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up enough to quell Doris’s immediate fears of having her house washed down the hill. The lull in the storm came at a time when there had been no recent activity down at Nigel’s house, and so Doris was finally able to return to her story.
    No more than a half-hour later, however, her peaceful gaze was stolen from the words on the pages by a glimmer of light.
    Doris looked up. Above her she had hung an arrangement of sun-catcher crystals which scattered rainbow colors all over in the bright of day, and presently, though faintly, the crystals were refracting blues and reds throughout her porch. She would see such a display so regularly in her day-to-day life that, for an instant— only an instant—she didn’t react.
    And then she jerked her head around, to the window.
    All of the first-responders were already on the scene. There was one set of lights flashing in front of Nigel’s house, and then farther down the hill, on the far side of the bridge, there was a much heavier cluster of the colored strobe-lights.
    “Oh my word,” breathed Doris.
    Her first guess at the situation was reasonable. She envisioned someone, in the horrible driving conditions, hydroplaning off the road either while going to or leaving Nigel’s party. She leaned towards the latter option, as it better allowed for alcohol to be a factor.
    Alcohol was not a factor, however.
    There was, presently, a man standing outside, in the dark, in Doris’s muddy garden. He was soaked in water and blood, his clothes and his skin were sliced into hundreds of neat little shreds, and he was clutching—with a strong sense of worth—a short, bloody knife. This man, his ravaged body convulsing wretchedly, was staring up at the silhouette of Doris. He was smiling.
     
    •   •   •
     
    Walter had talked to the detectives as soon as they had arrived. He’d answered all their questions, and now his obligations that night were supposed to be over.
    Presently, Walter, Nigel, Henry, and Jamie were seriously considering putting on a cartoon before anyone attempted to sleep, out of a blunt effort to soften the mood.
    Jamie had her own apartment, but it wasn’t unusual for her to stay over. Henry had decided to spend the night, too, and had offered to drive Walter to work tomorrow after Walter had insisted that he wouldn’t want to call out in the morning.
    They were weighing the offerings of the various kid-centric cable channels when they heard it. The faded blast of a rifle, or a shotgun.
    Walter was the first to his feet.
    “No one’s gonna be out hunting now ,” he stated the obvious.
    A second gunshot sounded out. Walter scrambled towards the hallway, and then the front door.
    “ Whoa , wait,” Nigel called after him, rising to his feet. He was ignored.
    Walter flung himself through the door, into the wet outdoors.
    Officer Corey was sitting in the front seat of his silently flashing cruiser. He appeared to be talking on his radio.
    Walter had made it halfway to the cruiser when a third blast broke the night. The sound, much louder when undiminished by the walls of Nigel’s house, reverberated all throughout the valley, but not before its initial source had become plain: some distance ahead of and above Walter. There was only one thing in that direction: Doris Hanes’s house.
    Walter looked up into the distance, where, through the rain and the mist, he thought he could see faint rectangles of light in the shape of windows.
    Officer Corey kicked open his door.
    “Did you hear that?” Officer Corey asked severely.
    “Yes. It came from Doris Hanes’s house.”
    Officer Corey gave the exact face of a man trying to place a known name with a known house.
    Walter, not thinking, jogged around the cruiser and opened the front passenger door. “I’ll show you.”
    Officer Corey raised a hand and opened a mouth to protest.
    Still not thinking, Walter talked over him, “Come on. She’s not the kind of lady to fire off her shotgun recreationally in the