It stopped snowing the week after Christmas, but the temperature dropped into the teens, and the side streets where the plows couldn�t get through turned greasy and treacherous, packed solid with ice, the rutted surface as hard as iron.

�Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,� Kinsella muttered as Jean took the turn off Huntington and the seat belt jerked him upright. He was juggling a Styrofoam cup of coffee with both hands, trying not to spill it in his lap. Jean had one of those supersized insulated mugs from the Cumberland Farms on Boylston they give out as promotions, unlimited refills after your first cup, with a childproof top. She snagged it off the dash and fought the wheels back into line. The unmarked car hammered across the icy washboard like a dog sled, the rear end fishtailing. Jean got purchase and nudged the accelerator to maintain traction. The front end took a sudden nose dive, the shocks bottoming out with a metallic dank that made her wisdom teeth ache.

It was after midnight. They were answering a radio call in the South End.

Rutland Square was one of four parallel blocks of brownstone town-houses between Tremont and Shawmut, with a narrow park down the center of the street. It was a neighborhood that had gone downhill in the years since the war but was now being gentrified, Yuppies, families with young kids, gay couples � the usual mix. Real estate down here was getting priced out of the range of sweat equity, and it was losing a certain ethnic charge, turning into a pocket of residential parking permits, an enclave of white bread.

Jean pulled over where they wouldn�t block traffic. They got out of the car and crossed the street. Their warm breath frosted in the cold air. Jean blew on her hands. The crime scene had already been established, taped off and secured. The night was lit up like a stage set. The incandescent orange of the streetlights overhead made the glare ice coating the bare branches of the trees as bright as brass, and below them the flashing blues of the squad cars and the white bounce floods the television crews were setting up bleached the color out of the bricks. The ground floor windows of the brownstones crowding the street were mirrors, clouded and opaque.

Halfway up the block a vehicle was slewed across the roadway. There was a body lying in the street next to it. Uniformed officers stamped in place, trying to stay warm. The two detectives flashed their shields at the patrolman on duty and ducked under the yellow tape. They walked over to the car. The snow squeaked underfoot like broken glass.

Jean introduced herself to the senior responding officer present, a black plainclothesman named Dirks. �Detective Weinstock, MCD,� she told him. �My partner, Detective Kinsella. We just got the call. What�s your status?�

�We�re waiting on Forensics,� he said. His face was pinched grey with the weather. Dirks had been Tac Squad, she knew, one of the last real cowboy units in Metro before they�d been disbanded in a major departmental shakeup. Dirks was under a cloud, and it showed. His resentment of her presence was all too obvious. Jean and Kinsella were Major Crimes Division. Dirks probably thought Jean had gotten the promotion he�d deserved. Not that she didn�t think she deserved it herself.

�So, any idea what this is?� Kinsella asked.

Dirks shrugged. �Maybe he tried to take somebody else�s parking space after they�d dug it out for themselves,� he said. �We got a report, couple of shots fired. Somebody looked out their window, saw the stiff in the street. We�re canvassing the neighborhood, asking after witnesses. See what we can dig up. Wouldn�t want to step on anybody�s toes, though.� He gave her a lazy smile, without mirth. He meant it wasn�t his job to do the grunt work, he was just covering the bases for MCD.

�Appreciate your help,� Jean said. �Better to get what information we can while it�s still fresh in their minds.�

Dirks regarded her with sleepy eyes. The drift was that nobody disturbed the scene until Major Crimes was present.

The lab van pulled in at the corner, and everybody got to work.

They started with pictures, Polaroids, moving in from the perimeter. They checked out the car. They examined the dead man without moving him. Then they turned the body over. Gelid viscera stuck to the frozen pavement, and the smell made them step back, catching their breath. Something slipped out of one of his pockets and skittered away, chiming faintly on the ice, a small leatherette case.

Everybody stopped what he was doing, locked in position.

Nobody made eye contact. There was a collective hiss of indrawn breath. They all knew what it was.

Kinsella picked it up and flipped it open. The photo I.D. was inside a plastic sleeve. The picture had that surprised, guilty look such pictures so often do. It matched the stricken face of the dead man lying in the roadway. His shield caught the light.

The dead guy was a cop. Kinsella glanced up at Jean, and she stared back, both of them thinking the same thing. The cold contracted around them like a fist.

There are worse things than being a dictator�s flunky. Being a dictator�s enemy is one of them. Thus, when Julius Caesar had a mission for me to perform, I was always more than happy to undertake it as long as it didn�t mean killing anyone I really liked. Not that Caesar ever asked me to do anything so distasteful. It was just that, had he asked, I probably would have complied, within reason. There were a number of men in Rome I would not have minded putting from Caesar�s path.

But Caesar was not vengeful, nor vindictive by the standards of the powerful and ambitious men of that time. Indeed, his death came about because he neglected to kill a few men he really should have.

Usually, though, he wanted me to do things suited to my peculiar talents. It always amused him to see how I solved the problems he set me. Then he would regale his dinner guests with a witty recounting of my deeds.

I was getting a reputation as Caesar�s performing dog, but it was a reputation I could live with. Young Herod, Antipater�s son, once quoted to me a prophet of his people who said that a living dog is better than a dead lion. At the time I thought this was a rather craven philosophy, but now that in old age I contemplate the dead lions of my past, I see the wisdom in those words.

Come to think of it, young Herod is now old Herod, a king in fullest command of his nation although a client of Rome, and sitting atop a whole heap of dead lions.

I received my orders at the end of a grueling senate meeting. These meetings were once leisurely affairs characterized by long, soporific speeches and attended only by those with nothing better to do, save when important issues occupied everyone�s attention or at election time. This agreeable routine changed when Caesar took power. He had work for everybody, ambitious projects to accomplish and a whole empire to set in order after a destructive civil war. Not to mention that he had nearly doubled the size of that empire and the new territories had to be administered.

We kept our traveling kits packed in those days because you went to the Curia in the morning knowing that, before lunch, Caesar might dispatch you on an embassy to Parthia, or to Massilia to build a new aqueduct, or to Egypt to wheedle more grain from Cleopatra, or to take command of an army and go conquer India. And woe to the senator who failed to show up at the Curia without a good excuse. I witnessed the following incident personally.

We had taken our seats amid the usual buzz of conversation, which stilled when Caesar entered preceded by his twenty-four lictors. He seated himself in the curule chair and scanned the House. There were perhaps four hundred of us present that morning, the rest mostly absent with the legions or on foreign missions. Instantly Caesar knew that a man was missing. �Where is Aulus Fimbria?� he demanded.

A friend of the man stood. �Caesar, Aulus Fimbria died in the night.�

�Died?� Caesar said scornfully. �He was healthy enough yesterday.�

�Nevertheless, Caesar, this very morning his widow told me that he had expired of some unknown ailment.�

Caesar took a sharply pointed bronze stylus from the scribe who sat by him and handed it to a lictor. �Go to the house of Aulus Fimbria and poke him with this,� he ordered. �If he twitches, haul him in here.�

An hour later the lictor returned and reported that Fimbria was indeed dead. �I�ll let him off this time,� Caesar muttered. The lesson was not lost on us.

But on this particular day all senators in residence were accounted for. Caesar spent the morning naming men to various commissions, instructing the senate concerning his foreign policy decisions, and generally behaving in the highhanded fashion that suited him so well. He got no argument. By that time the senate was made up of his supporters and his former enemies who were so relieved to be alive that they had to be restrained from voting him divine honors.

Toward the middle of the day, the traditional end of a senate session, I had escaped assignment to any committee or special duty and was looking forward to a late lunch and a leisurely bath, perhaps to be followed by a fine dinner at the home of a friend, possibly one of those recently returned exiles I hadn�t seen in years. Caesar was famously magnanimous, and most of his former enemies were back home, only a few diehard Pompeians still holding out in remote corners of the empire. I was heading for the door with the others when this fond illusion was shattered.

�Decius Caecilius, attend me,� Caesar said.

Uh-oh, I thought. He wants me for something unofficial. That�s always a bad sign. I put on one of my best smiles and strode over to him.

�That is a singularly insincere smile,� he noted.

�Nonetheless, I am informed that one must smile upon Caesar these days. It is said to be dangerous to appear too glum.�

�Nonsense. I have a job for you, and you may frown and pout all you like while you carry it out.�

�What sort of job?� I asked, resigned.

�A crime.�

�Commit one or solve one?�

�Don�t try my patience, Decius. The breastplate of pearls I gave to Venus has disappeared. I want you to find and retrieve it in time for my triumph.�

�Pearls, Caesar?� I sighed.

�I�m afraid so.� He grew conciliatory and put an arm around my shoulders. Presumably this semi-divine familiarity was supposed to reduce my humiliation. �Listen, Decius, I am fully aware that you are an ex-praetor qualified for high command and fit to govern an important province, and you shall do so soon. But,� he gave my shoulders a comforting little squeeze, �your family�s recent hostility toward me went beyond the merely politic. I can�t very well shower you with honors before I�ve had a chance to properly reward my faithful supporters. Just be patient, and you�ll soon be restored to the full honors of your birth and station. In the meantime, kindly go and find my pearls.�

�Where were they last seen, Caesar?�

�Among my triumphal trophies. An image of the goddess will wear them at the head of the procession on the first day. You know where to look.�

Indeed I did. The whole city knew of the preparations for Caesar�s triumph. Since his return from Spain, where he had crushed Pompey�s sons at Munda earlier that year, Caesar had been gathering the staggering loot to be displayed in his triumph in a field near the Circus Flaminius on the Field of Mars.

I took my leave of him and made my way thither. It wasn�t a long walk. The senate was meeting that day in the Curia attached to Pompey�s theater, which was handy to the Flaminius. This was because the ancient Curia Hostilia in the Forum was still in ruins, burned in the riots that followed the death of Clodius seven years previously. Also, it was customary for a general to remain outside the city proper until the day of his triumph. As dictator, Caesar could have dispensed with this ancient taboo, but he felt that as Pontifex Maximus he should observe it.

Perhaps these then-famous pearls deserve some explanation because the manner of their acquisition was so peculiar. When, in the course of his Gallic war, Caesar invaded the island of Britannia, his stated reason was to secure freshwater pearls, a product of that island, to make a breastplate for Venus Genetrix, the ancestress of his house. This was perhaps the silliest reason ever given for starting a war. I do not think we need to regard it seriously.

He did, however, get his pearls because he always got what he wanted, or at least that was what he claimed. Over whether they were truly freshwater pearls from Britannia there was some dispute. Some speculated that they might be common pearls from the East.

Not that pearls of any sort were exactly common. And about this time Romans had conceived a veritable passion for pearls. People paid the most extravagant sums for them. Caesar gave one said to be worth six million sesterces to Servilia, mother of his future assassin, Brutus.

The triumphal preparations covered a vast area, much of it protected by the largest awnings ever seen in Rome, even greater than the one that shaded the audience at the Circus Maximus. The whole area was guarded by a full legion of Caesar�s veterans, another little reminder, were one needed, of who was master in Rome.

I was well known to Caesar�s men, so they passed me through without difficulty. Beyond the guards were acres of loot: gold and silver in every form imaginable, from crowns to cooking pots, gems, precious woods, woven goods of all sorts, sculpture, painting, beautiful captives of both sexes, incredibly detailed models of cities and forts Caesar had taken, exotic animals, entire trees with their limbs trimmed and hung with arms and armor as trophies, images of all the state gods to be borne at the head of the procession, images of enemy gods to be borne in chains behind them, captives like their conquered worshippers.

As in everything else, Caesar intended that his triumph should outshine anything ever seen before. This one would stretch on for days and would commemorate his conquests in Gaul, Egypt, Pontus, and Africa. His most recent victories would not be acknowledged; there would be no trophies to celebrate his defeat of Pompey and his supporters. It was forbidden to celebrate a triumph for the defeat of Roman citizens.

A little asking led me to a tent stitched with gold thread and surrounded by protective herms. Before its entrance, incense burned on a small altar of finely wrought bronze. I passed within and found the interior illuminated by that ghostly glow that comes of sunlight passing through cloth, this time faintly tinged with gold. In the center stood the image of the goddess, now covered by a cloth of Tyrian purple � this pall alone worth a good-sized country estate.

The image stood beneath a frame of beams shaped like a doorway with a pulley in the center of the lintel. A few yards to the rear of the statue was a rope and windlass arrangement, with a ladder and a pile of heavily padded cloths. I had seen this sort of apparatus many times before. It had been used to raise the statue onto its pediment and soon would be employed to lift it onto a huge float that would be borne on the shoulders of Caesar�s men at the head of the procession.

�May I be of assistance, Senator?� The speaker was a young woman whom I did not recognize at first, but some subtle cast of her features identified her as a member of Caesar�s small family. She wore the spotless white robe of a priestess, and she was attended by a number of slave girls, also clad in white.

�Chloe!� I said.

She beamed. �I am amazed. The last time you saw me I was ten years old.�

I now remembered the occasion. It had been at a wedding celebration during the consulship of Pompey and Metellus Scipio, so the girl was now about seventeen. Of course, her real name was Julia, like my wife and every other woman of that family, but the Caesars usually gave girl children Greek nicknames. Besides Chloe I knew a Thisbe, a Helen, a Circe, and a poetically inclined girl called Sappho. My own wife had been called Briseis as a girl before she decided that Julia would remind everyone of who she really was.

�I would know you anywhere. You�ve only grown more beautiful.� This gallantry was not entirely insincere. She was an attractive girl with huge eyes that were set just a little too close together, a common flaw in that family. But she had the grace and dignity that were drilled into the Caesars of both sexes from birth.

�You are very flattering.� Then the smile disappeared. �You�re here about the pearls, aren�t you?�

�Your great-uncle has assigned me to investigate.�

�I just do not understand it!� she said, showing her distress. �Yesterday we performed the evening sacrifice, closed the tent, and left. This morning we reopened the tent, and the pearls were gone! With all the soldiers guarding this place, how could it have happened?�

�Who was last to see them?�

�I suppose I must have been,� Chloe said. �I dismissed my girls after the sacrifice and stayed behind to perform a rite that may be observed only by patrician members of the Julian family. That took only the time it takes for a spoon of incense to bum on the altar.� A trifling time, not enough to accomplish anything seriously nefarious. �After that, I rejoined my girls, and we returned to Caesar�s house.�

�May I see the statue?�

She gestured to the slave girls, and they carefully drew the precious cloth away from the sculpture.

As might be expected from a man of Caesar�s wealth and taste, she was glorious. The goddess was executed in bronze, an unusual thing, since Venus is usually sculpted in white marble. The metal was of the rare alloy called Corinthian in which the copper was alloyed not only with tin but also with silver and gold, which produces a paler color than the common red bronze and which does not turn green or black with age. It had been polished to a golden glow that truly looked like divine flesh. Her abundant hair was a separate casting of pure gold, her eyes formed of mother-of-pearl and sapphire. I recognized it as the work of Rhoton of Cyprus, one of the greatest sculptors of the day.

She was somewhat larger than lifesize and was without any of her usual attendants or attributes. She was not performing any of the subtly provocative acts one so often sees in sculptures of this goddess: wringing water from her hair after a bath, fastening her sandal, gazing into a mirror, and so forth. Instead she stood in the attitude of a deity bestowing a blessing, her weight distributed evenly on both feet, arms out with palms raised.

