voice, as if suddenly she ceased to see Lowbock as a threat and could
not help but view him as a comic figure.
Marty found her attitude infecting him, and he realized that with him,
as with her, this sudden dark hilarity was a reaction to the unbearable
tension of the past hour. He said, “By all means, drop by again.”
“We’ll make a nice pot of tea,” Paige said.
“And scones.”
“Crumpets.”
“Tea cakes.”
“And by all means, bring the wife,” Paige said. “We’re quite
broad-minded. We’d love to meet her even if she is of another species.”
Marty was aware that Paige was perilously close to laughing out loud,
because he was close to it himself, and he knew their behavior was
childish, but he required all of his self-control not to continue making
fun of Lowbock all the way out the front door, driving him backward with
jokes the way that Professor Von Helsing might force Count Dracula to
retreat by brandishing a crucifix at him.
Strangely, the detective was disconcerted by their frivolity as he had
never been by their anger or by their earnest insistence that the
intruder had been real. Visible self-doubt took hold of him, and he
looked as if he might suggest they sit down and start over again.
But self-doubt was a weakness unfamiliar to him, and he could not
sustain it for long.
Uncertainty quickly gave way to his familiar smug expression, and he
said, “We’ll be taking the look-alike’s Heckler and Koch, as well as
your guns, of course, until you can produce the paperwork that I
requested.”
For a terrible moment, Marty was sure that they had found the Beretta in
the kitchen cupboard and the Mossberg shotgun under the bed upstairs, as
well as the other weapons, and were going to leave him defenseless.
But Lowbock listed the guns and mentioned only three, “The Smith and
Wesson, the Korth thirty-eight, and the M16.”
Marty tried not to let his relief show.
Paige distracted Lowbock by saying, “Lieutenant, are you ever going to
get the fuck out of here?”
The detective finally could not prevent his face from tightening with
anger. “You can certainly hurry me along, Mrs. Stillwater, if you would
repeat your request in the presence of two other officers.”
“Always worrying about those lawsuits,” Marty said.
Paige said, “Happy to oblige, Lieutenant. Would you like me to phrase
the request in the same language I just used?”
Never before had Marty heard her use the F-word except in the most
intimate circumstances–which meant, though masked by her light tone of
voice and frivolous manner, her anger was as strong as ever. That was
good. After the police left, she would need the anger to get her
through the night ahead. Anger would help keep fear at bay.
When he closes his eyes and tries to picture the pain, he can see it as
a filigree of fire. A beautifully luminous lacework, white-hot with
shadings of red and yellow, stretches from the base of his throbbing
neck across his back, encircling his sides, looping and knotting
intricately across his chest and abdomen as well.
By visualizing the pain, he has a better sense of whether his condition
is improving or deteriorating. Actually, his only concern is how fast
he is improving. He has been wounded on other occasions, though never
this grievously, and knows what to expect, continued deterioration would
be a wholly new and alarming experience for him.
The pain had been vicious during the minute or two after he’d been shot.
He had felt as if a monstrous fetus had come awake within him and was
burrowing its way out.
Fortunately, he has a singularly high tolerance for pain. He also draws
courage from the knowledge that the agony will swiftly subside to a less
crippling level.
By the time he staggers through the rear door of the house and heads for
the Honda, the bleeding stops completely, and his hunger pangs become
more terrible than the pain of his wounds. His stomach knots, loosens
with a spasm, but immediately knots again, violently clench that can
seize the nourishment he so desperately needs.
Driving away from his house through gray torrents at the height of the