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woods or else down to the basement where he could be alone. Down in
the basement, he'd sit in the semidark and think about the past. His
mind whirred like a movie projector as he relived long-ago times with
his brothers and mother and father. Mostly his father. Good of' Pop,
with his adrenaline-loaded sweat and his stinky boozy breath, cleaning
his service revolver at the kitchen table. "You ready?" he'd ask.
Nalen wouldn't blink as Sheldon Storrow slid a single bullet into the
chamber, spun it and held the gun to his son's temple.
    "You ready?"
    Nalen would squirm like a pinned insect as Pop waited an eternal,
gut-churning beat, Nalen's eyes swelling shut, his brain collapsing in
fear ... and then click. That particular flavor of hell. He'd piss
his pants and get a lungful of cheap-bee rand-good jukebox breath, and
Pop would lean back laughing. "What'd I tell ya, son? You were born
with a horseshoe up your ass."
    Now Nalen took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Faye," he said, coming up
for air. "I don't mean to shut you out."
    Her face crimped, and she stroked his cheek with her curled index
finger. "I hate him for what he did to you."
    "Pop? He had a rough life."
    "Achh. See that?" She glowered. "Always leaping to his defense. This
man who beat his wife and kids. And we're still suffering the
aftereffects, me and the children. I'm glad the bastard's dead."
    "You don't mean that."
    "Yes, I do."
    Something inside the house creaked, and he bolted upright, reaching for
his service revolver and listening for the sound of footsteps or the
creak of a door--but there was only silence. It was okay. They were
safe. For now.
    She was lying there, watching him, disgust stamped on her lace. "You
always expect the worst."

    "No, I don't."
    "It's like we're all biding our time until the sky comes crashing down
around our heads."
    He tried to laugh it off, but secretly he knew she was right. He was a
pessimist's pessimist. He tucked his revolver back in the drawer of
the bedside table and settled down beside her. Her breath smelled
sweet-and-sour and her eyes glinted with Faye's own patented brand of
fury. "I don't always live my life that way."
    Her voice was small. "You need counseling."
    "We're not having this discussion."
    "Why can't you just acknowledge something's seriously wrong, Nalen?"
Her rage flared. "We do not have the perfect marriage, you are not the
perfect father, our children are suffering ..."
    "What time did Billy get home last night?" he asked, stopping her in
mid-sentence. She looked at him with wary eyes.
    "About six-thirty. Why?"
    "Six-thirty?"
    She sharpened her focus. "Why?"
    "Did he go out later on?"
    "He drove over to Gillian's around eight. Why?"
    "When did he get back from Gillian's?"
    "Where are you going with this, Nalen?"
    "Nowhere. Just curious."
    She stared at him. "He went out at eight o'clock and came back at
ten-thirty, just like I asked him to."
    Nalen chewed on his lower lip.
    "What's so important?"
    "I didn't say it was."
    "Is Billy in trouble?" He wouldn't answer, and she grabbed his ears
and twisted. "Tell me."
    "Ow." His face grew hot. His ears stung, and he pried her hands off
him. "It's probably nothing."
    "Probably?"

    His blood was thrumming through his veins and he was reminded of
long-ago days early in their marriage when their lovemaking had been
full of passion, passion verging on violence-not truly, not really--but
something close to wrestling and a heated exchange of words, a torrent
of emotions, the pivotal one being jealousy. Crazy jealousy. He
remembered once inside their little apartment, the neighbors had called
the cops and they'd had to explain that, no, Officer--sheepish and half
naked--no, they'd just been dancing. And giggled about it later. And
jokes down at the precinct.
    And once Faye had been so furious, so raging lunatic jealous, she'd
locked herself in the bathroom and threatened to slit her wrists. He'd
been talking to another woman