She was also nude, and this was the reason for that breastplate. In those days, unlike the Greek habit, it was not the Roman custom to portray this goddess entirely naked. Even when she was so sculpted, she was often painted with a symbolic golden modesty-garment. Caesar�s �breastplate� was not the military sort but rather a mantle of pearls that would drape her from shoulder to thigh. It was inspired by the aegis, the magical mantle of the Greek Athena, usually depicted as a serpent-fringed goatskin but always described in sacred verse as a breastplate or shield.

�I haven�t yet seen this garment,� I told Chloe. �But I have heard that it is marvelous.�

�It is sublime,� she said. �More than thirty thousand pearls strung on something like two hundred eighty yards of fine golden chains. You can just see through it. To one entering her new temple, she will seem to be wearing the seafoam of her birth.�

�It sounds heavy,� I noted.

�Very. My girls and I weren�t able to lift it onto her shoulders and had to ask some men to help.�

�What men?�

�Some of the soldiers on guard outside.�

�You allowed soldiers to handle this treasure?�

Already I saw trouble. Soldiers are acquisitive people.

�They were Caesar�s men,� she said, shrugging. Like my wife and the other women of his family, Chloe seemed to share the common misconception that Caesar�s men worshipped him and would never steal from him. I knew better.

�Besides,� she added, �there is treasure everywhere here. They would scarcely need the feel of pearls to excite their greed.� That, at least, made sense.

�Were these the girls who were with you then?� I asked.

�Girls, attend,� she said with quiet authority. The girls lined up, hands clasped before them, eyes downcast Chloe gestured to each in turn. �Harmonia, Euterpe, Gaia, Leto, and Chrysis. Do you wish to question them?�

�What I would really like to know,� I said, watching them closely, �is whether any of these girls has been on familiar terms with any of those soldiers.� No one frowned, no one blushed.

�Of course not!� Chloe said heatedly. �I guard the chastity of my girls personally. They were raised in the house of the Pontifex Maximus.�

�Quite so.� Chloe had little grasp of the relevancies, but none of the girls showed the slightest sign of guilt. �When was the statue delivered?�

She thought a moment. �Two days before the breastplate arrived.�

�And who delivered it?�

�Thyrsites the Alexandrian. He is a dealer in statuary. I believe he handled all the work on this one: commissioning the sculptor, the shipping and delivery. His men are amazingly skilled at the work. They arrived at first light and had it set up by midmorning, heavy though it is.�

�And how did the pearls arrive?�

She crossed the tent and stooped over a long wooden box. This she opened, and it exuded a fragrance of fresh cedar. �It was in this box.� She drew from it a long, tubular case of what appeared to be silk, a fabulous item by itself. �It was rolled up and covered with this case.�

�And who handled this work?�

�The firm of Considius. He does all the finest pearl work in Rome. The women of my family deal exclusively with Considius.�

�Did he perform the goldwork as well?�

�That I could not tell you. Is it important?�

�You never can tell what may prove to be important.� I took one last look at the goddess as the girls readied to recover her. She truly was glorious.

The workers and dealers in precious substances were concentrated near the Forum, the pearl market being located at the northern end. The establishment of Considius seemed surprisingly modest for so great a merchant; little more than a booth crowded with beautifully crafted wooden cases. The whole place smelled sweetly of cedar. The cases were made of the same wood as the big delivery box in the goddess�s tent.

�Welcome, Senator!� The man who came from the back of the tent wore citizen�s clothes and the ring of an equites, but his features were subtly foreign, that Greek-Syrian mixture one encounters so often in the East. This made good sense considering the nature of his business. He was a balding, portly man perhaps forty-five years of age. �I am Considius. How may I help my distinguished guest?�

�I find that I must learn something about pearls.�

His eyebrows went up. �I do hope the Senate is not considering new sumptuary laws.�

�With Julius Caesar in charge? Not likely.�

�Ah, excellent. How, then, may I enlighten you?�

�I know very little about pearls, and I�ve avoided learning lest my wife acquire too great a taste for them. How do they come to Rome?�

�Pearls come from the seas of the world, Senator, most of them from far, far to the east. Observe.� He went to a long, narrow case, a miniature of the one I had seen in the tent, opening it to reveal a stunning series of pearls graded by color, from the common white on one end to silvery black on the other. They lay in a single row, nestled in silk and none of them was smaller than the tip of my smallest finger.

�Here,� Considius explained, �we have black pearls from the Euxine Sea, rose-tinted ones from the Red Sea, yellow pearls from Arabian waters. The greatest number come from India and its numerous islands.�

�I never knew there could be so many shades of white alone,� I admitted. �Yours is a great and far-flung business.�

�The trade is very ancient and very extensive,� he said. �Perhaps the only trade to compare is that in frankincense.�

�Even among the white pearls,� I commented, �I see here great differences not only in color but in... in brightness�

He smiled. �We refer to this quality as luster. Yes, there are wide differences. There is great art in matching the pearls in even an ordinary necklace because they must be matched not only in color and luster but also in size. All must be of the same size or very evenly graded.� He opened a standing case to reveal at least a hundred necklaces, from a tiny choker suitable for the neck of a girlchild to a massive rope that would have gone several times around the neck of a giantess. I made a mental note to keep Julia away from this place.

�That being the case,� I said, �it must be a Herculean task to match a huge number of pearls as in the breastplate of Venus Genetrix, which I understand you undertook.�

�Not truly,� he said. �You see, in a very large piece such precision is not really necessary. Each pearl should be as close a match as possible to the adjacent pearls, but a small divergence from those farther away is scarcely noticeable. With a truly huge item like the pearl aegis Caesar commissioned, it is hardly necessary at all. The human eye cannot take in so many pearls at once. We graded them by size, with the largest at the collar, diminishing toward the hem. Differences in shade and luster were only roughly considered. With thirty thousand pearls, greater precision than that is not possible. Besides, these were freshwater pearls he brought back from Britannia.�

�Is there a difference?� I wanted to know.

�Yes. Freshwater pearls are rarer than sea pearls, and Britannia is a faraway, exotic land, so people expect them to be extraordinary. Sadly, they are rather inferior to sea pearls, usually smaller, indifferent in color and luster.�

�I see. And thirty thousand seems to me a rather great number for the pearl fisheries of Britannia.�

He lowered his voice as if that were necessary. �Actually, and I tell you this in strictest confidence, Caesar returned with fewer than five thousand Britannic pearls. He did not actually conquer the island, you know.�

�Then I take it you were forced to make up the difference.�

�I was,� he said with some satisfaction. �It was the largest single order I�ve ever had. If Caesar wants a thing, Caesar must have it. I had to assemble the pearls, and my craftsmen had to work day and night to pierce them all and string them on the golden chains.�

�I take it you did not perform that task here.�

�No, here I have only finished pieces on display. The actual work is performed in my establishment in the Trans-Tiber. I have twenty slaves under a freedman supervisor, all of them marvelously trained and skilled.�

�And you do your own goldwork?�

�Oh no. That would be frowned upon by the guilds. Gemstones, precious metals, and pearls are separate trades. My chains and other goldwork are made by Demaratus. He�s an Alexandrian Greek, and his craftsmen are the best gold-workers in the world. These are his.� He threw open another case, this one containing samples of golden chain, some so fine they could scarcely be seen. They were graded by thickness, but none was too thick to go through a pearl.

�These also are his work,� Considius raised a lid, revealing perhaps a hundred rings, all designed to have pearls set in them. There were also pierced golden beads of many shapes. �These beads are meant to be strung together with the pearls on necklaces and earrings. The customer may choose to match up pearls and settings and beads, but I provide what guidance I can. Some of my customers have the most ghastly taste.�

�Did Caesar take a personal hand in designing the breastplate for Venus?�

�He let me know precisely what he needed, but he left the details of construction to me. Even a man like Caesar can�t be expert at everything.� He closed the cases. �Might I know why you are inquiring about these matters?�

�Just curious,� I said, taking my leave. One of the best things about my position was that I didn�t have to explain myself to anybody.

The goldsmiths� quarter lay in a block of houses and shops on the Via Nova, opposite the ancient Mugonia Gate, near the eastern end of the Forum. A bit of asking took me to a shop considerably larger than that of Considius. This one featured armed guards, for which the goldsmiths� and jewelers� guilds had special licenses. These men, who looked like retired Greek mercenaries, let me through without questioning. Apparently they thought a senator must be too dignified to steal. A fat lot they knew about it

The doorway in the low wall opened onto a spacious courtyard where twenty or more craftsmen worked quietly. The ticking of their tiny hammers was like the noise of insects, and the bellows� feeding auto the furnaces was like the breathing of somnolent beasts. The heat from the latter was intense. From somewhere inside the sprawling building came a continuous, muffled thumping as of padded mallets, and someone was playing a pipe in time with the thumping.

Demaratus was a small dark man dressed, groomed, and bearded like a Greek, but one look told me his ancestors had worked gold for the pharaohs. He favored me with a smile full of dazzling teeth.

�Greetings, Senator! How may the firm of Demaratus be of service to the Senate and People of Rome?� He was a foreigner, but he could sling the old formula like a citizen.

�Actually, I am on a mission for Caesar,� I told him.

�Ah! The gold leaf to adorn the new temple of Venus Genetrix? Please inform the Dictator that the leaf is being hammered out even as we speak. Come, I will show you.�

This wasn�t what I was there for, but I�ve learned far more by indirection than by asking questions directly. I followed him inside and saw some twenty men seated on the floor in a row. This was where the hammering noise was coming from. Before each man was what appeared to be a stack of sheepskin cut square, about twice the width of a man�s hand on each side.

Before the men sat a woman playing a lively tune in the Lydian mode on a double tibia, keeping time for them like a ship�s hortator. They were pounding these sheepskin cubes with big-headed wooden mallets. After each tenth blow the men turned the sheepskins over with a dexterous flip of the hand, then continued pounding on the other side. Apparently they could continue this monotonous labor forever, and they�d been doing it for a long time. Their arms, particularly their forearms, were tremendously developed although they were not otherwise muscular. At a trill from the tibia each man tossed his hammer in the air, twirling, caught it in the other hand as it came down, and continued to pound.

�Very impressive,� I said. �What am I looking at?�

�This is how gold leaf is made.� He showed me how the gold was first hammered as thin as possible with a hammer and anvil, which is very thin indeed, then was cut into small squares and placed between layers of thin sheepskin, the skins bound into stacks of a hundred or more, then pounded for hours by these mallet-men. The pieces would treble or quadruple their size under this treatment and become so fine that they seemed to weigh nothing and would cling to any object one desired to gild.

�When the gilders apply the leaf to the new temple,� he went on, �they will bond it fully to the stone, metal, or wood by passing a red-hot iron a fraction of an inch from the surface. No further treatment is needed save a gentle burnishing.�

�He�s not planning to gild the whole temple, is he?�

�Not at all. But the altar is to be gilded, the capitals of the columns, the details of the frieze and the pediment, all the interior pilasters, the base of the statue and the entire ceiling. It will be a most lavish use of gold leaf worthy of a Ptolemy.�

�Or a Caesar. This is wonderful,� I told him, always happy to learn something new. �But alas, it is not gold leaf I wish to inquire about but gold chain.�

�Chain? Has Caesar another project? I�ve already returned to him the gold left over from the aegis of Venus.�

�Returned? Caesar himself gave you the gold to make the chains?�

�But of course. Why buy gold when you already have plundered gold in your possession?�

That made sense. �In what form was this gold?�

�When Considius undertook the pearl contract, he told Caesar that my firm would handle the gold-work. Caesar sent it in the form of six golden Gaulish cauldrons, all carefully weighed. These we melted down into bullion form. When the chains were completed, I returned the remaining gold to Caesar.�

�But those cauldrons were part of Caesar�s triumphal trophies.�

�The cauldrons you will see in the triumph will be replicas of gilded copper.�

�You simply can�t trust anything any more,� I said. He shrugged philosophically. �Was this the largest order you�ve ever undertaken?�

�The aegis of Venus? By no means. It required something less than five hundred sixty yards of fine chain. Just last year, the Cumaeans adorned their temple of Neptune by draping the interior with a great fisherman�s net of golden chain. This required more than seventeen hundred yards of chain of a much heavier gauge than I used for the aegis. Pompey has consistently ordered wonderful golden chains, manacles, and neck-rings to bind the many noble and royal prisoners who adorned his memorable triumphs. At least he used to.� We observed a moment of silence to acknowledge the passing of that great but difficult man.

This talk of chains called for another tour of the facilities, and I saw the workmen hammering gold bars into plates, then cutting the plates into thin rods with shears, drawing the rods into long wires, twisting the wires around mandrels of the requisite size and shape, snipping the coils thus formed into rings, linking the rings into chains, and then, the most difficult task of all, soldering all the links in glowing furnaces.

Great skill was required to keep the furnaces at exactly the right temperature. Too cool and the solder would not flow. Too high and the gold would melt and all the labor would have to be repeated. The furnaces were under the supervision of a skinny old man dressed only in a linen loincloth who spent his days squatting in front of them, judging their heat by color alone. Beside him squatted a youth he was training to the same exacting skill. At the old man�s subtle hand signals the bellows-men quickened or slowed their hauling on the ropes, and the fire tenders threw in fresh charcoal or scooped out glowing cinders.

�Have you done other work connected with the new temple?� I asked. �For instance, the goddess�s golden wig?�

�No, that would have been done on Cyprus under the supervision of the sculptor.�

�I see� That meant only one more call to make.

The establishment of Thyrsites was on the river south of the Sublician Bridge. It was little more than a warehouse equipped with all the tackle necessary for lifting weighty sculpture and stout wagons for transporting them. When the slave at the door announced my arrival, Thyrsites hurried to greet me. Thus far that day I had dealt with a Roman-named Syrian and a Greek-named Egyptian. Thyrsites was a Greek-named Greek, even if he was from Egypt. He begged to know how he could be of assistance.

�I�ve come at Caesar�s behest to inquire about the statue of Venus Genetrix,� I informed him.

�Ah! A wonderful work, is it not? Have you seen it?�

�I have. Wonderful, indeed.�

�I do hope no harm has come to it?� His concern seemed genuine.

�None that I know of. I just need some information.�

�I am at your service.�

�First off, how is the pediment made?�

He looked puzzled. �It is simply a solid block of granite porphyry, very highly polished but extremely plain in the Doric fashion as you must have seen. Caesar did not want attention to be distracted from contemplation of the goddess herself.�

�Very good. And the statue?�

�The finest Corinthian bronze, hollow-cast, like all large bronze sculpture, using the lost wax process perfected centuries ago by Rhoecus and Theodorus. In this case the casting was simplified by the top of the head�s being left unfinished, since the goddess was to wear a golden wig. Personally, I think this is why so many statues wear wigs or helmets. It makes the casting process less chancy.�

�I�ve wondered about that,� I told him. �And this wig, is it cast of solid gold?�

�It is pure gold, but it is all hammer work, no casting. It is quite thin and delicate and was packed in a separate crate. It is fastened to the cranium by pins passing through eyelets behind the ears, quite invisible to a viewer standing below.�

�That is all I need to know,� I told him, and turned to go.

