Ed said. He was smiling as he said it, but his smile was a trifle puzzledsomehow Todds grandfather didnt sound the same. But it had been a long time ago, of course. Hump? What hump? The little talk we had. When Todd was having problems with his coursework. Back in ninth. Im not following you, the old man said slowly. I would never presume to speak for Richards son. It would cause trouble ... hoho, you dont know how much trouble it would cause. Youve made a mistake, young fellow. But Some sort of mistake. Got me confused with another student and another grandfather, I imagine. Ed was moderately thunderstruck. For one of the few times in his life, he could not think of a single thing to say. If there was confusion, it sure wasnt on his part. Well, Bowden said doubtfully, it was nice of you to call, Mr. Ed found his tongue. Im right here in town, Mr. Bowden. Its a convention. Guidance counsellors. Ill be done around ten tomorrow morning, after the final paper is read. Could I come around to ... He consulted the phone book again. . . . to Ridge Lane and see you for a few minutes? What in the world for? Just curiosity, I guess. Its all water over the dam now. But about three years ago, Todd got himself into a real crack with his grades. They were so bad I had to send a letter home with his report card requesting a conference with a parent, or, ideally, with both of his parents. What I got was his grandfather, a very pleasant man named Victor Bowden. But Ive already told you Yes. I know. Just the same, I talked to somebody claiming to be Todds grandfather. It doesnt matter much now, I suppose, but seeing is believing. Id only take a few minutes of your time. Its all I can take, because Im expected home by suppertime. Time is all I have, Bowden said, a bit ruefully. Ill be here all day. Youre welcome to stop in. Ed thanked him, said goodbye, and hung up. He sat on the end of the bed, staring thoughtfully at the telephone. After awhile he got up and took a pack of Phillies Cheroots from the sport coat hanging on the back of the desk chair. He ought to go; there was a workshop, and if he wasnt there, he would be missed. He lit his Cheroot with a Holiday Inn match and dropped the burnt stub into a Holiday Inn ashtray. He went to . the Holiday Inn window and looked blankly out into the Holiday Inn courtyard. It doesnt matter much now, he had told Bowden, but it mattered to him. He wasnt used to being sold a bill of goods by one of his kids, and this unexpected news upset him. Technically he supposed it could still turn out to be a case of an old mans senility, but Victor Bowden hadnt sounded as if he was drooling in his beard yet. And, damn it, he didnt sound the same. Had Todd Bowden jobbed him? He decided it could have been done. Theoretically, at least. Especially by a bright boy like Todd. He could have jobbed everyone, not just Ed French. He could have forged his mother or fathers name to the Flunk Cards he had been issued during his bad patch. Lots of kids discovered a latent forging ability when they got Flunk Cards. He could have used ink eradicator on his second and thirdquarter reports, changing the grades up for his parents and then back down again so that his homeroom teacher wouldnt notice anything weird if he or she glanced at his card. The double application of eradicator would be visible to someone who was really looking, but homeroom teachers carried an average of sixty students each. They were lucky if they could get the entire roll called before the first bell, let alone spotchecking returned cards for tampering. As for Todds final class standing, it would have dipped perhaps no more than three points overalltwo bad marking periods out of a total of twelve. His other grades had been lopsidedly good enough to make up most of the difference. And how many parents drop by the school to look at the student records kept by the California Department of Education? Especially the parents of a bright student like Todd Bowden? Frown lines appeared on Ed Frenchs normally smooth forehead. It doesnt matter much now. That was nothing but the truth. Todds high school work had been exemplary; there was no way in the world you could fake a 94 percent. The boy was going on to Berkeley, the newspaper article had said, and Ed supposed his folks were damned proudas they had every right to be. More and more it seemed to Ed that there was a . vicious downside of American life, a greased skid of opportunism, cut comers, easy drugs, easy sex, a morality that grew cloudier each year. When your kid got through in standout style, parents had a right to be proud. It doesnt matter much nowbutwho was his frigging grandfather? That kept sticking into him. Who, indeed? Had Todd Bowden gone to the local branch of the Screen Actors Guild and hung a notice on the bulletin board? YOUNG MAN IN GRADES TROUBLE NEEDS OLDER MAN, PREF. 7080 YRS., TO GIVE BOFFO PERFORMANCE AS GRANDFATHER, WILL PAY UNION SCALE? Uhuh. No way, Jos. And just what sort of adult would have fallen in with such a crazy conspiracy, and for what reason? Ed French, aka Pucker, aka Rubber Ed, just didnt know. And because it didnt really matter, he stubbed out his Cheroot and went to his workshop. But his attention kept wandering. The next day he drove out to Ridge Lane and had a long talk with Victor Bowden. They discussed grapes; they discussed the retail grocery business and how the big chain stores were pushing the little guys out; they discussed the political climate in southern California. Mr. Bowden offered Ed a glass of wine. Ed accepted with pleasure. He felt that he needed a glass of wine, even if it was only tenforty in the morning. Victor Bowden looked as much like Peter Wimsey as a machinegun looks like a shillelagh. Victor Bowden had no trace of the faint accent Ed remembered, and he was quite fat. The man who had purported to be Todds grandfather had been whipthin. Before leaving, Ed told him Id appreciate it if you wouldnt mention any of this to Mr. or Mrs. Bowden. There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of it ... and even if there isnt, its all in the past. Sometimes, Bowden said, holding his glass of wine up to the sun and admiring its rich dark color, the past dont rest so easy. Why else do people study history? Ed smiled uneasily and said nothing. But dont you worry. I never meddle in Richards affairs. And Todd is a good boy. Salutatorian of his class . . . he must be a good boy. Am I right? As rain, Ed French said heartily, and then asked for another glass of wine. 23 Dussanders sleep was uneasy; he lay in a trench of bad dreams. They were breaking down the fence. Thousands, perhaps millions of them. They ran out of the jungle and threw themselves against the electrified barbed wire and now it was beginning to lean ominously inward. Some of the strands had given way and now coiled uneasily on the packed earth of the parade ground, squirting blue sparks. And still there was no end to them, no end. The Fuehrer was as mad as Rommel had claimed if he thought nowifhe had ever thoughtthere could be a final solution to this problem. There were billions of them; they filled the universe; and they were all after him. Old man. Wake up, old man. Dussander. Wake up, old man, wake up. At first he thought this was the voice of the dream. Spoken in German; it had to be part of the dream. That was why the voice was so terrifying, of course. If he awoke he would escape it, so he swam upward ... The man was sitting by his bed on a chair