not quickly enough to avoid discovery.
I knew that the bald man, if not Stevenson, was coming to the van. Was
already on the move. The bald man, the butcher, the trader in bodies,
the thief of eyes.
Staying low, I retraced the route by which I had come through the ranks
of parked trucks and cars, returning to the alley and then scurrying
onward, using rows of trash cans as cover, all but crawling to a
Dumpster and past it, to a corner and around, into the other alleyway,
out of sight of the municipal building, rising to my full height now,
running once more, as fleet as the cat, gliding like an owl, a creature
of the night, wondering if I would find safe shelter before dawn or
would still be afoot in the open to curl and blacken under the hot
rising sun.
I assumed that I could safely go home but that I might be foolish to
linger there too long. I wouldn’t be overdue at the police station for
another two minutes, and they would wait for me at least ten minutes
past the appointed time before Chief Stevenson realized that I must
have seen him with the man who had stolen my father’s body.
Even then, they might not come to the house in search of me. I was
still not a serious threat to them-and not likely to become one. I had
no proof of anything I’d seen.
Nevertheless, they seemed inclined to take extreme measures to prevent
the exposure of their inscrutable conspiracy. They might be loath to
leave even the smallest of loose ends-which meant a knot in my neck.
I expected to find Orson in the foyer when I unlocked the front door
and stepped inside, but he was not waiting for me. I called his name,
but he didn’t appear; and if he had been approaching through the gloom,
I would have heard his big paws thumping on the floor.
He was probably in one of his dour moods. For the most part, he is
good-humored, playful, and companionable, with enough energy in his
tail to sweep all the streets in Moonlight Bay. From time to time,
however, the world weighs heavily on him, and then he lies as limp as a
rug, sad eyes open but fixed on some doggy memory or on some doggy
vision beyond this world, making no sound other than an occasional
attenuated sigh.
More rarely, I have found Orson in a state of what seems to be bleakest
dejection. This ought to be a condition too profound for any dog to
wear, although it fits him well.
He once sat before a mirrored closet door in my bedroom, staring at his
reflection for nearly half an hour-an eternity to the dog mind, which
generally experiences the world as a series of two minute wonders and
three-minute enthusiasms. I hadn’t been able to tell what fascinated
him in his image, although I ruled out both canine vanity and simple
puzzlement; he seemed full of sorrow, all drooping ears and slumped
shoulders and wagless tail. I swear, at times his eyes brimmed with
tears that he was barely able to hold back.
“Orson?” I called.
The switch operating the staircase chandelier was fitted with a
rheostat, as were most of the switches throughout the house. I dialed
up the minimum light that I needed to climb the stairs.
Orson wasn’t on the landing. He wasn’t waiting in the secondfloor
hall.
In my room, I dialed a wan glow. Orson wasn’t here, either.
I went directly to the nearest nightstand. From the top drawer I
withdrew an envelope in which I kept a supply of knocking-around
money.
It contained only a hundred and eighty dollars, but this was better
than nothing. Though I didn’t know why I might need the cash, I
intended to be prepared, so I transferred the entire sum to one of the
pockets of my jeans.
As I slid shut the nightstand drawer, I noticed a dark object on the
bedspread. When I picked it up, I was surprised that it was actually
what it had appeared to be in the shadows: a pistol.