�But, Senator,� he stammered, mystified, �why do you��

But I was already away. I didn�t have to answer to anybody, and the fewer who knew what I knew the better.

My last call of the day was Caesar�s house, his temporary home on the Campus Martius. It was getting late, but he greeted me without impatience. �Dedus! We will be having dinner soon; perhaps you can join us. I take it you have learned something?�

�I have, Dictator.�

�Then you can regale my guests with the tale of your accomplishments.�

�That would be unwise, Caesar.�

His face clouded. �How so?�

�I am afraid it concerns a woman of your household.�

�Slave or freeborn?�

�Patrician. A pure Julian.�

He closed his eyes. �Chloe.� Then they snapped open again. �How is this possible? I have questioned her girls closely. She never had time to tamper with the aegis and is not strong enough to move it by herself.�

�If you will accompany me to the tent where the goddess awaits, I will show you.�

Caesar passed instructions to inform his guests that he would be late for dinner, and without so much as a single lictor for company, we went to the treasure camp.

Caesar ordered soldiers to bring torches and lamps for light, then told them to go outside and keep silent. When they had gone, he raised his hands and spoke a prayer in language so archaic that I could make out only a word or two.

I took one of the ladders and propped it against the wooden framework. �She and her temple have not yet been consecrated,� I said. �Why do you observe these ceremonies?�

�It is the custom in my family,� he said. That was the Caesars for you. They always overdid everything. �What are you doing?�

�I�m relieving the goddess of her wig.� Behind her ears I found the split pins and drew them from the raised eyelets. Thus freed, the wig lifted easily. Large as it was, the thin-beaten gold weighed no more than two pounds. Very carefully I descended with it and laid it on the grassy turf. From brow to nape the top of the head of Venus was missing.

Caesar frowned. �I thought the head would be complete, as if it were merely shaved.�

�Thyrsites tells me that this way the casting is greatly simplified.� I went to the windlass and unwound some rope tipped with a hook. Then I climbed the ladder again, passed hook and rope over the pulley, and lowered it into the goddess�s head. �And now, Caesar, if you will give that windlass a few turns?�

He set the thing into creaking motion, and slowly something that resembled a gleaming white cable emerged. When the hook reached the pulley, I tugged the remainder out and spread the hem of the garment over the bronze head and shoulders. Caesar lowered the hook and within moments the goddess was wearing her pearly mantle once more. I restored her wig and stood back to get the full effect Truly glorious.

�You see how quickly that went?� I said. �With a windlass and pulley, even a weighty object like the aegis can be moved swiftly using only the strength of a child. Of course Chloe was careful to act as if she were ignorant of basic mechanics. She summoned some of your soldiers to assist her in lifting the mantle. Spread the suspicion that way, too.�

�She is a clever girl. But I take it she did not plan this on her own?�

�No, she was put up to it by a man who knows his business and has the wherewithal to reward her. Your women really love their pearls, Caesar. Shall we go arrest him now?�

�No, plenty of time in the morning.� He clapped me on the shoulder. �Come, Decius, let�s have dinner. But,� he said ominously, �this will not be among the subjects of dinner conversation.� Meaning I was never to speak of this, ever.

The next morning we paid a visit to the manufactory of Considius in the Trans-Tiber district. We dispensed with the polite formalities, and Caesar�s lictors bashed the door in with their fasces. In the courtyard we found a number of slaves or free craftsmen assembling another aegis apparently identical to the original. We also found Considius, his face gone paler than his pearls.

Caesar surveyed the scene. �As you said, Decius. Congratulations.� His tone was almost jovial, a dangerous sign. �A pity you are a citizen, Considius. Citizens can�t be crucified. Lucky you.�

�But how�� Considius began.

�Chloe let it slip that thirty thousand pearls required something like two hundred eighty yards of fine gold chain. Demaratus told me you ordered a bit more than five hundred sixty yards. Why would you need twice the required chain unless you were making two mantles? You conspired with Chloe to make the original disappear. You knew that Caesar had sworn to have the goddess draped with that mantle in time for his triumph, so he would have to come to you for another. Not bad. Another thirty thousand pearls sold and a generous bonus for a quick job. As a Julian and a priestess of Venus, Chloe could get you access to the new temple at any time so you could retrieve the original, unstring the pearls, and sell them as hundreds of necklaces, earrings, and so on. Pure profit for you, and a nice cut for Chloe, I imagine.�

�Considius,� Caesar said quietly, �would you like to continue breathing?�

�Very much so, Dictator,� the man said.

�Then you will be happy to know that you are donating this splendid new mantle to Pompey�s temple of Venus. You will retire to some remote town and hope that I never take an interest in you again. If you had to borrow to purchase all these pearls, I hope you can come to a satisfactory arrangement with your creditors. If word of this matter ever comes out, I will know who talked, and this empire is mine. I will find you.�

�As you wish, Caesar.� Big drops of sweat poured down his face like a shower of his own pearls.

�A nice gesture,� I said to Caesar as we walked back to the Campus Martius. �A mantle for Pompey�s temple, I mean. It will go a long way to reconciling you with the old Pompeians.�

�He was my son-in-law and my friend. I never would have harmed him. It was young Ptolemy who cut his head off, and for that I killed him. I�ve never touched his statues or his inscriptions, nor have I tom down his trophies as was done to Marius.�

�And now his Venus will have an aegis as fine as yours.�

�Not quite,� he said. �After all, mine is made of Britannic river pearls, while the other is made of common eastern sea pearls.�

�And what will you do to Chloe?�

�Send her to Arpinum and marry her off to some dull clod without political ambition. As I have said before, the women of my household must be above suspicion.�

�It used to be just your wife.�

�Times change, Decius.� And so they did.

These were the events of two days in the year 708 of the City of Rome, during the third Dictatorship of Gaius Julius Caesar.

I found a good rock while I waited for the rattlesnake to boil. The rock had a sharp edge and fit easy in my hand.

I set to work cleaning the snake-skin with the rock and some salt that had survived the accident when we crossed the Crooked River.

I only bothered with the skin to take my mind off how hungry I was. From past experience I knew that rattlesnake needed all the cooking I could give it.

When the skin was clean, I cut some long cactus spines and pinned it on my saddle blanket laid out on the sand. Jack snorted with disgust when he saw me do this, but I figured as long as I�d gone to the trouble of cleaning the skin I might as well finish it right. The afternoon sun was still hot enough to bake it dry.

By then I couldn�t wait any more, so I stuck my knife in the rattlesnake to pull it out of the water. I swung it in the air a bit till I could hold it with my fingers. Then I ate it off the bones like com on the cob.

It was almighty tough but better than eating cactus, which was my other choice.

I drug sand over the embers so the fire smell wouldn�t give me away if the wind changed.

By the time I ate halfway up the snake � it was a five footer, tall as me � blue shadows were working my way from the Lost Man Mountains. It was soon dark enough to do some reconnoitering.

I made sure Jack hadn�t loosened his hobbles and told him to stay put. He was still mad about the snakeskin, so I was pretty sure he wouldn�t follow.

I walked up an arroyo without trying to hide. The evening breeze would let me know when I was near their camp.

When I heard the clang of skillets, I slowed down and picked my way with more care. I crept up to a big clump of sage to see what sort of folk I�d crossed paths with.

Their horses stood quiet in a rope corral. Looked like all the horses had the same brand, which was a good sign. They were ordinary cow-ponies, worked steady but not broke down, so I reckoned their riders weren�t on the run. Outside the rope stood a fine-looking bay horse, well hobbled. I guessed he was too much of a troublemaker to be in the corral with the rest of the remuda. He started to stare pretty queer at the clump of sage I was behind, so I backed off before he made a racket.

I slunk over to where I could see the fireglow, moving real slow now in case some cowboy chose to step my way. A round bush, wide but not high, grew between me and the fire. I squatted down, waddled up to the bush, and peered through its twigs.

Five or six cowboys stood around the fire staring into it. This was good from my point of view, since it meant they�d be blind to me out here in the brush. A big black pot hung over the fire. A scrawny man with a flour sack tied over his trousers pressed biscuit dough into an iron skillet. Behind him was the chuckwagon.

The cowboys had their minds on dinner and I realized mine was there, too. The rattler hadn�t really filled me up, though it gave my jaws a good workout.

I made myself pay attention to the conversation. The first words I heard were not reassuring.

�An outlaw can turn into the best friend a man could want, provided he don�t kill you first,� said a grizzled older man.

The cook guffawed. �That�s the tough part, ain�t it? Hard to make friends when he�s poundin� yer face into the dirt.�

A tall man spoke. �What you want to do is stay on his back till he�s ready to listen to reason.�

�You are offering to try, Tiny?� asked a man with an accent I couldn�t place. Unlike the others, he wore what looked like cavalry boots.

The tall man shook his head. �Best is somebody young. Small and light.�

�Whose bones will heal quickly when they are all broken? One who is too young to know the difference between courage and foolhardiness?� This from the man with the cavalry boots. I�d never heard anybody talk like him, educated I�d call it. He stood ramrod straight.

�Sounds like they�re talking about you, Red,� somebody said above the general laughter.

Everybody turned toward a kid who didn�t look but a couple years older than me, maybe sixteen at the most. His hair was carrot-colored like mine.

�I bet you could ride that outlaw, Red,� said Tiny.

�I dunno...� Firelight flickered across the boy�s face. He swallowed.

�Betcha a dollar. You stay on him for a count of ten and I�ll give you the money soon�s we get paid.� Tiny dangled the bait.

Red looked at him. �A whole dollar?�

�Yep.�

Another man spoke up, a Mexican vaquero by his fine silver spurs and his accent. �Don� waste your money, kid.�

�Think of what you could do with an extra dollar when we get to town. I can take you places��

The older man interrupted. �Now, Tiny, time for him to learn all that once we�re in San Juanito. And Red, you�ll have plenty of spending money when payday comes if you don�t go throwing it away on crazy bets.�

The cook stuck a ladle in the iron pot and stirred. �An� if yer still in one piece when you git to town.�

The tall man played his trump card. �You scared, boy?�

�Naw! I�ll ride him. Daybreak tomorrow.�

The cook grabbed a stack of tin plates. �All I can say is, you better keep yer bronco-bustin� outa my kitchen or you ain�t gonna eat for a week. None of you.�

�Don�t worry, Cookie,� Tiny told him. �It�ll be over in no time.�

I didn�t want to stick around while Cookie dished up the stew. I crept into the arroyo, where I made good time back to my camp. The moon had risen to guide me.

Morris Lubitz flung the newspaper down on the breakfast table in disgust. �What kind of a world are we living in these days?� he demanded. �Decaffeinated coffee, low-fat yogurt, salt-free pretzels, and a spineless government.�

�Blood pressure,� murmured Mrs. Lubitz without looking up from her part of the paper.

�I took my pills. You saw me.�

�What good are pills when you get so mad all the time?�

�I don�t get mad all the time. When my warehouse bums down, I get mad. And when a couple of guys rob me at knifepoint, I get mad. And when another guy from a national hardware chain wants to rob me, only he doesn�t even bother with a knife��

�Then why doesn�t it make you mad that your partner is robbing you behind your back?�

�How many times do I have to tell you Dolph isn�t robbing me? And even if he were, he�d be robbing himself too, if he were my partner. Only he isn�t my partner.�

�Morrie, if I sit here any longer listening to you try to talk yourself out of something and back into it again, I�m going to be late for my appointment at the beauty parlor.�

A swift embrace, a rustling of polyester, and she was off leaving behind a faint fragrance of almond blossom. Thoughtfully Lubitz finished his cholesterol-free ersatz eggs, poured himself another cup of decaffeinated coffee, and resumed his indignant study of local political corruption.

At a little before nine o�clock he went down the back stairs, crossed the fenced enclosure between the hardware store and the warehouse, entered the store by the back door, turned on the lights, and unlocked the front door. When Dolph Mallory came in to work, he found Lubitz in the fasteners section, topping off bins of nails and screws from stout wooden boxes stored under the counter.

�At your morning devotions, I see,� said Mallory with sardonic impudence. He was ten years older than Lubitz and treated him like a half-witted nephew.

�Don�t start that again,� retorted Lubitz sourly. �Nobody in this county undersells us on fasteners, and why? Because we sell in bulk. I�m not too good to weigh out a sack of nails for a customer, and neither are you.�

� �Course I�m not too good to do it. But you�re not selling in bulk to keep the prices competitive. You just don�t want to go to unit pricing because then that salesman from Swiftique might have a better chance of selling you point-of-purchase unit pricing equipment.�

�Dolph, leave it alone. All that laser gadgetry and computer equipment is a luxury we can�t afford.�

�That�s what you used to say about carrying fire insurance on the stock.� Recognizing a dangerous glitter in Lubitz�s eye, Mallory went forward to the cashier�s desk to unlock the cash register.

A buzzer at the back of the store sounded as the first visitor of the morning entered. Morris Lubitz intercepted him before he got to the turnstile.

�Whatever you�re selling, Telope, we don�t want any,� he snarled with bitter finality.

�I�m not selling anything, Mr. Lubitz. I�m buying.�

�Not from me you�re not buying anything.�

Everybody in town knew Guy Telope, city commissioner and real estate developer, because every time he bought another farm to build a suburban shopping mall, the newspaper screamed, �Conflict of interest!� Besides conducting two or three business enterprises of his own, Telope acted as representative or agent for a dozen others. For weeks he�d been trying to persuade Lubitz to sell out to a national hardware chain.

�You think you can get your mitts on this place at a knockdown price,� said Lubitz, �because we had a fire awhile back and a little trouble with some punks. Well, you�re wrong. I don�t give up that easy. I rebuilt the shed in steel and cinderblock. And if those punks ever come back, they�re going to get a nasty surprise.�

�You take everything wrong, Mr. Lubitz.� Telope turned on the ingratiating smile he used during election campaigns. �You and I go back a long way. Who steered all those contracts your way over the years, for lightbulbs and paint for City Hall?�

�I was reading about some other contracts in this morning�s paper. Don�t think I don�t know who engineered those, and why. You ought to clean up your own act before you try to shove me out of business.�

�I don�t want to shove you out of business,� objected Telope, plainly eager to divert the conversation from his own affairs. �I�m giving you a chance to retreat with honor. Nowadays an independent hardware dealer just can�t survive, especially in a high rent district��

�Hey, we own the building, remember? And you know good and well that the building is what Gardware is after because they need a downtown location.�

�That�s not true either. We�ve got an option on the lot right across the street.�

�You mean the old soda fountain place?�

�The old soda fountain place,� said Telope with grim self-assurance.

�Let me ask you this. Have you got a good dentist?�

�What?�

�Have you got a good dentist? If you don�t get out of here ASAP and PDQ, I�m going to loosen up some of your teeth with the heaviest thing I can lift.�

When Lubitz�s hand stole toward a display of gardening tools, Telope retreated to the sidewalk.

As usual at this time on a weekday, business was light. Lubitz returned to the task of replenishing bins. At ten o�clock he took down the key to the warehouse from its hook. �I�m going out to unpack that shipment of valves and check it against the invoice,� he told Mallory, who nodded his comprehension from his padded seat at the front counter.

At ten forty-five Lubitz still hadn�t come back from the shed. Mallory was helping a do-it-yourselfer select a replacement faucet, and another customer was just entering the store, when a muffled report outside set off buzzing echoes among the buildings ranged along Pemberton Avenue.