that had been turned around backwardsa real man. Wake up, old man, this visitor was saying. He was youngno more than thirty. His eyes were dark and studious behind plain steelframed glasses. His brown hair was longish, collarlength, and for a confused moment Dussander thought it was the boy in a disguise. But this was not the boy, wearing a rather oldfashioned blue suit much too hot for the California climate. There was a small silver pin on the lapel of the suit. Silver, the metal you used to kill vampires and werewolves. It was a Jewish star. Are you speaking to me? Dussander asked in German. Who else? Your roommate is gone. Heisel? Yes. He went home yesterday. Are you awake now? Of course. But youve apparently mistaken me for someone else. My name is Arthur Denker. Perhaps you have the wrong room. My name is Weiskopf. And yours is Kurt Dussander. Dussander wanted to lick his lips but didnt. Just possibly this was still all part of the dreama new phase, no more. Bring me a wino and a steakknife, Mr. Jewish Star in the Lapel, and Ill blow you away like smoke. I know no Dussander, he told the young man. I dont understand you. Shall I ring for the nurse? You understand, Weiskopf said. He shifted position slightly and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. The prosiness of this gesture dispelled Dussanders last hope. Heisel, Weiskopf said, and pointed at the empty bed. Heisel, Dussander, Weiskopfnone of these names mean anything to me. Heisel fell off a ladder while he was nailing a new gutter onto the side of his house, Weiskopf said. He broke his back. He may never walk again. Unfortunate. But that was not the only tragedy of his life. He was an inmate of Patin, where he lost his wife and daughters. Patin, which you commanded. I think you are insane, Dussander said. My name is Arthur Denker. I came to this country when my wife died. Before that was Spare me your tale, Weiskopf said, raising a hand. He had not forgotten your face. This face. Weiskopf flicked a photograph into Dussanders face like a magician doing a trick. It was one of those the boy had shown him years ago. A young Dussander in a jauntily cocked SS cap, seated behind his desk. Dussander spoke slowly, in English now, enunciating carefully. During the war I was a factory machinist. My job was to oversee the manufacture of drivecolumns and powertrains for armored cars and trucks. Later I helped to build Tiger tanks. My reserve unit was called up during the battle of Berlin and I fought honorably, if briefly. After the war I worked in Essen, at the Menschler Motor Works until until it became necessary for you to run away to South America. With your gold that had been melted down from Jewish teeth and your silver melted down from Jewish jewelry and your numbered Swiss bank account. Mr. Heisel went home a happy man, you know. Oh, he had a bad moment when he woke up in the dark and realized with whom he was sharing a room. But he feels better now. He feels that God allowed him the sublime privilege of breaking his back so that he could be instrumental in the capture of one of the greatest butchers of human beings ever to live. Dussander spoke slowly, enunciating carefully. During the war I was a factory machinist Oh, why not drop it? Your papers will not stand up to a serious examination. I .know it and you know it. You are found out  My job was to oversee the manufacture of Of corpses! One way or another, you will be in Tel Aviv before the new year. The authorities are cooperating with us this time, Dussander. The Americans want to make us happy, and you are one of the things that will make us happy. the manufacture of drivecolumns and powertrains for armored cars and trucks. Later I helped to build Tiger tanks. Why be tiresome? Why drag it out? My reserve unit was called up Very well then. Youll see me again. Soon. Weiskopf rose. He left the room. For a moment his shadow bobbed on the wall and then that was gone, too. Dussander closed his eyes. He wondered if Weiskopf could be telling the truth about American cooperation. Three years ago, when oil was tight in America, he wouldnt have believed it. But the current upheaval in Iran might well harden American support for Israel. It was possible. And what did it matter? One way or the other, legal or illegal, Weiskopf and his colleagues would have him. On the subject of Nazis they were intransigent, and on the subject of the camps they were lunatics. He was trembling all over. But he knew what he must do now. 24 The school records for the pupils who had passed through Santo Donato Junior High were kept in an old, rambling warehouse on the north side. It was not far from the abandoned trainyard. It was dark and echoing and it smelled of wax and polish and 999 Industrial Cleanerit was also the school departments custodial warehouse. Ed French got there around four in the afternoon with Norma in tow. A janitor let them in, told Ed what he wanted was on the fourth floor, and showed them to a creeping, clanking elevator that frightened Norma into an uncharacteristic silence. She regained herself on the fourth floor, prancing and capering up and down the dim aisles of stacked boxes and files while Ed searched for and eventually found the files containing report cards from 1975. He pulled the second box and began to leaf through the Bs. BORK. BOSTWICK. BOSWELL. BOWDEN, TODD. He pulled the card, shook his head impatiently over it in the dim light, and took it across to one of the high, dusty windows. Dont run around in here, honey, he called over his shoulder. Why, Daddy? Because the trolls will get you, he said, and held Todds card up to the light. He saw it at once. This report card, in those files for three years now, had been carefully, almost professionally, doctored. Jesus Christ, Ed French muttered. Trolls, trolls, trolls! Norma sang gleefully, as she continued to dance up and down the aisles. 25 Dussander walked carefully down the hospital corridor. He was still a bit unsteady on his legs. He was wearing his blue bathrobe over his white hospital johnny. It was night now, just after eight oclock, and the nurses were changing shifts. The next half hour would be confusedhe had observed that all the shift changes were confused. It was a time for exchanging notes, gossip, and drinking coffee at the nurses station, which was just around the comer from the drinking fountain. What he wanted was just across from the drinking fountain. He was not noticed in the wide hallway, which at this hour reminded him of a long and echoing train station minutes before a passenger train departs. The walking wounded paraded slowly up and down, some dressed in robes as he was, others holding the backs of their johnnies together. Disconnected music came from half a dozen different transistor radios in half a dozen different rooms. Visitors came and went. A man laughed in one room and another man seemed to be weeping across the hall. A doctor walked by with his nose in a paperback novel. Dussander went to the fountain, got a drink, wiped his mouth with his cupped hand, and looked at the closed door across the hall. This door was always lockedat least, that was the theory. In practice he had observed that it was sometimes both unlocked and unattended. Most often during the chaotic half hour when the shifts were changing and the nurses were gathered around the comer. Dussander had observed all of this with the trained and wary eye of a man who has been on the jump for a long, long time. He only