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and found the butt of the revolver sticking out of his shoulder holster, the one he used off duty. The hand came out and he felt lighter, lost.
    â€œI got it,” a second voice said. This one was as rough as the hands, but muted, a gargly purr like a cougar’s.
    â€œPut the lights on,” the first voice said. It sounded happy. “Let me have it, Hinch.”
    Hinch.
    â€œJust a minute, Fure.”
    Fure?
    The lights went up. The first thing Malone saw through the archway was Ellen in the parlor perched like a Sunday school kid on the edge of her mother’s New England rocker. She still had her coat on. Her face was the color of milk with the butterfat skimmed off.
    â€œCan I move my head?” Malone asked.
    â€œLike a good little cop.” The spinny one.
    Malone moved his head and came to life. The two men were wearing masks. If they had meant to kill they would not have cared if he and Ellen saw their faces. He let his breath out.
    The masks were ridiculous. They were fullface and skintight, brown bear faces. The bear face on the little man was too big for him; it was wrinkled up like something unwrapped after a thousand years. The big man’s fitted. The little one was a fashion plate. The big one was strictly motorcycle mugg, a hard case.
    They go to the trouble of wearing masks and then they say each other’s names out loud. Don’t ever take chances with the dumb ones, John said, they either panic like animals or they like it.
    The man called Fure liked it. He was now holding two guns, his own and Malone’s. His was a seven-inch automatic, a foreign handgun. At first Malone thought it was a Mauser. But then he saw that it was a Walther PPK, a gun popular with continental law officers. Must be stolen. There had been nothing European in neither voice.
    That’s the gun they killed Tom Howland with. The gun the little guy killed Howland with. It would have to be the little guy. He digs guns.
    Fure was digging Malone’s gun. The eyes behind the bear mask were crazy with joy. He had the Walther in his left armpit now and he was turning Malone’s revolver over and over in his gloved hands.
    â€œA Colt Trooper, Hinch. Six-shot, .357 Magnum. You ought to feel the balance of this baby. You’re a pal, fuzz. Here.” He handed the Walther to the big man. “Where’s the ammo belt goes with this?”
    â€œI don’t keep it in the house—” Malone stopped. Fure was laughing. He reached into the hall closet and straightened up dangling the ammunition belt. The holster was empty, the bullet holders were full. “Naughty, naughty. Okay, fuzz. Inside with wifie.”
    Malone went into the parlor, his own gun digging into his head.
    â€œNot near her. On that sofa over there.”
    Ellen’s eyes followed him each inch of the way, saying do something, don’t do anything.
    He’s a shrewd bugger for all his dumbness. He figures that together we’re strong, apart we’re helpless. Malone felt the rage rising. He sat down on the sofa.
    â€œEllen. Where’s Bibby?”
    â€œUpstairs with the woman.”
    â€œIs she all right?”
    â€œI don’t know. I think. I found them here when I got home. They won’t even let me see her.”
    The woman. Then there were three of them. Apparently Ed Taylor had not seen the woman. Making it tougher for John and the state boys. They’re looking for just two males.
    â€œYour kid’s okay for now, Malone,” Fure said. He was running his hand over the Colt as if it were alive. “You want her to stay that way you jump up and roll over. Hinch. The bag.”
    Hinch reached behind the sofa and came up with a black bag. He handed it to the fashion plate. It seemed to Malone that he did it very slowly.
    â€œIt’s yours.” The bag landed in Malone’s lap. Fure scraped Ellen’s treasured antique crewel chair over to him, the one with the shaky legs, and