�What was that noise?� Mallory asked the newcomer.

�Sounded to me like it was back in the alley.�

Rumor ran through the castle like a shiver.

�Sillimur the Wineseller saw Polijn on the north road.�

�The minstrel who...�

�Just so.�

�She�s coming back, then.�

�Or her ghost.�

�If her ghost can cure our Prince, it�s welcome.�

The Wineseller was the first to hear, of course. It was little enough they�d have had to talk about otherwise. The Prince had not touched wine since his trip to the Well of Aergen�s Resort. The Prime Minister had ordered everyone else in the castle to abstain as well, in sympathy.

�And you�re sure it was the same woman?� the Wine Steward demanded.

�Could there be more than one? Thin as a cornstalk, face like a Year�s Death dancer�s mask, and those eyes like black wells themselves. Good news, eh? We�ll have our income again.�

�Aye.� The Wine Steward was not as confident as Sillimur. Minstrels were tricky folk who lived off the land, or off of you if you weren�t careful. That lithe, slender form was exactly what was needed for slipping into places where it wasn�t wanted, and slipping out again with the swag. They�d all have to be alert for any foolery.

So the first person he told was his wife.

�Keep special watch on the royal silver,� he said. �Sillimur saw Polijn on the north road.�

Helese threw her hands in the air. �That minstrel? Was she coming back from the Well of Aergen�s Resort? Why didn�t he give her a ride?�

The Wine Steward sighed; his first wife had been such a slow, placid woman. Hardly asked two questions in a month.

�Says he saw her from a distance, but she was gone when he came close up. When he�d passed and looked back, he saw her coming out of the field again. He was in a hurry, he said, and didn�t want to turn around for her.�

The young woman sniffed. The minstrel just didn�t want to risk riding with a man, little weasel-faced slut. These dancers couldn�t help themselves, just had to have any man they met, and Polijn was bent on seducing the Prince himself. Helese had known that from the first when the Prime Minister foolishly allowed her to perform, hoping that would draw a word from the enchanted monarch.

�You�d best tell the Prime Minister,� she said. �I�ll go warn the women in the pantry.� And, she promised herself, I�ll keep watch on the woman myself. Otherwise, we�ll have a loose-living queen bedding down with every boy in the palace.

And so the news was spread. But even before the pair left the room, they had passed the word, for the Wine Steward�s son, just outside the room, had caught the name of the minstrel and had listened to everything they had to say.

So the girl was on her way back, eh? He was to have another chance to pierce that chilly exterior, a chance to push as far as her soul, if any. She liked to pretend to be calm, sophisticated, far beyond the reach of the son of a mere wine steward. Here was his chance to show her that she wasn�t as poised as she thought, that what he could offer would break through that worldly air.

He ran a finger over his upper lip. Maybe he�d just go shave again. That would be twice this week.

�Yes,� the Prime Minister told the Wine Steward. �Ye-es. This is good news. If she really has gone to the Well of Aergen�s Resort, that is.�

�Your Lordship warned her what would happen if she came back here without something to break the spell. Why would she dare if she hasn�t been to the Well?�

That was precisely what worried the Prime Minister. Polijn was a dangerous person: quiet, noncommittal, agreeable. You couldn�t see in her face what she might be planning. She could easily be an agent of Utchas, who would be glad enough to see the Prince succumb to the enchantment. Ah, how he wished the old king had lasted just a few years more; then a new prime minister would have had to deal with this. But every prince had gone to the Well on accession.

By midday everyone in the castle knew that the minstrel who had been sent to the ancient Well was returning. Some said she had brought a gallon of the legendary water, and everyone who drank of it would receive the hereditary powers formerly possessed only by the ruling king. Others said she was accompanied by the real prince, and the silent, stone-faced creature who had spent a year in the royal chambers was just a changeling. All of them watched the north road, a few of them riding out to try to find the minstrel and bring her back.

So, of course, she approached the castle from the east, on the side where the army kept its horses in peacetime. There she was spotted by three horses, who showed very little interest, and the son of the Wine Steward.

He knew her at once, recognized the slim hips and the trousers tight at the thigh. His eyes traveled up her body with pleasure, but he took a step back at the sight of her face. He knew at once that she had drunk deep at the enchanted Well. It showed in the set of her jaw, and the cold, blank stare of her eyes.

�Polijn! You�re back!�

She stopped. �As you see.�

He made a little bow, half in mockery. �And have you drunk from the Well of Aergen�s Resort?�

�I have been to the well.�

Her voice held no emotion; it sounded like plain truth. His mind raced through the ancient stories. �Was there truly a bridge of ice a mile long and only a footspan wide?�

�I crossed the bridge.�

�And do you know how to cure our Prince?�

�I know what I need to know.�

Her eyes met his full on, and he took three steps away from her. He could see that, in truth, she had drunk from the Well of Aergen�s Resort and knew everything, from the nature of the spell on the Prince to that affair in the back of the stables.

�I couldn�t help it!� he said, turning bright red. �It was... nobody...� He turned and hurried away, stumbling several times.

Half a dozen people were turned in the right direction to see part of this exchange and, having witnessed the effect her face had had on the boy, got out of Polijn�s way as she stepped up to the little door at the side gate, where the servants entered in time of peace. It so happened that the Wine Steward was passing when she reached the top of the narrow stairs.

�Polijn! You�ve returned!�

�As you see.�

She was going to walk right past him, but he put a hand on her shoulder and she stopped.

�Have you drunk from the Well of Aergen�s Resort?�

�I have been to the well.�

She certainly didn�t sound cheerful about it. Perhaps whatever had cast an enchantment on the Prince had done something to her as well. The Wine Steward pulled back his hand.

�Are there really weeping rats with teeth as long as my arm?�

�The small ones have teeth that long, yes.�

He swallowed. �And... do you know what spell has been laid on our Prince?�

�I know what I need to know.�

She raised her eyes. They were deep and passionless, and in them he could see that she knew exactly what had happened to the Prince�s supply of Lodi wine.

�Well, that is good news! If you�ll excuse me...� If he could catch Sillimur, he could replace the missing bottles before the banquet that would surely follow the breaking of the spell.

�So, you�re back, are you?�

Helese set her fists on her hips. Polijn stopped. �As you see.�

The woman sniffed. �Have you drunk from the Well of Aergen�s Resort?�

�I have been to the well.�

Helese had been prepared to deliver a stem warning if Polijn had returned with any tricks up those long black sleeves. But that utterly apathetic announcement stymied her. If this were a trick, the girl would be trumpeting her achievement, wouldn�t she?

�Did... did you see bells that shook darkness from their mouths instead of sounds?�

�I saw those bells.�

Helese�s hands came together before her. �And do you know what to do for our Prince?�

�I know what I need to know.�

The girl had drunk from the Well! You could hear it in her voice, and see it in her... Helese looked, and saw that Polijn knew where she had been, late at night, when the old man was snoring. With a curtsy she turned away. If she could just get a word in before Sillimur left the castle...

Absolutely no one got in Polijn�s way as she marched through the castle. Even the guards at the doors to the Prince�s chambers stepped aside. Soon only the Prime Minister stood between her and the royal bedchamber.

�So we have you among us again!� he cried, spreading his arms wide in welcome.

Polijn halted well out of reach. �As you see.�

�Have you drunk from the Well of Aergen�s Resort?�

�I have been to the well.�

The Prime Minister was accustomed to dealing with liars. In general, they didn�t sound like this. He felt fifty years younger, recalling the tales the grandfather of the Prince had told of the Well. �Did you see that great golden statue of Aergen, with its ruby eyes?�

�And emerald navel.�

�And do you know how to save our Prince from the enchantment?�

�I know what I need to know.�

In those big, dark eyes the Prime Minister saw unpleasant things indeed. He stepped aside.

�We never learned how my brother got into the Treasury,� he whispered, �to take those fine gold chains.�

Polijn nodded and, passing him, pushed open the door to the royal bedchamber. The Prime Minister sank into a chair and mopped his forehead. Nobody knew about that; he was sure of it. The child had surely drunk the water of knowledge from the Well.

The Prince looked up from his bread and cheese. Once again he had found this to be too much food, choking him.

He frowned. The person entering the room was not the Prime Minister as he�d expected. They�d sent the dancer in alone, unannounced. He shook his head wearily. This would do no good.

The young woman said nothing, simply looked around the room. Her eyes fell on a chair, and she pulled it over to his bedside. She sat down, an inexcusable liberty in the presence of the man who was now at least the titular ruler of the land. He said nothing about this. He had, in fact, said nothing for a year.

Polijn�s eyes fell on him. The Prince found the eyes refreshingly neutral. Everyone else who came to his bedside looked apprehensive, with eyes full of pity and fear. He raised his eyebrows.

�Aergen built her hideaway in the mountains generations before your family was even thought of,� she said.

The Prince nodded.

�It has gone unlived in, with all its perils and wonders, for years unnumbered.�

The Prince nodded again.

�It is dry as dust. There is no water in the Well of Aergen�s Resort.�

Shaking his head, the Prince turned away.

�So you cannot have drunk any. And you are under no spell.�

Now the Prince merely blinked. He could feel tears budding behind his eyes and forced them back.

�There has been no water in Aergen�s well for centuries.�

He looked at her, and his lips moved in the first words he had spoken since his return.

�My father said he drank from the Well.�

�And so, no doubt, did his grandfather, and his grandfather�s father. And so you can say.�

The Prince shook his head. �They drank from the Well. They saw everything, knew everything. They had the power.�

�Oh?�

His voice was hoarse with disuse and despair. �They were true rulers; they knew everything that went on in their castle.�

Palijn�s eyes went to his window. As if speaking to the bird on the sill she said, �Your Wine Steward does not drink water in private.�

The Prince looked a question. She didn�t see it, but answered it. �There are fresh stains on the front of his shirt, where a man spills from a cup if he isn�t careful. That doesn�t come from taking stock.�

The Prince shrugged. �It...�

�While he is drunk, his young wife slips away to visit the Wineseller. I saw him wipe his forehead with one of those striped handkerchiefs of hers.�

A royal hand fluttered impatiently. �She...�

�Neither of them has any attention to spare for his son. There may be others who know what he�s about in the stables.�

The Prince frowned. �What...�

�Or they may just have noses.� Her own nose wrinkled. �And your Prime Minister says he doesn�t know how his brother got the chains from the Treasury with which he was hanged.�

�Is that where those chains came from?�

�I heard the story when I was here last, but no one knew where the chains he committed suicide with came from. Was it suicide, do you think?�

The Prince stared at her. Then he fell back against the headboard of the royal bed. �You drank from the Well.�

Polijn looked at him again and set one hand on the bed for emphasis. �There � is � no � water � in � the � well!�

Their eyes met. No one spoke for a moment. Then Polijn told him, �Your father and grandfather became kings with no more than you have: eyes, nose, brain. There was no magic in the powers but the mystery that came with the name of Aergen and her well.�

�I...�

�You,� Polijn told him, �can wait here and starve yourself and leave your country to whoever it is who wants it. Or you can use your eyes, nose, brain, and mouth, order your coronation, and be a king.�

The Prince licked dry lips. �I... can�t. Not without...�

The woman rose from the chair. �Then do one thing. Walk with me to the door. I understand you can still walk?�

He glared at her. �I�m not dying yet.�

�Walk with me to the door,� she said.

Their eyes met again. The Prince could find nothing in the deep black � or were they brown?�� of her gaze.

�And then what?� he demanded.

She turned her back on him and took a step forward. The Prince thought it over and then swung his feet off the mattress to the royal slippers. It took him a moment to find them; had he used them yesterday? The day before? He rose, catching up his robe on the way. In this amount of time she had taken three more steps.

�And then what?� he demanded again.

She didn�t look back. �It�s up to you. Your Prime Minister is just outside. If you speak to him, you will become a king and begin your reign. If you remain silent, I will be flogged to death before the front gate.�

The Prince stopped. But this was exactly what he wanted to avoid: having to make these life-or-death decisions without the mystic knowledge his ancestors had... if they had.

His mind raced. Polijn was waiting at the door, her back still to him. He went on to the door, of course; he could see that if he went back to bed it would be the same as if he walked to the door and didn�t speak. Walking to the door involved no decisions; he needed to do that only after the door opened.

He was putting his hand down to hers, to ask her to wait a bit longer while he considered what lay before him. But his fingers brushed the wood of the door as she pulled it open.

The Prime Minister, looking pale and wilted in the seat in the antechamber, glanced up and then leapt to his feet. �Your Highness!� he cried. He bowed low.

The Prince turned helplessly to Polijn. She raised one long, pale index finger to her nose, her right eye, and then her forehead. Her right eyebrow came up at the same time the Prime Minister�s head did.

�Your Highness?� he inquired, looking from the Prince to Polijn.

His Highness set a hand on Polijn�s shoulder. �Polijn will be singing at the coronation,� he said.

It started as a gentle morning rain � a soft cascade of mist carried on wispy coastal breezes. By noon it had swirled into vicious torrents, exploding its anger with reverberating thunderclaps. By the following day the full force of the tropical onslaught had unleashed the power of the Tar and Roanoke rivers and they overran their banks, washing away the houses on stilts and the farmers� shacks sitting on stubby brick columns. The waters raped the fields and roared through the towns, covering cars and lapping greedily at the ceilings of abandoned buildings.

Amanda Eason was the first to see them. The oblong boxes floated helter-skelter down the muddy tributary past the second floor sanctuary where she huddled in flight, praying for a rescue. One of them floated close to her, its decaying, waterlogged wood causing it to bob at a peculiar angle. She saw the ragged blue dress and the gray bones poking through decomposing flesh where the remnants of an arm hung precariously from a makeshift casket. Eyeless sockets gazed upward from a pillow of scanty blonde hair, transfixing Amanda as she stared in horror at the lipless grin of the dead.

�Oh my God!� she gasped. She made the sign of the cross although she wasn�t Catholic. �She�s back! She done come back!�

It wasn�t a good morning for looking at corpses.

For a start, there was last night�s vodka, which had congealed into a glutinous lining in Nick�s stomach and begun ejecting anything else it found down there. Then there was the small matter of being woken at six, a bare three hours since he�d fallen fully-clothed into his bunk. And then there was the snow.

After ten years in Inverness, Nick had thought he knew about snow. It was grey, it was wet. It clogged the fields in the countryside, and in the city, the drains. He hadn�t come over here expecting Tahiti, but for God�s sake, they could have warned him about the snow.

Kosovar snow was white and brittle and so cold that when a flake landed on exposed skin, you felt like someone had taken a knife to your face. It didn�t drift, or melt, or turn to slush, not even in the cities. It just landed, and froze. And it only came by the ton.

They�d abandoned the military jeep at the foot of the hill. The driver, a red-faced boy who looked too young and too fat to be in the army, had claimed it was all-terrain and it would climb that hill, easy, mate, but Nick wasn�t in the mood for bravado. He�d got out before the boy had time to finish his spiel. Jaroslav had followed, and the boy had turned the engine off and settled down to sulk.

Half a dozen paratroopers were standing around the body as if guarding it from some unseen enemy. They�d stuck sticks in the ground and strung some tape between them, fencing off the immediate area. It was only as Nick struggled over the final rise into the slight hollow where the body lay that he realized the tape said Danger: Mines in three or four languages.