wished he could observe the unmarked door for another week or so, looking for dangerous breaks in the patternhe would only have the one chance. But he didnt have another week. His status as Werewolf in Residence might not become known for another two or three days, but it might happen tomorrow. He did not dare wait. When it came out, he would be watched constantly. He took another small drink, wiped his mouth again, and looked both ways. Then, casually, with no effort at concealment, he stepped across the hall, turned the knob, and walked into the drug closet. If the woman in charge had happened to already be behind her desk, he was only nearsighted Mr. Denker. So sorry, dear lady, I thought it was the W.C. Stupid of me. But the drug closet was empty. He ran his eye over the top shelf at his left. Nothing but eyedrops and eardrops. Second shelf laxatives, suppositories. On the third shelf he saw both Seconal and Veronal. He slipped a bottle of Seconals into the pocket of his robe. Then he went back to the door and stepped out without looking around, a puzzled smile on his facethat certainly wasnt the W.C., was it? There it was, right next to the drinking fountain. Stupid me! He crossed to the door labelled MEN, went inside, and washed his hands. Then he went back down the hall to the semiprivate room that was now completely private since the departure of the illustrious Mr. Heisel. On the table between the beds was a glass and a plastic pitcher filled with water. Pity there was no bourbon; really, it was a shame. But the pills would float him off just as nicely no matter how they were washed down. Morris Heisel, salud, he said with a faint smile, and poured himself a glass of water. After all those years of jumping at shadows, of seeing faces that looked familiar on park benches or in restaurants or bus terminals, he had finally been recognized and turned in by a man he wouldnt have known from Adam. It was almost funny. He had barely spared Heisel two glances, Heisel and his broken back from God. On second thought, it wasnt almost funny; it was very funny. He put three pills in his mouth, swallowed them with water, took three more, then three more. In the room across the hall he could see two old men hunched over a nighttable, playing a grumpy game of cribbage. One of them had a hernia. Dussander knew. What was the other? Gallstones? Kidney stones? Tumor? Prostate? The horrors of old age. They were legion. He refilled his water glass but didnt take any more pills right away. Too many could defeat his purpose. He might throw them up and they would pump the residue out of his stomach, saving him for whatever indignities the Americans and the Israelis could devise. He had no intention of trying to take his life stupidly, like a Hausfrau on a crying jag. When he began to get drowsy, he would take a few more. That would be fine. The quavering voice of one of the cribbage players came to him, thin and triumphant A double run of three for eight ... fifteens for twelve ... and the right jack for thirteen. How do you like those apples? Dont worry, the old man with the hernia said confidently. I got first count. Ill peg out Peg out, Dussander thought, sleepy now. An apt enough phrasebut the Americans had a turn of idiom. I dont give a tin shit, get hip or get out, stick it where the sun dont shine, money talks, nobody walks. Wonderful idiom. They thought they had him, but he was going to peg out before their very eyes. He found himself wishing, of all absurd things, that he could leave a note for the boy. Wishing he could tell him to be very careful. To listen to an old man who had finally overstepped himself. He wished he could tell the boy that in the end he, Dussander, had come to respect him, even if he could never like him, and that talking to him had been better than listening to the run of his own thoughts. But any note, no matter how innocent, might cast suspicion on the boy, and Dussander did not want that. Oh, he would have a bad month or two, waiting for some government agent to show up and question him about a certain document that had been found in a safety deposit box rented to Kurt Dussander, aka Arthur Denker ... but after a time, the boy would come to believe he had been telling the truth. There was no need for the boy to be touched by any of this, as long as he kept his head. Dussander reached out with a hand that seemed to stretch for miles, got the glass of water, and took another three pills. He put the glass back, closed his eyes, and settled deeper into his soft, soft pillow. He had never felt so much like sleeping, and his sleep would be long. It would be restful. Unless there were dreams. The thought shocked him. Dreams? Please God, no. Not those dreams. Not for eternity, not with all possibility of awakening gone. Not In sudden terror, he tried to struggle awake. It seemed that hands were reaching eagerly up out of the bed to grab him, hands with hungry fingers. (!NO!) His thoughts broke up in a steepening spiral of darkness, and he rode down that spiral as if down a greased slide, down and down, to whatever dreams there are. His overdose was discovered at 135 A.M., and he was pronounced dead fifteen minutes later. The nurse on duty was young and had been susceptible to elderly Mr. Denkers slightly ironic courtliness. She burst into tears. She was a Catholic, and she could not understand why such a sweet old man, who had been getting better, would want to do such a thing and damn his immortal soul to hell. 26 On Saturday morning in the Bowden household, nobody got up until at least nine. This morning at ninethirty Todd and his father were reading at the table and Monica, who was a slow waker, served them scrambled eggs, juice, and coffee without speaking, still half in her dreams. Todd was reading a paperback science fiction novel and Dick was absorbed in Architectural Digest when the paper slapped against the door. Want me to get it, Dad? I will. Dick brought it in, started to sip his coffee, and then choked on it as he got a look at the front page. Dick, whats wrong? Monica asked, hurrying toward him. Dick coughed out coffee that had gone down the wrong pipe, and while Todd looked at him over the top of the paperback in mild wonder, Monica started to pound him on the back. On the third stroke, her eyes fell to the papers headline and she stopped in midstroke, as if playing statues. Her eyes widened until it seemed they might actually fall out onto the table. Holy God up in heaven! Dick Bowden managed in a choked voice. Isnt that ... I cant believe . . . Monica began, and then stopped. She looked at Todd. Oh, honey His father was looking at him, too. Alarmed now, Todd came around the table. Whats the matter? Mr. Denker, Dick saidit was all he could manage. Todd read the headline and understood everything. In dark letters it read FUGITIVE NAZI COMMITS SUICIDE IN SANTO DONATO HOSPITAL. Below were two photos, side by side. Todd had seen both of them before. One showed Arthur Denker, six years younger and spryer. Todd knew it had been taken by a hippie street photographer, and that the old man had bought it only to make sure it didnt fall into the wrong hands by chance. The other photo showed an SS officer named Kurt Dussander behind his desk at Patin, his cap cocked to one side. If they had the photograph the hippie had taken, they had been in his house. Todd skimmed the article, his mind whizzing frantically. No mention of the winos. But the bodies would be found, and when