The nearest para grinned weakly. �Don�t worry, sir. We just didn�t have any police tape.�

�Oh God,� Jaroslav sighed, massaging his temples through the fur-lined hood of his jacket. �Why can�t someone invent a way of killing people without making such a mess?� The para opened his mouth to protest, closed it again, unsure of whom he was dealing with and all too aware of the complexities of politics and power structures in a country tom between administrations.

Nick nodded across the hill to the few strands of barbed wire dividing one frozen field from the next. A group of children were clustered in the shelter of a single wind-blasted tree, pointing and gawking. �Jaro, why don�t you go ask the locals if they saw anything?�

Jaroslav waved one gloved hand as if this were all beneath him but nodded and stalked away, feeling in his voluminous pockets for bribes. The para lifted the tape, and Nick ducked beneath it and approached the body.

He�d been called to a shotgun suicide once � a farmer, one of those bloody nutters who shouldn�t be given shotgun licenses � and it had looked pretty much like this. No skull, no face. Just bits and pieces.

The body was intact. T-shirt, uniform trousers � mental note, search for his outer layers, no one goes out overnight in this weather in a T-shirt. Unlaced boots. Crouching, he checked the soles. Grit and ice. Could have come from anywhere.

�Do you know who he is?�

�Sergeant Jim Rowley,� the para said stiffly. �Royal Engineers. Part of a five man mine-disposal team stationed in the village here. Left his barracks last night after dropping hints he was, ah, visiting a woman and never came back.�

�Was that allowed? I mean, don�t you need permission to leave��

�Disposal teams,� the officer spat. �Think they�re entitled to behave like James Bond.�

Nick stood up. His feet were numb already, and he was beginning to long for the warm classroom he�d found so claustrophobic for the last two months. �And you�re sure it�s actually him? I mean, there�s not much...�

The para ducked under the barrier, lifted the T-shirt in a brief mechanical motion. As if he were handling meat.

Jim Rowley�s chest was a mass of tattoos. A dragon, Nick thought; one of those huge coiled things that you have to get done in several sessions or the shock would kill you. Reptilian wings blended cleverly with Rowley�s lower ribs, claws hooked around his navel. The faded lines of the creature�s head protruded above the neck of his T-shirt, disguised by a frosting of snow.

Nick bent closer. �Did you know him?�

�Knew of him. Why?�

�Did he get into fights a lot?�

The para looked quickly at his companions and shrugged.

�Because he�s covered with bruises. Some of them fresh, but a lot�� Nick ran a finger across the purple swelling above Rowley�s kidney, the one that might almost have been part of the tattoo if you weren�t looking too closely. �He�s taken a beating several times, and recently. And I wouldn�t mind betting that�s connected to why someone decided to blow his head off.�

�Dad, I need your help.�

Josef had not heard this often from his son across their ten-year acquaintance. It did not sound like an emergency, but he put down his oily rag and peered at the boy over the top of his glasses.

�I want to find out who killed Mr. Bellecourt. I need you to open his apartment for me.�

Josef had learned that Ben�s infrequent requests were often coupled with startling aspects. He removed his glasses, taking care not to get his tung-oiled fingers on the lenses.

�I have no key,� he said simply.

�You don�t need a key,� his son reminded him. The boy took a breath and relaxed a bit. He had thought he could count on his father to hear him out and help him, but this was a rather unusual thing to ask, even he could see that. Good old Dad. A year or so ago Ben had looked up from doodling on a piece of paper to announce, �Hey, Good Old Dad spells God!� Josef had never forgotten that. He was on the shadiest side of religious, but this faith of his son had affected him.

�Explain.�

Ben knew it was not the issue of the key that was being questioned � they both knew from whom Josef had acquired the skill of getting past a locked door � and he was ready for this.

�I liked Mr. Bellecourt. He was a nice man and a good caretaker, and he lived in this building, like family. I feel I must try to honor his death.� The old country rested lightly on Ben�s Canadian shoulders but he could pull it around him like a cloak when he wished, and he knew it influenced his father.

Josef put his glasses back on, picked up his cloth, and made some desultory movements across the seat of the fine oak chair Ben had found in a dumpster. Now, stripped of paint, it looked like honey under the oil. �What do you want inside his apartment for? Have the police finished there?�

�Of course. I just want to look around.�

�But, Ben, the police will have found anything there is to be found.�

�I need to do something. Please, Papa.�

So he was to bring out the full range of his arsenal, was he, this son of his. Papa, even. Josef sighed and then he nodded. �This afternoon, when Ms. Shouldoon is out shopping.�

�Thanks, Dad.�

�Yet somewhere under starlight or the sun

My father stands.�

William Butler Yeats

CUCHULAIN�S FIGHT WITH THE SEA

Kubiak�s pants were hanging on the hook where he had placed them when he had first entered the room, now two hours ago. Beside them was hooked his overcoat and, beside that, his shirt and his undershorts, the undershorts tucked discreetly behind the shirt. He sat in the room�s center staring at a small framed print someone had thought to tack onto one of the walls, a painting of a dusty street lined with two story clay buildings, their whitewashed faces tinted gold by the setting sun.

Kubiak had grown obsessively familiar with that painted street over this interminable afternoon, it being the only thing in the room to draw the eyes. He would have liked to have been walking down it right now, with or without his pants. He had asked the detective once if he could get dressed. That had been a mistake he should have known better than to make. Since then, the detective and the uniformed officer at his flank were continually hinting that they would be happy to give Kubiak his clothing, along with a hearty pat on the back, the moment he confessed to murdering Dr. Brauner.

�I don�t understand,� the detective would say before feeding Kubiak�s words back to him. He was a kid, wearing his thatch of blond hair buzzed close on the sides. He would nod distractedly as Kubiak repeated each detail, then would hook his thumbs into his pants pockets, sigh, push himself off the wall, and begin everything all over again.

�So,� he was saying now, starting another circle around Kubiak. �The nurse leaves you in here, tells you to take off your clothes and wait for the doctor. You give her any indication you were more than willing to do the former but not the latter?�

�No.� Kubiak, in his paper gown, sat with his knees together. The bench was high. His toes did not touch the floor. �At the time, I was prepared to cooperate fully.�

�When did you change your mind?�

�Just before I left the room, I suppose.�

�You do this sort of thing on a regular basis, Kubiak? Take off after your doctor, half naked, if he makes you wait in his examination room for a couple of minutes?�

�It was more than a couple of minutes.�

�Fifteen minutes. You probably spent that much time in the waiting room. God knows I have. Everybody has.�

�Probably.�

�But you didn�t muscle your way past the reception girl and demand immediate service then, did you?�

�No. I was too busy reading my magazine to give it any thought. Here, all I had to stare at was that painting.�

The detective glanced at the painting.

�I don�t suppose you know who the artist is,� Kubiak said. �I�ve tried to make out the signature, but it�s such a scribble. You�d think a man with command of a paintbrush��

�Fifteen minutes,� the detective repeated, tilting his head back dramatically. �Magazines or no, it just seems to me it�s not a very long time, at least not long enough to justify creeping out into the hallway��

�There was no creeping.�

�All right. Tiptoeing. Sneaking. You were the last patient admitted, but the first one to take off after the doctor.�

�Fifteen minutes can be a very long time. You want to know how long, why don�t the four of us just sit here quietly for half that time?�

The detective snorted. He glared at Kubiak. Kubiak stared back at him. The detective turned and studied the painting once again. The uniformed cop stared at his back, evidently unsure whether he was cooperating in the game or was only considering his next question. He cleared his throat. The detective didn�t move. The uniform leaned against the wall and folded his arms. Kubiak checked his watch. Paper crinkled under his buttocks when he shifted his weight.

�Twenty-two seconds.�

�Okay, Kubiak.� The detective spun back around. �To you, fifteen minutes is forever. Fine. So, when Dr. Brauner didn�t show quick enough to your liking, you got pissed and you took off down the hallway after him.�

�No.�

�You weren�t pissed? Not in the least?�

�I didn�t leave this room to look for the doctor.�

�Hold on here, now. You told me a half dozen times already that you walked out of this room when the doctor didn�t show after fifteen minutes.�

�Yes.�

�So which is it? You came here to see the doctor. You were waiting, in this room, for the doctor. And now you�re telling me that when you left this room, without your clothes, it wasn�t the doctor you were after?�

�I thought it was more likely I�d bump into one of the nurses. I imagined they had all forgotten about me, that they might have mixed up their schedule somehow and marked down the room I was in as unoccupied. I had this vision of being left for the cleaning crew to discover.�

�So you said. Some innocent cleaning woman. Doesn�t understand English. Won�t stop screaming.�

�That part you remember well enough.�

�So you were looking for anybody who worked in the office. That�s what you�ve been trying to tell me.�

�Yes.�

�But you didn�t go back to the waiting room where you knew you�d find the reception girl.�

�I felt a little underdressed for that. All those people. In all their clothes. It�s the weight of the shoes, I think. The vulnerability of the stockinged foot.�

�Instead, you go creeping down the hallway in the other direction where you don�t see anyone��

�Not creeping.�

�In your stocking feet, silently putting your ear to each door.�

The detective resumed his circles.

�You come across no one. A busy office with two nurses and a doctor, a hallway not twenty yards long, and you can�t find anyone and no one can find you. A hell of a trick. I don�t know how you managed it.�

�If it had been my intention to keep my presence secret, I doubt I could have.�

�A man begging to be discovered, yet you still manage to keep an entire office full of people unaware of your existence as you walk all the way down the hallway to the last door. Now, you say you don�t hear a sound on the other side of it, but that�s the one door you decide to walk through.�

�As I told you, it was slightly off its latch.�

�And you just happen to find the doctor there, though you claim he was the one person you were not looking for. And you claim you saw his body from where you stood in the doorway, but when his nurse entered the room, you were on your knees, bent over his corpse.�

�I didn�t know he was dead.�

�The pair of scissors shoved into the base of his skull didn�t give you your first clue?�

�Because of the way he was lying, I couldn�t see the scissors until��

�So you ran in to offer assistance in case he was only wounded. Or sick.�

�Yes.�

�You. The patient. The irate patient. While two nurses, whose job it is to offer the kind of medical assistance you offer to a guy with a pair of scissors sticking out of the back of his neck, are just a shout away.�

The detective was directly in front of Kubiak now, leaning into him.

�But,� he said, �they didn�t hear you shout, did they? Because you never made a sound.�

The detective continued to hover, his face a mask of intimidating anger. After an appropriate amount of time, he relaxed, straightened.

�You see, Kubiak, how what you�re telling me doesn�t make any sense. I mean, there isn�t a reasonable man in the world would believe you followed the actions you claim you did. Now, I�m not saying you killed Dr. Brauner, or even meant to hurt him. I�m just giving you a chance to tell us what happened.�

�And if I change my story, I get my pants.�

�Just tell me the truth. If it�s your pants you want, sure. Why not?�

�What if I tell you the truth and the story stays the same?�

�Well, then I�d say we�ve probably done about all we can here. I�ll have to take you downtown, maybe even drop you in holding until we can square everything away.�

�Without my pants.�

The detective smiled, hooked his thumbs in his pockets, and leaned back against the wall. �Now you�re on it, Kubiak.� He nodded to the uniformed officer. �Now we�re finally starting to communicate.�

Roll on, five o�clock! Only half an hour left. Clear my desk. Annual Leave! Sweetest two words in the English language! A whole two weeks. Tuscany. Warm sun. Red wine. �Un bicchiere di vino rosso, per favore.� Pisa. Florence. Definitely Florence this time. Not going all that way again and not seeing Florence. San Gimignano. Lovely holidays. Remember that very first one we had...

It had been just four months since Larry Erie had retired, and already he was turning into a Cat Lady. At least that�s what his new friend William �Bass� Anderson kept telling him. �I�ll see you on the TV one day,� Bass would say. � �Tonight on Action News: Two hundred cats found in River City home.� �

�I�ve only got two cats,� Erie would say, knowing it was hopeless to argue.

�That�s where it starts!� Bass replied, waving whatever he had in his hand at the time � usually a doughnut, sometimes a muffin. �Two hungry little strays you just had to take in off the street. But there are always two more and two more and two more.�

�They were running around the neighborhood without anyone looking out for them. What was I supposed to do?�

�You call Animal Control is what you do.�

�You know what would happen to them if I did that.�

Bass would shake his head with infinite sadness. �You�re still throwing your old newspapers away, aren�t you? Cuz that�s what happens next with you Cat Ladies. You start stacking newspapers up to the ceiling, and then they fall over on you and they find your bones a month later, picked clean. It�ll be in one of those grocery store papers: �Retired Cop Eaten By Starving Cats.� �

And then the Survivors session would start, and Erie would get an hour-long respite from Bass�s harangue. Although it wasn�t really much of a break. Erie didn�t think of himself as a support group kind of guy. Seven men sitting on metal folding chairs in a church basement talking about death and fear and sadness � it seemed strange to him. He never knew what to say. That was part of the tragedy of losing Nancy. She was the one who handled emotions for both of them.

Bass was about the same age as Erie, but he took to the support group concept right away. A young social worker named Julie Rhodes was supposed to be their �grief counselor,� but sometimes it seemed that Bass was really the group�s leader. He was the first to open up about his feelings, the first to give another group member a hug when tears started to flow, the only one to take Erie aside after meetings and say things like, �You gotta pull that stick out of your butt, Larry. Let your feelings out. It�ll be good for you.�

Bass was full of advice for Erie. Feel, talk, do.

�You can�t stay retired, Larry,� Bass would say. �You used to catch murderers for a living. Cleaning the kitty box all day ain�t a worthy use of your skills.�

Bass even knew exactly what Erie should do. He came to one of the group�s Tuesday morning meetings with a stack of paper that he handed to Erie with a commanding �Grab a pen and get started.�

Erie looked at the papers. Printed across the top of the first sheet were the words STATE FORM 43777: APPLICATION FOR PRIVATE DETECTIVE LICENSE.

�I don�t think so, Bass.� Erie tried to hand the forms back.

Bass crossed his arms. �Just think about it.�

Erie kept his arm out. �I don�t have to think about it. I know. I�m not interested.�

�Give it a little time. Let the idea sink in.�

�I don�t need a little time.� Erie was starting to feel silly holding the forms out, so he began leafing through them, looking for something he knew was in the fine print. When he found it, he pointed to it. �Look at this. I�d have to get a seven thousand dollar surety bond. And extra insurance. This isn�t something you do on a whim. It�s expensive.�

Bass had sauntered over to the snack table and picked up a cup of coffee and a jelly doughnut. His hands now full, he smiled at Erie with smug self-satisfaction. �You hold onto those forms. See what you think in a few days.� He peered past Erie at the circle of folding chairs. �Excuse me. I wanna go see how Dave�s holding up before the meeting starts.�

Bass walked over and sat down next to a paunchy, sixtyish man with hollow eyes. They began talking quietly, and Bass handed him the coffee and the doughnut. The man smiled.

I�m taking in cats, Erie thought to himself, and Bass�s taking in widowers. He tossed the application forms into the trashcan next to the snack table.

The next week Bass didn�t mention the forms. Not that he�d given up on his project. �I�ve got a case for you,� he told Erie.