they were, it would be a worldwide story. PATIN COMMANDANT NEVER LOST HIS TOUCH. HORROR IN NAZIS BASEMENT. HE NEVER STOPPED KILLING. Todd Bowden swayed on his feet. Far away, echoing, he heard his mother cry sharply Catch him, Dick! Hes fainting! The word (faintingfaintingfainting) repeated itself over and over. He dimly felt his fathers arms grab him, and then for a little while Todd felt nothing, heard nothing at all. 27 Ed French was eating a danish when he unfolded the paper. He coughed, made a strange gagging sound, and spat dismembered pastry all over the table. Eddie! Sondra French said with some alarm. Are you okay? Daddys chokun, Daddys chokun, little Norma proclaimed with nervous good humor, and then happily joined her mother in slamming Ed on the back. Ed barely felt the blows. He was still goggling down at the newspaper. Whats wrong, Eddie? Sondra asked again. Him! Him! Ed shouted, stabbing his finger down at the paper so hard that his fingernail tore all the way through the A section. That man! Lord Peter! What in Gods name are you t Thats Todd Bowdens grandfather! What? That war criminal? Eddie, thats crazy! But its him, Ed almost moaned. Jesus Christ Almighty, thats him! Sondra French looked at the picture long and fixedly. He doesnt look like Peter Wimsey at all, she said finally. 28 Todd, pale as windowglass, sat on a couch between his mother and father. Opposite them was a graying, polite police detective named Richler. Todds father had offered to call the police, but Todd had done it himself, his voice cracking through the registers as it had done when he was fourteen. He finished his recital. It hadnt taken long. He spoke with a mechanical colorlessness that scared the hell out of Monica. He was seventeen, true enough, but he was still a boy in so many ways. This was going to scar him forever. I read him ... oh, I dont know. Tom Jones. The Mill on the Floss. That was a boring one. I didnt think wed ever get through it. Some stories by HawthorneI remember he especially liked The Great Stone Face and Young Goodman Brown. We started The Pickwick Papers, but he didnt like it. He said Dickens could only be funny when he was being serious, and Pickwick was only kittenish. That was his word, kittenish. We got along the best with Tom Jones. We both liked that one. And that was three years ago, Richler said. Yes. I kept stopping in to see him when I got the chance, but in high school we were bussed across town . . . and some of the kids got up a scratch ballteam ... there was more homework ... you know ... things just came up. You had less time. Less time, thats right. The work in high school was a lot harder ... making the grades to get into college. But Todd is a very apt pupil, Monica said almost automatically. He graduated salutatorian. We were so proud. Ill bet you were, Richler said with a warm smile. Ive got two boys in Fairview, down in the Valley, and theyre just about able to keep their sports eligibility. He turned back to Todd. You didnt read him any more books after you started high school? No. Once in awhile Id read him the paper. Id come over and hed ask me what the headlines were. He was interested in Watergate when that was going on. And he always wanted to know about the stock market, and the print on that page used to drive him batshitsorry. Mom. She patted his hand. I dont know why he was interested in the stocks, but he was. He had a few stocks, Richler said. Thats how he was getting by. He also had five different sets of ID salted around that house. He was a cagey one, all right. I suppose he kept the stocks in a safe deposit box somewhere, Todd remarked. Pardon me? Richler raised his eyebrows. His stocks, Todd said. His father, who had also looked puzzled, now nodded at Richler. His stock certificates, the few that were left, were in a footlocker under his bed, Richler said, along with that photo of him as Denker. Did he have a safety deposit box, son? Did he ever say he did? Todd thought, and then shook his head. I just thought that was where you kept your stocks. I dont know. This ... this whole thing has just ... you know . . . it blows my wheels. He shook his head in a dazed way that was perfectly real. He really was dazed. Yet, little by little, he felt his instinct of selfpreservation surfacing. He felt a growing alertness, and the first stirrings of confidence. If Dussander had really taken a safety deposit box in which to store his insurance document, wouldnt he have transferred his remaining stock certificates there? And that photograph? Were working with the Israelis on this, Richler said. In a very unofficial way. Id be grateful if you didnt mention that if you decide to see any press people. Theyre real professionals. Theres a man named Weiskopf whod like to talk to you tomorrow, Todd. If thats okay by you and your folks. I guess so, Todd said, but he felt a touch of atavistic dread at the thought of being sniffed over by the same hounds that had chased Dussander for the last half of his life. Dussander had had a healthy respect for them, and Todd knew he would do well to keep that in mind. Mr. and Mrs. Bowden? Do you have any objections to Todd seeing Mr. Weiskopf? Not if Todd doesnt, Dick Bowden said. Id like to be present, though. Ive read about these Mossad characters Weiskopf isnt Mossad. Hes what the Israelis call a special operative. In fact, he teaches Yiddish literature and English grammar. Also, hes written two novels. Richler smiled. Dick raised a hand, dismissing it. Whatever he is, Im not going to let him badger Todd. From what Ive read, these fellows can be a little too professional. Maybe hes okay.


But I want you and this Weiskopf to remember that Todd tried to help that old man. He was flying under false colors, but Todd didnt know that. Thats okay, Dad, Todd said with a wan smile. I just want you to help us all that you can, Richler said. I appreciate your concern, Mr. Bowden. I think youre going to find that Weiskopf is a pleasant, lowpressure kind of guy. Ive finished my own questions, but Ill break a little ground by telling you what the Israelis are most interested in. Todd was with Dussander when he had the heart attack that landed him in the hospital He asked me to come over and read him a letter, Todd said. We know. Richler leaned forward, elbows on his knees, tie swinging out to form a plumbline to the floor. The Israelis want to know about that letter. Dussander was a big fish, but he wasnt the last one in the lakeor so Sam Weiskopf says, and I believe him. They think Dussander might have known about a lot of other fish. Most of those still alive are probably in South America, but there may be others in a dozen countries ... including the United States. Did you know they collared a man who had been an Unterkommandant at Buchenwald in the lobby of a Tel Aviv hotel? Really! Monica said, her eyes widening. Really. Richler nodded. Two years ago. The point is just that the Israelis think the letter Dussander wanted Todd to read might have been from one of those other fish. Maybe theyre right, maybe theyre wrong. Either way, they want to know. Todd, who had gone back to Dussanders house and burned the letter, said Id help youor this Weiskopfif I could, Lieutenant Richler, but the letter was in German. It was really tough to read. I felt like a fool. Mr. Denker . . . Dussander ... kept getting more excited and asking me to spell the words he couldnt understand because of my, you know, pronunciation. But I guess he was following all right. I remember once he laughed and said, Yes, yes, that is what youd do, isnt it? Then he said something in German. This was about two or three minutes before he had the heart attack. Something about Dummkopf. That means stupid in German, I think. He was looking at Richler uncertainly, inwardly quite pleased with this lie. Richler was nodding. Yes, we understand that the letter was in German. The admitting doctor heard the story from you and corroborated it. But the letter itself, Todd ... do you remember what happened to it? Here it is, Todd thought. The crunch. I guess it was still on the table when the ambulance came. When we all left. I couldnt testify to it in court, but I think there was a letter on the table, Dick said. I picked something up and glanced at it. Airmail stationery, I think, but I didnt notice it was written in German. Then it should still be there, Richler said. Thats what we cant figure out. Its not? Dick said. I mean, it wasnt? It wasnt, and it isnt. Maybe somebody broke in, Monica suggested. There would have been no need to break in, Richler said. In the confusion of getting him out, the house was never locked. Dussander himself never thought to ask someone to lock up, apparently. His latchkey was still in the pocket of his pants when he died. His house was unlocked from the time the MEDQ attendants wheeled him out until we sealed it this morning at twothirty A.M. Well, there you are, Dick said. No, Todd said. I see whats bugging Lieutenant Richler. Oh yes, he saw it very well. Youd have to be blind to miss it. Why would a burglar steal nothing but a letter? Especially one written in German? It doesnt listen. Mr. Denker didnt have much to steal, but a guy who broke in could find something better than that. You got it, all right, Richler said. Not bad. Todd used to want to be a detective when he grew up, Monica said, and ruffled Todds hair a bit. Since he had gotten big he seemed to object to that, but right now he didnt seem to mind. God, she hated to see him looking so pale. I guess hes changed his mind to history these days. History is a good field, Richler said. You can be an investigative historian. Have you ever read Josephine Tey? No, sir. Doesnt matter. I just wish my boys had some ambition greater than seeing the Angels win the pennant this year. Todd offered a wan smile and said nothing. Richler turned serious again. Anyway, Ill tell you the theory were going on. We figure that someone, probably right here in Santo Donato, knew who and what Dussander was. Really? Dick said. Oh yes. Someone who knew the truth. Maybe another fugitive Nazi. I know that sounds like Robert Ludlum stuff, but who would have thought there was even one fugitive Nazi in a quiet little suburb like this? And when Dussander was taken to the hospital, we think that Mr. X scooted over to the house and got that incriminating letter. And that by now its so many decomposing ashes floating around in the sewer system. That doesnt make much sense either, Todd said. Why not, Todd? Well, if Mr. Denk ... if Dussander had an old buddy from the camps, or just an old Nazi buddy, why did he bother to have me come over and read him that letter? I mean, if you could have heard him correcting me, and stuff ... at least this old Nazi buddy youre talking about would know how to speak German. A good point. Except maybe this other fellow is in a wheelchair, or blind. For all we know, it might be Bormann himself and he doesnt even dare go out and show his face. Guys that are blind or in wheelchairs arent that good at scooting out to get letters, Todd said. Richler looked admiring again. True. But a blind man could steal a letter even if he couldnt read it, though. Or hire it done. Todd thought this over, and noddedbut he shrugged at the same time to show how farfetched he thought the idea. Richler had progressed far beyond Robert Ludlum and into the land of Sax Rohmer. But how farfetched the idea was or wasnt didnt matter one fucking little bit, did it? No. What mattered was that Richler was still sniffing around ... and that sheeny, Weiskopf, was also sniffing around. The letter, the goddam letter! Dussanders stupid goddam idea! And suddenly he was thinking of his .30.30, cased and resting on its shelf in the cool, dark garage. He pulled his mind away from it quickly. The palms of his hands had gone damp. Did Dussander have any friends that you knew of? Richler was asking. Friends? No. There used to be a cleaning lady, but she moved away and he didnt bother to get another one. In the summer he hired a kid to mow his lawn, but I dont think hed gotten one this year. The grass is pretty long, isnt it? Yes. Weve knocked on a lot of doors, and it doesnt seem as if hed hired anyone. Did he get phone calls? Sure, Todd said offhandedly ... here was a gleam of light, a possible escapehatch that was relatively safe. Dussanders phone had actually rung only half a dozen times or so in all the time Todd had known himsalesmen, a polling organization asking about breakfast foods, the rest wrong numbers. He only had the phone in case he got sick ... as he finally had, might his soul rot in hell. He used to get a call or two every week. Did he speak German on those occasions? Richler asked quickly. He seemed excited. No, Todd said, suddenly cautious. He didnt like Richlers excitementthere was something wrong about it, something dangerous. He felt sure of it, and suddenly Todd had to work furiously to keep himself from breaking out in a sweat. He didnt talk much at all. I remember that a couple of times he said things like. The boy who reads to me is here right now. Ill call you back.  Ill bet thats it! Richler said, whacking his palms on his thighs. Id bet two weeks pay that was the guy! He closed his notebook with a snap (so far as Todd could see he had done nothing but doodle in it) and stood up. I want to thank all three of you for your time. You in particular, Todd. I know all of this has been a hell of a shock to you, but it will be over soon. Were going to turn the house upside down this afternooncellar to attic and then back down to the cellar again. Were bringing in all the special teams. We may find some trace of Dussanders phonemate yet  I hope so, Todd said. Richler shook hands all around and left. Dick asked Todd if he felt like going out back and hitting the badminton birdie around until lunch. Todd said he didnt feel much like badminton or lunch, and went upstairs with his head down and his shoulders slumped. His parents exchanged sympathetic, troubled glances. Todd lay down on his bed, stared at the ceiling, and thought about his .30.30. He could see it very clearly in his minds eye. He thought about shoving the blued steel barrel right up Betty Trasks slimy Jewish coozejust what she needed, a prick that never went soft. How do you like it, Betty? he heard himself asking her. You just tell me if you get enough, okay? He imagined her screams. And at last a terrible flat smile came to his face. Sure, just tell me, you bitch ... okay? Okay? Okay? ... So what do you think? Weiskopf asked Richler when Richler picked him up at a luncheonette three blocks from the Bowden home. Oh, I think the kid was in on it somehow, Richler said. Somehpw, some way, to some degree. But is he cool? If you poured hot water into his mouth I think hed spit out icecubes. I tripped him up a couple of times, but Ive got nothing I could use in court. And if Id gone much further, some smart lawyer might be able to get him off on