�A case?�

�You know what I�m talkin� about,� Bass replied, sounding peevish. �A detective case.�

�Darn. I thought you meant a case of beer.�

�Don�t use that one in your act, Bob Hope. It ain�t funny,� Bass snapped back.

The emotion in the little man�s voice caught Erie off guard. �What�s going on?� he asked, dropping his joshing tone.

�I�ve got one of those crack houses right across the street from me.�

Erie needed a moment to let that sink in. �A crack house?�

�That�s right, a crack house,� Bass declared firmly.

Erie stifled a sigh. He knew Bass�s neighborhood fairly well. It was predominantly working class leaning toward redneck � the kind of place where you�d find more than the average share of domestic squabbles and exploding mailboxes but no crack houses. Of course that didn�t stop self-appointed neighborhood watchdogs from reporting them to the police every now and then, especially after America�s Most Wanted or NYPD Blue or some other TV show did a story about them.

�Have you called the police?�

�You bet I have. Talked to some young gal who made me feel like a crazy man. I saw a patrol car cruise by once or twice, but that�s all that came of it.�

�Well, if you�re still concerned, call again.�

�I am still concerned, but I know the cops aren�t gonna do diddly until I�ve got some proof.�

�If there�s any �proof to be found, you need to let the professionals find it.�

�That�s why I�m coming to you.�

�Bass, I used to be a detective. Used to, as in not any more.�

Erie hadn�t meant to raise his voice, but he had. The other group members looked up from their coffee and muffins. Erie felt embarrassed, ashamed, the way he always felt when he lost his temper.

�I get it,� Bass snarled before he could apologize. �You don�t help people now � just cats.� He stalked away, sat down next to Julie Rhodes, and instantly started up a conversation about the importance of regular exercise. He didn�t look at Erie for the rest of the session.

Erie worried about his spat with Bass for the next week. He hated disagreements with his friends � even friends as meddlesome and stubborn as Bass. Squabbles like that made him feel emotional, vulnerable. But what could he do? Go off and play cops and robbers like some deluded old man who couldn�t let go of the past? No, not him. He rehearsed a sincere but firm apology to Bass � and hoped his friend had come to his senses about his neighborhood �crack house.�

But the following Tuesday morning Erie didn�t get his chance to apologize. Bass never showed up. The meeting went on with him. It was the first meeting Bass had missed in the group�s three-month history.

Erie didn�t say or hear a word for the next hour. The second Julie Rhodes was finished, saying, �I�ll see you all next week,� he was on his feet heading toward the door.

He�d been to Bass�s place once before � Bass had invited the group over to watch the Super Bowl the previous month. Twenty minutes later Erie was there again.

He could tell something was wrong a block away. Bass�s rusty pickup was nestled on the cement like a cat with its legs tucked up underneath it. All four tires were flat. A garbage can near the curb had been knocked over, its contents spilled out on the driveway.

Erie parked next to the pickup and walked toward Bass�s squat, orange-brick ranch house. As he approached, he noticed the curtains in the front picture window swaying in the breeze. There was a large jagged hole in the glass.

Erie rang the doorbell. It played the first five notes of �Amazing Grace.� Nobody answered. He pushed the button again. This time he caught a glimpse of movement back near the driveway. He turned and saw Bass peering at him around the side of the house.

�Oh, it�s you,� Bass said. He waved Erie over irritably. �Come on. This way. Quick.� He ducked out of sight.

Erie followed. When he got to the driveway, he saw an arm propping open a side door to the house. �Come on, come on� came a hiss from inside. Erie obeyed.

When he stepped inside and got his first good look at Bass, he didn�t like what he saw. The little man was haggard, with tousled hair and bags under his bloodshot eyes. He was wearing a heavy parka over a blue pajama top and wrinkled trousers. His right hand stayed nestled in one of the big pockets, which bulged ominously.

�Are you all right? What�s going on?�

Bass stared at Erie guardedly for a moment. �I�m fine. Everything�s fine.�

Erie waited for more. It didn�t come. �What happened to the window?� he prompted.

�Got broke.�

Silence again. �And the tires on your truck?�

�Went flat.�

More silence. �Bass, come on. If there�s been trouble, I want to help.�

Bass narrowed his eyes. �Really? You mean that?�

�Of course.�

�You�ll help me out � my way?�

Erie opened his mouth to say, �That depends on what your way is.� But he substituted �Sure.� His friend would clam up again if he equivocated too much. But he did have one condition. �Just take your hand away from that gun,� he said. �Relax. It�s me.�

Bass looked down, surprised. He pulled his hand out of the parka pocket. �I didn�t even realize I was�� He stared at Erie. �What makes you think I�ve got a gun?�

�I�m a detective, remember?�

Bass�s shoulders relaxed, and his face loosened into a tenuous smile.

�You want some coffee?�

�Sure.�

Bass took two mugs down from a cabinet. One had TRUCKERS DO IT FOR THE LONG HAUL printed on the side; the other had a pink heart circled by the words WORLD�S GREATEST GRANDMA. He filled them both from a Mr. Coffee on the countertop. �Sit down,� he said. �This story�s gonna take a while.�

Erie took a seat at the kitchen table without taking off his coat. The broken window in the front room was letting in plenty of chilly February air.

He watched his friend pull out a bowl of sugar, a carton of milk, and a box of miniature powdered doughnuts. The little smile still curled the edges of Bass�s mouth as he moved around the kitchen. He seemed almost cheerful now that he had an audience. Finally he spread everything out on the table and sat down across from Erie.

�Okay, where do you want me to start?�

�Tell me about the window and your tires. Any idea who�s responsible?�

�Any idea!� Bass erupted. �I don�t just have an idea. I know!� He opened his mouth to go on, then picked up a doughnut instead, suddenly philosophical. �But I guess that�s getting ahead of the story.�

�Start at the beginning then.�

�Good idea.�

Bass threw down another gulp of coffee, then leaned forward and slapped his palms on the table. He was an inveterate storyteller, and even in this moment of crisis he looked as if he were getting ready for a performance.

�Across the street there,� he began, �I�ve got this fella. He�s maybe thirty-five, forty years old. Not the sociable type. He�s lived over there a year or so, and all I know about him is he�s got the name Smith on his mailbox and he don�t care squat about keepin� up his property. A couple of months ago this young hellraiser moves in with him � I assume it�s his son.

�Smith�s not around ninety-nine percent of the time, and this kid, he takes advantage of it. Plays his rock �n� roll loud enough to wake the dead in three counties. Which didn�t bother me much at first. Bootsie and I raised three boys, so I know a little something about noise. But then I started noticing all the kids comin� by in the afternoon. In and out in less than five minutes. It started out slow � maybe I�d see one or two in a week. But now he�s get-tin� sometimes five or six in a day.�

Of course, Erie thought. The �crack house.� He kept his face neutral. �How old is this boy?�

�I�m not sure � maybe eighteen. That�s another peculiar thing. Until yesterday he could�ve been thirteen or thirty for all I knew. I�ve only seen him clearly once. The rest of the time he�s just been a shape in the doorway or a shadow in the window. He never comes outside. Ever. He�s like the Phantom of the Opera or somethin�.�

�And the kids who come by the house � how old are they?�

�All ages. I�ve seen ten-year-olds and twenty-year-olds go in together.�

�That�s strange,� Erie had to admit.

�You could even say suspicious, am I right?�

Erie nodded. �Yeah, you could call it that.�

Bass bounced a fist on the table-top. �See? If only somebody�d listened to me sooner. But who�s gonna pay attention to some nobody spying on his neighbors? �Oh, he�s just a senile old kook. Next thing you know he�ll be saying Bigfoot�s out back screwing his dog.� �

�I�m listening now, Bass.�

�Now you are. But it looked for a while there like it was up to old Bass to save the day himself, know what I mean? I figured I was gonna hafta be the one to come up with some evidence. So I pulled out my��

�Wait, Bass, wait. Why didn�t you just go talk to the father?�

Bass scowled. �Why didn�t I? Because I did, that�s why. Saw him drive up a couple of nights ago and ran over to have a few words. Know what he said to me?� Bass�s eyes went crosseyed and fuzzy. He leaned across the table woozily and poked Erie in the chest with a crooked finger. � �Mind yer own bish-nesh, ya ol� sho-and-sho. That boy ish my re-shponsh-i-bility, and I�ll be damned if shome little blankety blank ish gonna tell me how to raishe �im.� � Bass straightened up, his eyes flashing. �He wasn�t three sheets to the wind � he was four or five. If I hadn�t made a strategic withdrawal, he probably would�ve yelled for his son to come out so they could kick my ass family-style.�

Erie nodded. He�d been poked and yelled at and even kicked and punched plenty of times over the years. �Blame the messenger� seemed to be the motto of lousy parents.

�Okay,� he said. �So yesterday you decided to take matters into your own hands.�

�That�s right.�

Bass pushed his chair away from the table and hustled into the living room. He returned with a handful of Polaroid pictures and dumped them on the table before Erie.

�There you go. See that?�

Erie picked up one of the photographs. All he saw was a white circle of light. Bass snatched the picture away.

�That was before I figured out not to use the flash.� He spread out the other shots � there were about a dozen of them � and pointed. �But look there. And there. And there.�

The photos clearly had been taken from Bass�s living room through the big (now broken) front window. Each shot featured two or three kids walking to or from the house across the street. The time had been written in blue ink across the white border at the bottom of each picture.

Bass separated two shots from the pile. �See? This boy arrives at four fifteen P.M. and leaves at four twenty-one. You notice anything about the second picture?�

Bass had been too far away to get good shots with a Polaroid; the image of the boy in question was only about an inch tall. Erie had to pick it up and hold it up close to his eyes. But he saw something.

�A package? Maybe a plastic bag?�

�That�s right! A bag!� Bass bellowed triumphantly. �And you know what�s in it!�

Erie shuffled through the other pictures. But the photos didn�t capture many details, and most of the kids were wearing heavy parkas with big pockets � big enough to hold just about anything.

�Well, something�s going on over there,� Erie said.

�What�d I tell you?�

�But,� Erie continued, �these pictures don�t prove anything. Those kids could be walking away with Girl Scout cookies for all we know.�

Bass sat down again. �I had that same thought yesterday,� he said. �Obviously I wasn�t close enough to get the goods. So I decided to move in a little closer.�

�How close is closer?� Erie could see where the story was heading. �Maybe close enough to peek in a window?�

Bass smiled sheepishly. �You could say that.�

�How about if you say that?�

�Okay. Yes, I sneaked across the street to see if I could get a look inside. That would be proof positive, right?�

�Not in court. And it�s trespassing.�

�For a good cause!� Bass said defensively.

�And I guess you didn�t sneak too well, right?�

�I did all right,� Bass snapped back. �For a minute or two, anyway. Got close enough to see money changing hands.�

�Really? What else did you see?�

�Just that the Smith home isn�t gonna be popping up in Good Housekeeping anytime soon. That place is an unholy mess.�

�The boy, Bass. Did you see what he was selling?�

Bass waved his hands in disgust. �Proof proof proof! You really were a cop, weren�t you? Can�t do a blessed thing without proof. Well, no, I didn�t see what he was selling. And no, I didn�t see his customers give him the secret crackhead handshake, either. But I�ll tell you what I did see: I saw them see me and I saw myself running like hell.�

Erie nodded. The story was working out as he expected. �And the tires and the window � that was last night? A message?�

�That�s right.� Bass got up from the table again and returned with a brick and a folded piece of paper. �This is what came through the window at three in the morning.� He spread the paper out in front of Erie. There was a message on it written in black magic marker: �STOP PEAKING IN PEOPLES WINDOWS PREVERT OR NEXT TIME IT WILL BE YOUR HEAD THAT GETS BUSTED NOT YOUR CAMRA!�

�Not exactly spelling bee material, is he?� Bass said.

�His fingerprints are probably all over this � the brick, too. You might have enough for a vandalism charge here,� Erie said.

Bass grimaced. �Vandalism? What would that get me? He�d still live right across the street, wouldn�t he? He�d still be selling his junk. And he�d have more reason than ever to slit my throat. No, thanks. This thing has to be finished once and for all.�

Erie had to admit that Bass was right � press charges and the boy wouldn�t be away from home more than a few hours. And when he got home, he�d be madder than ever. He certainly didn�t seem like the type to lie low until the feud with Bass blew over. He was hotheaded and none too bright and had a business to protect. There would be more trouble.

And it could be big trouble. Erie didn�t like the angry gleam in his friend�s eyes when he said �once and for all.� He was a scared, lonely man with a gun in his pocket. Bad things were going to happen. Unless someone did something.

Once upon a time Erie had the authority and skills to straighten out a situation like this. He knew he didn�t have the authority any more. And he wasn�t sure about the skills. He�d been retired only a few months, but it felt like years. The old Erie � the one who solved problems, the one who served and protected � was gone. Maybe he�d died with Nancy. The Erie that had been left behind was just a Cat Lady. You couldn�t expect him to help people, could you?

�Okay, Bass, I�ll help,� he heard himself say. He wasn�t sure where the words came from.

He picked up his coffee and took a sip. The coffee had gone cold, but the bitter shock of it helped ground him in the here and now. He pushed his feelings aside. They were too confusing. It was time to focus on facts.

�It�s garbage day, right?� he said.

Bass slapped the tabletop again. �That�s the spirit!� he declared, beaming. �It�s time to take out the trash across the street � and you�re just the fella to do it.�

Erie took in a deep breath. �No, Bass. I mean isn�t today the day the men in the big truck come and take everyone�s garbage away?�

�Well, you don�t have to be sarcastic about it,� Bass mumbled, deflated. �Yes, it�s garbage day.�

Erie walked into the living room, crushing bits of broken glass that littered the floor near the front window. He parted the fluttering curtain and peered outside. �There are ways to collect evidence that don�t involve trespassing or a search warrant,� he said. He let the curtain drop and returned to the kitchen, to the side door. �I�ll be back in a minute. Why don�t you get that glass cleaned up while I�m gone?�

For a split second Bass seemed tom between annoyance and excitement. But when he hopped up, saluted, and went to grab a broom, Erie could see that he�d settled on the latter.

Erie walked to the end of the driveway and pulled Bass�s garbage can upright. As he collected the trash that had spilled out � mostly TV dinner boxes and fast-food wrappers � he stole a few glances at the Smith house. He didn�t see any movement. When he was done, he put the lid back on the trashcan and walked briskly across the street. Smith and Son might be lousy neighbors, but at least they put their garbage out on time. He flipped back the lid of the jumbo plastic trashcan at the edge of Smith�s driveway, reached inside, and pulled out two white garbage bags. He closed the can and moved quickly back across the street toward Bass�s house. To his relief no one shouted �Stop!� or threw a brick or shot him in the back.

Bass was waiting for him in the kitchen. �Evidence?� he asked with a grin.

�Could be. Where do you want to open these up?�

�This way.�

Bass led him downstairs to a dank basement with faux wood paneling and dingy shag carpet that might have been yellow once upon a time. A folded ping-pong table leaned against the wall in one corner, and a bumper pool table was covered with piles of unfolded laundry. Posters for 1970�s rock bands like KISS and AC/DC hung on the wall along with a dartless dartboard.