entrapment a year or two down the road even if something does pull together. I mean, the courts are still going to look at him as a juvenilethe kids only seventeen. In some ways, Id guess he hasnt really been a juvenile since he was maybe eight. Hes creepy, man. Richler stuck a cigarette in his mouth and laughedthe laugh had a shaky sound. I mean, really fuckin creepy. What slips did he make? The phone calls. Thats the main thing. When I slipped him the idea, I could see his eyes light up like a pinball machine. Richler turned left and wheeled the nondescript Chevy Nova down the freeway entrance ramp. Two hundred yards to their right was the slope and the dead tree where Todd had dryfired his rifle at the freeway traffic one Saturday morning not long ago. Hes saying to himself, This cop is off the wall if he thinks Dussander had a Nazi friend here in town, but if he does think that, it takes me off groundzero. So he says yeah, Dussander got one or two calls a week. Very mysterious. I cant talk now, Zfive, call laterthat type of thing. But Dussanders been getting a special quiet phone rate for the last seven years. Almost no activity at all, and no long distance. He wasnt getting a call or two a week. What else? He immediately jumped to the conclusion that the letter was gone and nothing else. He knew that was the only thing missing because he was the one who went back and took it  Richler jammed his cigarette out in the ashtray. We think the letter was just a prop. We think that Dussander had the heart attack while he was trying to bury that body ... the freshest body. There was dirt on his shoes and his cuffs, and so thats a pretty fair assumption. That means he called the kid after he had the heart attack, not before. He crawls upstairs and phones the kid. The kid flips outas much as he ever flips out, anywayand cooks up the letter story on the spur of the moment. Its not great, but not that bad, either . . . considering the circumstances. He goes over there and cleans up Dussanders mess for him. Now the kid is in fucking overdrive. MEDQs coming, his father is coming, and he needs that letter for stagedressing. He goes upstairs and breaks open that box Youve got confirmation on that? Weiskopf asked, lighting a cigarette of his own. It was an unfiltered Player, and to Richler it smelled like horseshit. No wonder the British Empire fell, he thought, if they started smoking cigarettes like that. Yes, weve got confirmation right up the yingyang, Richler said. There are fingerprints on the box which match those in his school records. But his fingerprints are on almost everything in the goddam house! Still, if you confront him with all of that, you can rattle him, Weiskopf said. Oh, listen, hey, you dont know this kid. When I said he was cool, I meant it. Hed say Dussander asked him to fetch the box once or twice so he could put something in it or take something out of it. His fingerprints are on the shovel. Hed say he used it to plant a rosebush in the back yard. Richler took out his cigarettes but the pack was empty. Weiskopf offered him a Player. Richler took one puff and began coughing. They taste as bad as they smell, he choked. Like those hamburgers we had for lunch yesterday, Weiskopf said, smiling. Those MacBurgers. Big Macs, Richler said, and laughed. Okay. So crosscultural pollination doesnt always work. His smile faded. He looks so cleancut, you know? Yes. This is no j.d. from Vasco with hair down to his asshole and chains on his motorcycle boots. No. Weiskopf stared at the traffic all around them and was very glad he wasnt driving. Hes just a boy. A white boy from a good home. And I find it difficult to believe that I thought you had them ready to handle rifles and grenades by the time they were eighteen. In Israel. Yes. But he was fourteen when all of this started. Why would a fourteenyearold boy mix himself up with such a man as Dussander? I have tried and tried to understand that and still I cant. Id settle for how, Richter said, and flicked the cigarette out the window. It was giving him a headache. Perhaps, if it did happen, it was just luck. A coincidence. Serendipity. I think there is black serendipity as well as white. I dont know what youre talking about, Richler said gloomily. All I know is the kid is creepier than a bug under a rock. What Im saying is simple. Any other boy would have been more than happy to tell his parents, or the police. To say, I have recognized a wanted man. He is living at this address. Yes, I am sure. And then let the authorities take over. Or do you feel I am wrong? No, I wouldnt say so. The kid would be in the limelight for a few days. Most kids would dig that. Picture in the paper, an interview on the evening news, probably a school assembly award for good citizenship. Richler laughed. Hell, the kid would probably get a shot on Real People. Whats that? Never mind, Richler said. He had to raise his voice slightly because tenwheelers were passing the Nova on either side. Weiskopf looked nervously from one to the other. You dont want to know. But youre right about most kids. Most kids. But not this kid, Weiskopf said. This boy, probably by dumb luck alone, penetrates Dussanders cover. Yet instead of going to his parents or the authorities ... he goes to Dussander. Why? You say you dont care, but I think you do. I think it haunts you just as it does me. Not blackmail, Richler said. Thats for sure. That kids got everything a kid could want. There was a dunebuggy in the garage, not to mention an elephant gun on the wall. And even if he wanted to squeeze Dussander just for the thrill of it, Dussander was practically unsqueezable. Except for those few stocks, he didnt have a pot to piss in. How sure are you that the boy doesnt know youve found the bodies? Im sure. Maybe Ill go back this afternoon and hit him with that. Right now it looks like our best shot. Richler struck the steering wheel lightly. If all of this had come out even one day sooner, I think I would have tried for a search warrant. The clothes the boy was wearing that night? Yeah. If we could have found soil samples on his clothes that matched the dirt in Dussanders cellar, I almost think we could break him. But the clothes he was wearing that night have probably been washed six times since then. What about the other dead winos? The ones your police department has been finding around the city? Those belong to Dan Bozeman. I dont think theres any connection anyhow. Dussander just wasnt that strong ... and more to the point, he had such a neat little racket already worked out. Promise them a drink and a meal, take them home on the city busthe fucking city bus!and waste them right in his kitchen. Weiskopf said quietly It wasnt Dussander I was thinking of. What do you mean by th Richler began, and then his mouth snapped suddenly closed. There was a long, unbelieving moment of silence, broken only by the drone of the traffic all around them. Then Richler said softly Hey. Hey, come on now. Give me a fucking br As an agent of my government, I am only interested in Bowden because of what, if anything, he may know about Dussanders remaining contacts with the Nazi underground. But as a human being, I am becoming more and more interested in the boy himself. Id like to know what makes him tick. I want to know why. And as I try to answer that question to my own satisfaction, I find that more and more I am asking myself What else. But Do you suppose, I ask myself, that the very atrocities in which Dussander