�I haven�t seen one of these in a while,� Erie said.

�Yeah. A rumpus room they used to call it. �Course, not much rumpusing went on down here after the boys left home.�

A large box sat in the middle of the room. It had a picture of a computer on the side. Bass slid the box along the carpet into a corner.

�Is that really a computer?� Erie asked.

�Maybe. Might be an electric paperweight for all I know. I could never get it to work right.� Bass pulled a wrinkled sheet off the bumper pool table and began spreading it out on the floor. �Bill Jr. gave it to me for Christmas. Said we could keep in touch by e-mail. I don�t see what�s wrong with the telephone myself.� He smoothed out the last corner of the sheet. �Okay, let�s find us some evidence.�

Erie put the bags down on the sheet and tore one of them open. A rank smell flooded out into the room. �Good Lord!� Bass gagged.

�Welcome to the glamorous world of detective work,� Erie said, pinching his nose.

�Hold on there a second.� Bass hopped up the stairs. When he came back, he was ripping open a small plastic bag. �Playtex Living Gloves,� he explained. �Been under the sink since 1989.� He handed a pair of the blue rubber gloves to Erie, then pulled on another pair himself. �I don�t know why Bootsie kept �em after we got the dishwasher. That woman couldn�t bring herself to throw out anything. Boxed up in the back there I�ve got every scrap of schoolwork the boys ever did. Probably all their dirty diapers, too. I�ve got canned hams that still have the price on �em � fifty cents. What year you figure that was? Probably 1975.�

�Why don�t you throw it all out?�

Bass frowned. �Ahh, well, I couldn�t do that.� He slapped his rubber-covered palms together. �All right, chief. I�m ready when you are.�

Erie up-ended the bag and poured its contents out. The resulting pile was composed mostly of TV dinner boxes with some pizza boxes, coffee grounds, and crumpled aluminum cans mixed in.

�Looks like they�re on the Bass Anderson Diet,� Erie said, spreading the trash out with his shoe. Small chunks of dark goo were stuck to everything. Underneath a fish sticks box he found something black and soft and lumpish. �I think that�s where our smell�s coming from.� He knelt down and picked it up. It crumbled in his hands.

�What is it?� Bass asked, keeping his distance. �Some kinda... drug... thing?�

Erie pinched a chunk of the stuff between his fingers. �No.� He gave it a cautious sniff. �I think someone was trying to make meatloaf.� He began sifting through the boxes and bags again. After a minute he grabbed the garbage bag and began refilling it. �Nothing here,� he said. �Let�s take a look at the other one.�

Bass set the other garbage bag on the edge of the sheet. �Feels pretty light.�

�I noticed that.� Erie picked up the bag. Something inside crinkled. �Loud, too.� He untied it and turned it over. Wads of cellophane and paper spilled out on the sheet.

Bass and Erie stared at the pile for a second, puzzled.

�Whaddaya make of that?�

�I don�t know what to make of it,� Erie said. �But at least it doesn�t stink.� He pulled off his rubber gloves. �I don�t think we�ll need these any more.� He started spreading the pile out. This time Bass helped.

Erie picked up one of the crumpled scraps of paper and straightened it out. It was a standard white eight-and-a-half by eleven inch sheet. A rectangle about five inches by six had been cut out of the middle.

�Maybe that�s his rolling paper,� Bass suggested. �You know. For making reefers.�

�It�s the wrong kind of paper � it would bum too fast.�

�Yeah, but he don�t get out much,� Bass persisted. �Maybe he was hard up. Some customers were comin� over and he had to make a few jays out of whatever he had lying around.�

Erie measured the cut-out with his thumb and forefinger. �That�s awfully long for a joint.� He shook his head. �Too long.� He picked up another piece of paper and flattened it out It was exactly the same as the first: a five by six inch rectangle was missing from the middle. He looked at another sheet The same.

�There�s another possibility, but I don�t think it fits.�

�What is it?�

�Could be blotter paper for LSD. Maybe.� Erie screwed up his face. �No. I�m reaching. It doesn�t make sense. Why cut the box out of the middle? Why not use the whole sheet?�

Erie folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. He picked up a crinkled piece of cellophane.

Bass did the same thing. �Looks like... whaddaya call it?� he said, spreading the material out on his knee. �Shrink wrap?�

Erie straightened out the wad in his hands as much as he could. There were straight lines in the cellophane � maybe even corners. �You�re right. This is off some kind of package.�

Bass looked around at all the cellophane spread across the floor. �Off a really big package, I�d say.�

Erie grunted. �Or a lot of small ones.� He knelt and spread the cellophane and paper out some more. A flash of color caught his eye. He plucked a crumpled piece of paper out of the pile. It was dull yellow � a shade that looked familiar. He straightened it out.

�Hey, that�s a letter,� said Bass, peering over Erie�s shoulder.

�Not just a letter.� At the top was a symbol Erie knew well � the seal of the State of Indiana. �It�s a notice. It looks like a certain Andrew Allen Smith has a hearing in juvenile court in a few weeks.�

Bass clapped his hands together. �There we go! He�s a drug dealer!�

�Not necessarily.�

�What do you mean, not necessarily?�

�The notice doesn�t say what the charge is � they never do. For all we know, he could�ve been caught jaywalking.�

Bass threw his hands up. �Sweet Lord, Larry,� he groaned. �What do we need to find to convince you? A thank-you note? �Dear Andy, I just love your crack cocaine. It really hits the spot. You�ll be seeing me again after I�ve stolen a few more purses from helpless old ladies. Signed, A Loyal Customer.� �

Erie nodded. �I think that would do it,� he said, rummaging through the pile on the floor again. �Why don�t you see if you can dig one of those up for me?�

Bass bent down to help, grumbling under his breath. After a minute of pawing through plastic and paper, he handed Erie two oversized envelopes. �This look like anything?�

They were from a mail-order music club. Standard junk mail. Erie was about to say so when a glance at the address stopped him. �Let me ask you a dumb question, Bass,� he said. �Has a �Sid Vicious� or a �Johnny Rotten� ever lived across the street from you?�

�A what?�

�Not whats. Whos. Has anyone named �Sid Vicious� or �Johnny Rotten� ever lived where the Smiths live now?�

Bass shook his head. �Before Smith moved in, Joe and Thelma Amlingmeyer lived there for twenty-something years. And I never heard anybody call either one of them Sid or Johnny. Or Vicious or Rotten, for that matter.�

Erie held up one of the envelopes and tapped the see-through address window. �That�s funny. Because according to the National CD & Tape Clearinghouse, Sid Vicious lives across the street.� He waved the other envelope. �And his roommate is Johnny Rotten.�

Erie opened one of the envelopes and pulled out a letter and a small catalogue. He scanned the letter quickly. �Sid just joined the National CD & Tape Club,� he told Bass. �He�s already received his seven CD�s for a penny. Now he just needs to order four more at full price to fulfill his obligation.� He tore open the other envelope. �Johnny�s in the club, too.�

�Well, good for Johnny and Sid. But what does that have to do with the crack house across the street?�

Erie pulled the scrap of paper out of his pocket. The box cut out of the middle was just the right size. He got the old tingle in his hands, the one he got when the pieces were starting to fit together.

So Erie�s intuition was still working � at least well enough to make a few wild leaps of logic. That made him either a gifted old pro or a silly old fool, depending on how close to the truth he�d landed. If he were the latter, he preferred to keep that knowledge to himself.

�All I can do is make guesses,� he said. �How about if we go across the street and get some answers?�

�From the kid?�

�From the kid.�

Bass stiffened. �All right. If you�re ready, I�m ready.� His hands slipped into the pockets of his parka.

�Good. First, give me the gun.�

�Well now, Larry, I�d feel a whole lot better about this if��

�And I�d feel a whole lot better if we left it here.�

Bass�s eyes popped in surprise. �You want us to walk right into the lion�s den without a��

�Give me the gun.�

Erie�s words were hard, loud. But he wasn�t yelling. This was different. He was using his cop voice, the voice that left no room for debate, that reminded people he was The Law. Erie hadn�t tried it in a long time. He was almost surprised to hear it now. But he was glad he hadn�t forgotten how to use it.

Bass pulled a Smith & Wesson .38 out of his pocket and handed it over. Erie put it on top of the computer box in the corner.

�Let�s go,� he said.

As they passed the kitchen table, Erie picked up the handwritten note � the one warning the �prevert� to stop �peaking� in windows � and slipped it into his pocket.

They walked down the driveway without saying a word. The bitter February chill sent a shiver through Erie as he walked. At least he hoped it was the cold that did it. He broke the silence as they crossed the street. �Sorry I raised my voice,� he said.

�Don�t worry about that,� Bass said. �But I�m gonna be awful mad at you if we end up dead.�

They marched up the steps to the Smiths� front porch. Erie pressed the doorbell. They heard the chime echo through the house.

Nothing happened. Erie rang the doorbell again.

�Well, I guess that�s that,� Bass announced. �It�s up to the police now.� He turned to go.

�Hold on.� Erie rapped on the door three times. They weren�t polite knocks; they were like punches. �Andrew Allen Smith!� he was about to say, �This is the police!� He stopped himself just in time. �We know you�re home! Open the door!�

Still nothing happened. Erie bent an ear toward the door, listening for movement inside the house. He didn�t hear a thing. �Maybe he�s really gone,� Bass said. �He could�ve slipped out the back.�

�He�s home,� Erie said with more confidence than he really felt. He rapped on the door four more times. �Open the door or we�ll be back with a search warrant! We know about your little operation!�

�We do?� Bass whispered.

Erie ignored him. �We�ll go to the police if we have to! Then you�re looking at a real sentence! B.J.C.F, Andrew! Bloomington Juvenile Correctional Facility! That�s where you�re headed if you don�t talk to us!�

Something stirred inside the house. A door opened and closed. Tentative footsteps grew gradually louder.

�I hope you know what you�re doin�,� Bass told Erie.

�Me too,� Erie said.

The front door opened.

�What do you want?� said Andrew Allen Smith.

He didn�t fit Erie�s profile of a ruthless drug kingpin. He was skinny and short � maybe five feet four. A limp mass of dark hair flowed over his head and ears. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a picture of a grinning skull above the words THE MISFITS. The pale green eyes that peered at Erie through cheap, plastic-rimmed glasses were filled with defiance.

Erie guessed that he was sixteen years old.

�Let us inside and we�ll talk it over,� Erie said.

�I�m not letting you in,� the kid shot back. �I don�t know you. I don�t have to do a thing you say.�

The words were filled with hollow bravado. It sounded to Erie as if the kid were trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince them.

�You�re right,� Erie said. �You don�t have to listen to us. But you will if you�re smart, Johnny Rotten. Or should I call you Sid?�

The kid�s insolent facade cracked a bit, letting his fear show through. But he still tried to bluff it out. �What are you talking about?�

�We�ve talked to some of your customers, Andrew,� Erie bluffed back. �We know everything. So you�d better come clean with us or we�re headed straight to the police. And that�s something you can�t afford with a court date coming up.�

Andrew�s eyes narrowed, his lips twisted. Erie could tell something defiant and vulgar was about to come out of his mouth.

�Hey,� the kid began. His voice was trembling so badly he couldn�t go on.

�Come in,� he said instead, his voice barely above a whisper.

He moved away from the door and let them into the house.

As Erie stepped inside, he turned to look back at Bass. A look of dismay hung on his friend�s face. This was obviously not the kind of confrontation he had been expecting.

Andrew led them into a tiny living room. The floor was covered with cigarette butts, empty beer cans, and carryout bags from fast-food restaurants. Erie had to move a couple of porn magazines off the couch before he could sit down. He signaled Bass to sit down next to him.

The kid stood before them nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, then threw himself suddenly into a ratty green easy chair on the other side of the room. His manner still fluctuated between fear and hostility.

�What do you want?�

His right foot began bouncing rhythmically, sending his knee up and down. It was a nervous tic Erie had seen hundreds of times in interrogation rooms and courtrooms alike.

Just above the kid�s pumping foot was a slight bulge, a place where his jeans swelled out to cover something about the size of a fist. It could have been an ankle holster, but Erie thought he knew better. It was time to put his intuition to the test.

�You were lucky to get house arrest,� he said.

Andrew�s foot stopped bouncing.

�What were you busted for?�

The kid gaped at him a second before recovering his nerve. �If you know so much, why don�t you tell me?� he said with an unconvincing sneer.

�Well, if I had to guess, I�d say it had something to do with computers. Maybe you�re a hacker. Or maybe you got caught doing what you�re doing here.�

�And what�s that?�

He was going to make Erie say it. That was smart. If Erie were wrong, he had no power over the kid, and the kid knew it.

�You�re bootlegging CD�s,� Erie said. He made sure there was no question mark in his voice, no doubt. �It�s pretty easy to do if you�ve got the right software � and you obviously do. You get them free from the music clubs, then make copies and sell them to kids in the neighborhood. They look pretty professional, too. You�re able to print out covers for them and everything.�

Andrew�s lips creased into a smile, and for a quick second Erie expected to hear the words, �Wrong, old man.� But it wasn�t that kind of smile.

�So what? The Backstreet Boys and the Dixie Chicks lose a few dollars. They can afford it.�

A warm wave of elation swept over Erie. His wild guess had been right. His instincts hadn�t faded away to nothing. But the giddiness evaporated quickly. This wasn�t over yet.

�Have you made much money?�

Andrew shrugged guardedly. But his smile widened just a bit, grew cocky. He was itching to talk about his profits, brag about his little business. But he was smart enough not to.

�Well, you�d better have some money handy. Because you�re going to pay Mr. Anderson for all the damage you and your father did.�

The kid�s smile faded. �What do you mean?�

�I mean you two sent a message last night, and we�re sending a message right back,� Erie snapped, going into cop voice mode. �You�re going to pay Mr. Anderson for his window and his tires and you�re going to stop pirating CD�s or I�m going to have a talk with my friends in Juvenile Court. Judge Hecht just happens to be one of them.�

Erie pulled the �prevert� note out of his pocket and held it up for the kid to see.

�I could show her this. She might think that a kid who threatens his neighbors like this deserves something harsher than house arrest.�

Andrew and stared at the note. �I�ve never seen that before,� he said. His words were panic-stricken, not defiant. �I don�t know what you�re talking about.�

�This,� Erie snapped, shaking the paper in his hand, �was tied to a brick and thrown through Mr. Anderson�s front window last night. You couldn�t have done it: you can�t leave the house because of your electronic monitor. But your dad could�ve done it for you. And I think he did.�

The kid�s lips began to tremble. �It�s not what you think,� he said. �I told my dad about yesterday, about seeing this guy, Mr. Anderson, looking in our window. I just thought it was weird and kinda funny, but my dad got real mad about it. Sometimes he just freaks out about stuff You never know what he�s going to do when he�s like that.�

�So you�re saying you didn�t even know what happened last night?� Erie said sarcastically. �You had nothing to do with it?�

The kid nodded. �That�s right.� His eyes were beginning to water. �I didn�t do anything. I swear.�

�You broke the law,� Erie shot back. �And I find it pretty hard to believe you had nothing to do with this.�

Tears began to flow down Andrew�s sunken cheeks. �I�m sorry I�m really sorry. Please believe me. I didn�t know,� he said. �This is my last chance. My mom kicked me out when I got house arrest. That�s the only reason I�m here. If my dad finds out I�m... he�ll take away my computer... and... it�s the only thing I... I don�t want to go to jail.�

The kid was choking out the words between sobs.

�Listen to me, Andrew,� Erie began, his tough tone still prodding, badgering.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face Bass. His friend�s eyes were wide and watery. His anger was gone, replaced by something new � or maybe something old.

�This ain�t his fault,� Bass said softly. �A boy needs someone looking over his shoulder. He doesn�t have anybody like that.�

Erie was pleased by Bass�s change of heart. But for Andrew�s benefit he said, �Well, we can�t let him run wild; there�ll be more trouble. I still think we should go to the police.�

�Please! Don�t!� the kid begged.

�We don�t have to do that, do we?� Bass asked, still not catching on to Erie�s Bad Cop routine.

Erie tried to look thoughtful for a moment. �I don�t know.� He turned to face Andrew. �Maybe we could make some kind of deal.�

The kid took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped his eyes. �What do I have to do?�

�How old are you, Captain Duroy?�

Duroy started to reply, then cranked the wheel hard left to dodge a motorbike. Chungshan Road was teeming with taxis, trucks, and minivans, all driven by kamikaze pilots. �I turned twenty-nine last month, ma�am. And yourself?�

Isobel snorted. �Let�s just say I�m old enough to remember when traffic in this town was mostly bikes and buffaloes. Taipei�s grown up. It could pass for Hong Kong or Tokyo now. A pity. It was nicer before. What do you normally do at the legation, captain?�

�Liaison officer, ma�am. Sort of. Since the U.S. doesn�t officially recognize Taiwan�s government, we can�t offer direct military aid. I help the Taiwanese army buy supplies, spare parts, ammo, that sort of thing. Pretty dull duty. Except that once in a blue moon I get drafted to escort a VIP like yourself.�

�I�m not a VIP, captain, I�m just a working girl, so please stop calling me ma�am. You�re not driving Miss Daisy. My name�s Isobel.�

�Yes, ma � sorry. Yes, Isobel.� Their smiles met in the rear view mirror. Isobel Petrie was a striking woman, tall, slim, late fifties or so, her dark hair stylishly streaked with gray that matched her gray business suit. She must have been a stone knockout once, Duroy thought. But that�s not something you say to a stranger. Or a friend, for that matter.

�If I muff the ma�am thing now and again, cut me some slack, okay? Ma�ams and sirs are kind of a reflex in my family. It�s a Southern thing.�

�Southern as in Mississippi, right? Biloxi area?�

�Close,� Duroy admitted. �Little town called Noxapater. What are you, a psychic?�

�Just an old spook, captain, with an ear for accents. What did your boss tell you about me?�

�Not very much. That you�re a retired CIA officer writing a book about the Vietnam war. I�m supposed to take you where you want to go and help out any way I can.�

�And keep me out of trouble?�

�Actually, my orders are to keep you from starting World War III,� Duroy said dryly. �To tell you the truth, ma�am, I don�t see the problem. Vietnam is ancient history. My father fought there before I was born.�

�What did he tell you about it?�

�Nothing. He came home in a body bag. I don�t suppose you knew him? Sergeant Clayton Duroy, Air Cav, Da Nang?�

�I�m afraid not. It was a big war in a small place. Sorry about your dad.�

�Me too.� He swung left, following the modem four-lane up into the foothills of Yangmingshan, Grass Mountain. Taipei�s massive apartment towers gradually gave way to housing projects, then duplexes, then private homes, and finally, walled estates which grew more grand with each kilometer up the mountain. Even the air became noticeably clearer as the road snaked up and away from the city�s eternal smog.

�Do you speak any Chinese, captain?�

�I can get by in Mandarin, Taiwanese, and some Cantonese. I understand the lingo better than I speak it.�

�It shouldn�t matter. The lady we�re going to meet was educated at the Sorbonne. She probably speaks English better than we do.�

�Good. Sounds like an easy afternoon.�

�Assuming we live through it,� Isobel said.

�Whoa,� Duroy said, glancing in the mirror. �You�re kidding, right?�

�I don�t know. What do you know about Madame Liang?�

�Only that she�s some general�s widow. With heavy political connections. I�m supposed to treat her very politely and make sure you do, too. Who is she?�

�Nobody now. Like me. But she was somebody once, or rather her husband was. Generalissimo Liang Xian, an honest-to-God Chinese warlord, boss of a hundred and fifty thousand renegade Nationalist troops. Liang controlled a big piece of the Golden Triangle for more than twenty years. Ruled it like a king.�

�What happened to him?�

�Assassinated. Shot on a balcony in Hue, South Vietnam, May of �67. On the day he was supposed to announce he was coming over to our side. His death changed the course of the war.�

�Really?� Duroy said doubtfully. �One man?�

�General Liang was special, a Chinese JFK Or maybe Napoleon. A charmer, good speaker, a tough soldier who could con you out of your back teeth. Practically invented the Chinese deal.�

�What deal?�

�Chinese. Maybe they call it something else now. It�s... a bit complicated to explain. Do you play poker, captain?�

�Sure, sometimes.�

�Okay, in poker an American will try to win every hand. A Chinese like Liang may lose twenty hands in a row, but he�ll keep playing until everybody else gets bored and gives up. They walk away thinking they�ve won. But in the end he�s still there, and he�s got all the cards. If Liang had been around to negotiate peace with the Reds...� She shook her head. �Well, it doesn�t matter now. Getting him on our side could have been the biggest coup of the war. Instead, somebody whacked him on a balcony in front of ten thousand witnesses. And got away clean.�

�That kind of sums up that time, doesn�t it?� Duroy mused. �Another dreamer bites the dust. Like JFK or Martin Luther King?�

�Same ending, maybe,� Isobel said, with a faint smile. �I doubt very much that General Liang�s dreams were anything at all like Reverend King�s.�

It is one of the very few bitter disappointments in my otherwise agreeable life that I can�t whistle. Not a tweet. I�ve tried putting my lips together, but they just won�t blow. And I�ve always wanted to whistle. I�m an idly-whistle-a-tune kind of person. I can see myself whistling as I stroll down some mossy lane, or whistling to keep myself company in the lonesome hours, or just whistling as I go about my business day. But I can�t and so I don�t. My sister Bitsy, on the other hand, can.

Those of you who know us are probably now imagining the unkind remarks and acrid rejoinders that fly between us on the subject. Remarking and rejoindering are two things we both can and often do. Hard as it may be to believe, though, not a single cross word has ever been exchanged. Really. Of course that�s only because Bitsy doesn�t, or at least didn�t, know of my bitter affliction. And she never would have known if Rodney hadn�t stolen the dog. Or for that matter, if she hadn�t then foisted the hot dog off on me.

But she�s wrong about why I�ve been avoiding her since then. Being a receiver of stolen goods didn�t particularly bother me. And the citation for disturbing the peace was, while annoying and slightly embarrassing, hardly something to keep me down for long. After all, these things happen, and I�m mature enough to accept that and move on. No, what I�ve been trying to avoid is the inevitable and immature scene well have the first time she makes use of her newfound knowledge. Which she will do.

�Rodney called me yesterday,� my sometimes-dear-one Gene said over a cup of coffee one morning at my sun-dappled kitchen table.

�He called you what?�

�Well, I thought he called me a dog, but it turns out he was asking me if I wanted a dog.�

�That�s not really up to you, is it? Old Geezer should have some say in the matter.� Old Geezer is my former feline housemate, who has been rooming with Gene since an unfortunate incident involving several of Bitsy�s goldfish. They�re now two disreputable, though decidedly charming, bachelors in one pad.

�I told Rodney three would be a crowd.�

�Mm. Oh, hey, speaking of a crowd, do you want to go to the opening at the museum Sunday? It�s for the watercolors on loan from the National Gallery. They�ve got the exhibit for two months, but Jill is anxious about the opening.�

He looked stricken, as though I�d just scheduled him for a double root canal.

�What�s wrong? You like water-colors. You like openings. Jill needs warm bodies.�

�I love all three, dammit! I have to fly to Chicago tomorrow, and I won�t be back until Monday. That�s why I came over.�

�To say goodbye to my warm body?� That sidetracked him for awhile until I distracted him by pouring him another cup of coffee.

�Will you feed Geezer while I�m gone?� he asked.

�Sure.�

�I�m really sorry about the opening. You could take Geezer and pass him off as me.�

�I�d get tired of explaining why you were slinking off into corners and hacking up hairballs. No, I�ll go by myself but when you get back, we can go over together and have a good goggle at the pictures.� We left it at that and he spent a few more minutes enjoying one of the three things he said he loves before heading for his office.

I got myself another cup of coffee and buzzed around opening the bookstore for the day. I was interviewing someone that morning, hoping to find a good part-time bookseller. I only have two or three people working for me at any time and they tend to stick around, so I don�t do this very often. It�s always a bit of an adventure.

Over the past ten years I�ve kept a list of the questions that seem to work in an interview and those that don�t. There are obvious ones like what do you like to read and can you make change? But there�s always something that it never occurs to me to ask. Questions like do you have a short-term memory? Do you have a phobia about paper cuts? Can you spell penguin? The answers to such questions make some difference in how well a person might do as a bookseller.

Mine is a small bookstore, small enough that it and I are able to share my house without getting in each other�s way or on each other�s nerves much. The Internet is helping me compete in the strange new other community that�s out there somewhere. But the heart of my business is still here in this town. It belongs to the little boys who come in looking for Redwall books and the big sister who takes a copy of Charlotte�s Web off the shelf and says in a hushed voice, �I love this book.� There�s nothing like it when a customer says she shops here because we know that Winnie the Pooh wasn�t originally set to music and we�ve heard of Dostoyevsky and we know things like how to pronounce Godot and that Dick Francis isn�t dead.

So I was hoping that Louise, my interviewee, would be on that sort of wavelength. And I hoped we�d have a quiet morning � I really should�ve scheduled the interview for after hours. Louise was due at ten. Bitsy showed up at nine thirty.

�Oh, Bitsy, is that a dog?� Good thing I wasn�t interviewing myself. I sounded like an idiot.

Bitsy didn�t seem to have any breath left to notice my inane question and let the dog pull her over to the counter. The dog then stood on its back legs and rested its elbows next to the cash register as though it expected a beer. It happily panted hello at me.

�Well, he�s a handsome devil, Bitsy. What is he, some kind of hound? Is this what they call a black and tan?� Bitsy looked a little disheveled. I enjoyed that and told the dog he was a good boy. �It is he, isn�t it, Bitsy?�

�Margaret,� Bitsy finally said, panting a bit herself. �Yes, it�s a dog and it�s male. Margaret, you�ve got to help me.�

�Looks to me like you and Rover are doing all right on your own, Bitsy.� She quelled any further flippancy with a practiced eye. �Okay,� I said, restraining myself about as well as she was restraining the dog, �what�s the problem? Other than there�s a dog in my bookstore?�

�First, do you mind if I put him in the back yard? I�m tired of being dragged around.�

I�m no better at asking the right questions in real life than in interviews. The question I should have asked at this point was how long do you plan to leave him in the back yard? I hate it when these things slip by me. Bitsy came back with a coffee mug in her hand and an unhappy look on her face.

�This coffee is cold.�

�It�s also old. What�s up with the dog?�

�I am an absolute wreck!� she exclaimed. And she threw her arms out in a gesture of abandon, I assume so I could get a good look at the wreck she�d become. The effect was lost on me, though, because I was busy grabbing the mug from her before coffee went all over the counter. She gave a pneumatic sigh, sort of collapsed inwardly, and proceeded to tell me that the dog was a stray Rodney had rescued and taken home.

�Do you think men get strange in middle age?� she asked. I opened my mouth and closed it again. It wasn�t worth the aggravation to say what I wanted to. �But Margaret, what it comes right down to is I just cannot keep that dog!�

�Why not?� Here I was being disingenuous. I could tell at first pant that Bitsy and that dog weren�t mixing. But sometimes it�s instructive hearing Bitsy explain these things herself. The times that try her soul are the same that give me brief glimpses into the wonder that is her life.

�Let�s just say that I put up with it when he vaulted over the back of the sofa and landed in my lap, but the last straw was when I went in the kitchen and found myself looking at his kneecaps because he was standing on the kitchen table.�

I took advantage of a sudden compulsion to dust and bent down to retrieve a dust rag from under the counter. And to wipe the smile off my face.

�So take it to the pound,� I said, resurfacing.

�No! I couldn�t! I mean, Margaret, have you looked him in the eye? They can only keep dogs three or four days, and then they have to destroy them! I couldn�t.�

�An ad in the newspaper?�

�He might be a good companion for Leona.� She said this very quickly and very softly.

I�d crossed the room and was redistributing the dust on the shelves in the literature section. I turned back to her now, thinking I hadn�t heard right. Leona is our elderly and increasingly frail cousin. Anything larger than a hamster or faster than a turtle might bowl her over. �Sorry, Bitsy, what did you say?�

�Pets are good for older people, and dogs can be trained to help. You know, you�ve seen it on TV.�

�Are you nuts?� It was an honest question, calmly put. I was genuinely interested. �How do you picture him helping her? Will he boil the water for her tea? Fertilize her African violets? Oh, now there�s a lovely image.�

�Well, then let me leave him here until Rodney finds a home for him.�

�Oh no, Bitsy...� I had a sinking feeling.

�You�ve got a fenced-in back yard. You won�t even have to walk him. Lord knows he can�t hurt anything out there if he digs around a little.�

�Oh no...�

�You like animals. He�ll be a watchdog.�

�Oh...�

�You took in that mangy cat.�

�Cats are different, Bitsy; they can look after themselves.�

�And we all know how capable that fleabag was.� I could only look at her. �You owe me, Margaret.� I pled with my eyes. �Gosh,� she said, ignoring my eloquent baby blues. �Look at the time! I have a hair appointment at ten.�

The door slammed behind her, and I sank completely onto the kick stool at my feet, head in my hands, my joie de vivre dying like a dog.

Looking at the photograph, Wilson Friendly had his doubts. After one glance he thought, piece of junk! And who wouldn�t? It was an electric guitar with such a battered and abused appearance you figured it must have been dragged behind a car for a block.

The accounts manager at the Money Store assured him again of the value.

�I know it doesn�t look like much,� he argued, tapping the photo reverently with his fingernail, �but that guitar is pure vintage. An early Gretsch White Penguin. Only a hundred were made, one of the most sought-after guitars in existence. Highly collectible, and on top of that, this one was once owned by Mint Julep, very big in the retro scene at one time.�

�But not any more?�

�Well, bands come and go, you know how it is. Today�s hit is tomorrow�s beer commercial. What you have to consider here is the instrument�s value to collectors. And that is considerable!�

�What�s your guess in dollars?�

�I should say fifteen thousand at least.�

Friendly�s own information pegged the instrument at twenty, so he bought the bad debt for eight thousand dollars and walked out of the manager�s office with a piece of paper and a photograph in his hand.

A now defunct exam taken by eleven-year-olds in English schools to �select� the rest of their education. �Academic� children went to grammar schools: the others went to secondary modern or technical schools.

The original �Holiday Camp.�

One of the Moors Murderers. Still in prison at time of writing.