took part formed the basis of some attraction between them? Thats an unholy idea, I tell myself. The things that happened in those camps still have power enough to make the stomach flutter with nausea. I feel that way myself, although the only close relative I ever had in the camps was my grandfather, and he died when I was three. But maybe there is something about what the Germans did that exercises a deadly fascination over ussomething that opens the catacombs of the imagination. Maybe part of our dread and horror comes from a secret knowledge that under the rightor wrongset of circumstances, we ourselves would be willing to build such places and staff them. Black serendipity. Maybe we know that under the right set of circumstances the things that live in the catacombs would be glad to crawl out. And what do you think they would look like? Like mad Fuehrers with forelocks and shoepolish moustaches, heiling all over the place? Like red devils, or demons, or the dragon that floats on its stinking reptile wings? I dont know, Richler said. I think most of them would look like ordinary accountants, Weiskopf said Little mindmen with graphs and flowcharts and electronic calculators, all ready to start maximizing the kill ratios so that next time they could perhaps kill twenty or thirty millions instead of only six. And some of them might look like Todd Bowden. Youre damn near as creepy as he is, Richler said. Weiskopf nodded. Its a creepy subject. Finding those dead men and animals in Dussanders cellar . . . that was creepy, nu? Have you ever thought that maybe this boy began with a simple interest in the camps? An interest not much different from the interests of boys who collect coins or stamps or who like to read about Wild West desperados? And that he went to Dussander to get his information straight from the horses head? Mouth, Richler said automatically. Man, at this point I could believe anything. Maybe, Weiskopf muttered. It was almost lost in the roar of another tenwheeler passing them. BUDWEISER was printed on the side in letters six feet tall. What an amazing country, Weiskopf thought, and lit a fresh cigarette. They dont understand how we can live surrounded by halfmad Arabs, but if I lived here for two years I would have a nervous breakdown. Maybe. And maybe it isnt possible to stand close to murder piled on murder and not be touched by it. 29 The short guy who entered the squadroom brought stench after him like a wake. He smelled like rotten bananas and Wildroot Cream Oil and cockroach shit and the inside of a city garbage truck at the end of a busy morning. He was dressed in a pair of ageing herringbone pants, a ripped gray institutional shirt, and a faded blue warmup jacket from which most of the zipper hung loose like a string of pygmy teeth. The uppers of his shoes were bound to the lowers with Krazy Glue. A pestiferous hat sat on his head. Oh Christ, get out of here! the duty sergeant cried. Youre not under arrest, Hap! I swear to God! I swear it on my mothers name! Get out of here! I want to breathe again. I want to talk to Lieutenant Bozeman. He died, Hap. It happened yesterday. Well all really fucked up over it. So get out and let us mourn in peace. I want to talk to Lieutenant Bozeman! Hap said more loudly. His breath drifted fragrantly from his mouth a juicy, fermenting mixture of pizza, Halls Mentholyptus lozenges, and sweet red wine. He had to go to Siam on a case, Hap. So why dont you just get out of here? Go someplace and eat a lightbulb. I want to talk to Lieutenant Bozeman and I aint leaving until I do! The duty sergeant fled the room. He returned about five minutes later with Bozeman, a thin, slightly stooped man of fifty. Take him into your office, okay, Dan? the duty sergeant begged. Wont that be all right? Come on, Hap, Bozeman said, and a minute later they were in the threesided stall that was Bozemans office. Bozeman prudently opened his only window and turned on his fan before sitting down. Do something for you, Hap? You still on those murders, Lieutenant Bozeman? The derelicts? Yeah, I guess thats still mine. Well, I know who greased em. Is that so, Hap? Bozeman asked. He was busy lighting his pipe. He rarely smoked the pipe, but neither the fan nor the open window was quite enough to overwhelm Haps smell. Soon, Bozeman thought, the paint would begin to blister and peel. He sighed. You remember I told you Poley was talkin to a guy just a day before they found him all cut up in that pipe? You member me tellin you that, Lieutenant Bozeman? I remember. Several of the winos who hung around the Salvation Army and the soup kitchen a few blocks away had told a similar story about two of the murdered derelicts, Charles Sonny Brackett and Peter Poley Smith. They had seen a guy hanging around, a young guy, talking to Sonny and Poley. Nobody knew for sure if Poley had gone off with the guy, but Hap and two others claimed to have seen Poley Smith walk off with him. They had the idea that the guy was underage and willing to spring for a bottle of musky in exchange for some juice. Several other winos claimed to have seen a guy like that around. The description of this guy was superb, bound to stand up in court, coming as it did from such unimpeachable sources. Young, blond, and white. What else did you need to make a bust? Well, last night I was in the park, Hap said, and I just happened to have this old bunch of newspapers Theres a law against vagrancy in this city, Hap. I was just collectin em up, Hap said righteously. Its so awful the way people litter. I was doon a public surface, Lieutenant. A friggin public surface. Some of those papers was a week old. Yes, Hap, Bozeman said. He rememberedvaguelybeing quite hungry and looking forward keenly to his lunch. That time seemed long ago now. Well, when I woke up, one of those papers had blew onto my face and I was lookin right at the guy. Gave me a hell of a jump, I can tell you. Look. This is the guy. This guy right here. Hap pulled a crumpled, yellowed, waterspotted sheet of newspaper from his warmup jacket and unfolded it. Bozeman leaned forward, now moderately interested. Hap put the paper on his desk so he could read the headline 4 BOYS NAMED TO SOUTHERN CAL ALLSTARS. Below the head were four photos. Which one, Hap? Hap put a grimy finger on the picture to the far right. Him. It says his name is Todd Bowden. Bozeman looked from the picture to Hap, wondering how many of Haps braincells were still unfried and in some kind of working order after twenty years of being sauteed in a bubbling sauce of cheap wine seasoned with an occasional shot of sterno. How can you be sure, Hap? Hes wearing a baseball cap in the picture. I cant tell if hes got blonde hair or not. The grin, Hap said. Its the way hes grinnin. He was grinnin at Poley in just that same aintlifegrand way when they walked off together. I couldnt mistake that grin in a million years. Thats him, thats the guy. Bozeman barely heard the last; he was thinking, and thinking hard. Todd Bowden. There was something very familiar about that name. Something that bothered him even worse than the thought that a local high school hero might be going around and offing winos. He thought he had heard that name just this morning in conversation. He frowned, trying to remember where. Hap was gone and Dan Bozeman was still trying to figure it out when Richler and Weiskopf came in ... and it was the sound of their voices as they got coffee in the squadroom that finally brought it home to him. Holy God, said Lieutenant Bozeman, and got up in a hurry. Both of his parents had offered to cancel their afternoon plansMonica at the market and Dick golfing with some business peopleand stay home with him, but Todd told them he would rather be alone. He thought he would clean his rifle and just sort of think the whole thing over. Try to get it straight in his mind. Todd, Dick said, and suddenly found he had nothing much to say. He supposed if he had been his own father, he would have at this point advised prayer. But the generations had turned, and the Bowdens werent much into that these days. Sometimes these things happen, he finished lamely, because Todd was still looking at him. Try not to brood about it. Itll be all right, Todd said. After they were gone, he took some rags and a bottle of Alpaca gun oil out onto the bench beside the roses. He went back into the garage and got the .30.30. He took it to the bench and broke it down, the dustysweet smell of the flowers lingering pleasantly in his nose. He cleaned the gun thoroughly, humming a tune as he did it, sometimes whistling a snatch between his teeth. Then he put the gun together again. He could have done it just as easily in the dark. His mind wandered free. When it came back some five minutes later, he observed that he had loaded the gun. The idea of targetshooting didnt much appeal, not today, but he had still loaded it. He told himself he didnt know why. Sure you do, Toddbaby. The time, so to speak, has come. And that was when the shiny yellow Saab turned into the driveway. The man who got out was vaguely familiar to Todd, but it wasnt until he slammed the car door and started to walk toward him that Todd saw the sneakerstowtopped Keds, light blue. Talk about Blasts from the Past; here, walking up the Bowden driveway, was Rubber Ed French, The Ked Man. Hi, Todd. Long time no see. Todd leaned the rifle against the side of the bench and offered his wide and winsome grin. Hi, Mr. French. What are you doing out here on the wild side of town? Are your folks home? Gee, no. Did you want them for something? No, Ed French said after a long, thoughtful pause. No, I guess not. I guess maybe it would be better if just you and I talked. For starters, anyway. You may be able to offer a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this. Although God knows I doubt it. He reached into his hip pocket and brought out a newsclipping. Todd knew what it was even before Rubber Ed passed it to him, and for the second time that day he was looking at the sidebyside pictures of Dussander. The one the street photographer had taken had been circled in black ink. The meaning was clear enough to Todd; French had recognized Todds grandfather. And now he wanted to tell everyone in the world all about it. He wanted to midwife the good news. Good old Rubber Ed, with his jive talk and his motherfucking sneakers. The police would be very interestedbut, of course, they already were. He knew that now. The sinking feeling had begun about thirty minutes after Richler left. It was as if he had been riding high in a balloon filled with happygas. Then a cold steel arrow had ripped through the balloons fabric, and now it was sinking steadily. The phone calls, that was the biggie. Richler had trotted that out just as slick as warm owlshit. Sure, he had said, practically breaking his neck to rush into the trap. He gets one or two calls a week. Let them go ranting all over southern California looking for geriatric exNazis. Fine. Except maybe they had gotten a different story from Ma Bell. Todd didnt know if the phone company could tell how much your phone got used . . . but there had been a look in Richlers eyes . . . Then there was the letter. He had inadvertently told Richler that the house hadnt been burgled, and Richler had no doubt gone away thinking that the only way Todd could have known that was if he had been back . . . as he had been, not just once but three times, first to get the letter and twice more looking for anything incriminating. There had been nothing; even the SS uniform was gone, disposed of by Dussander sometime during the last four years. And then there were the bodies. Richler had never mentioned the bodies. At first Todd had thought that was good. Let them hunt a little longer while he got his own headnot to mention his storystraight. No fear about the dirt that had gotten on his clothes burying the body; they had all been cleaned later that same night. He ran them through the washerdryer himself, perfectly aware that Dussander might die and then everything might come out. You cant be too careful, boy, as Dussander himself would have said. Then, little by little, he had realized it was not good. The weather had been warm, and the warm weather always made the cellar smell worse; on his last trip to Dussanders house it had been a rank presence. Surely the police would have been interested in that smell, and would have tracked it to its source. So why had Richler withheld the information? Was he saving it for later? Saving it for a nasty little surprise? And if Richler was into planning nasty little surprises, it could only mean that he suspected. Todd looked up from the clipping and saw that Rubber Ed had halfturned away from him. He was looking into the street, although not much was happening out there. Richler could suspect, but suspicion was the best he could do. Unless there was some sort of concrete evidence binding Todd to the old man. Exactly the sort of evidence Rubber Ed French could give. Ridiculous man in a pair of ridiculous sneakers. Such a ridiculous man hardly deserved to live. Todd touched the barrel of the .30.30. Yes, Rubber Ed was a link they didnt have. They could never prove that Todd had been an accessory to one of Dussanders murders. But with Rubber Eds testimony they could prove conspiracy. And would even that end it? Oh, no. They would get his high school graduation picture next and start showing it to the stewbums down in the Mission district. A long shot, but one Richler could ill afford not to play. If we cant pin one bunch of winos on him, maybe we can get him for the other bunch. What next? Court next. His father would get him a wonderful bunch of lawyers, of course. And the lawyers would get him off, of course. Too much circumstantial evidence. He would make too favorable an impression on the jury. But by then his life would be ruined anyway, just as Dussander had said it would be. It would be all dragged through the newspapers, dug up and brought into the light like the halfdecayed bodies in Dussanders cellar. The man in that picture is the man who came to my office when you were in the ninth grade, Ed told him abruptly, turning to Todd again. He purported to be your grandfather. Now it turns out he was a wanted war criminal. Yes, Todd said. His face had gone oddly blank. It was the face of a departmentstore dummy. All the healthiness, life, and vivacity had drained from it. What was left was frightening in its vacuous emptiness. How did it happen? Ed asked, and perhaps he intended his question as a thundering accusation, but it came out sounding plaintive and lost and somehow cheated. How did this happen, Todd? Oh, one thing just followed another, Todd said, and picked up the .30.30. Thats really how it happened. One thing just . . . followed another. He pushed the safety catch to the off position with his thumb and pointed the rifle at Rubber Ed. As stupid as it sounds, thats just what happened.