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        “He didn't die here,” the bald man said. “I picked him up earlier, out on the state highway. He was hitchhiking.”
        I had never voiced my troubling perception of Sandy Kirk to anyone: not to my parents, not to Bobby Halloway, not to Sasha, not even to Orson. So many thoughtless people have made unkind assumptions about me, based on my appearance and my affinity for the night, that I am reluctant to don the club of cruelty and speak ill of anyone without ample reason.
        Sandy 's father, Frank, had been a fine and well-liked man, and Sandy had never done anything to indicate that he was less admirable than his dad. Until now.
        To the man with the gurney, Sandy said, “I'm taking a big risk.”
        “You're untouchable.”
        “I wonder.”
        “Wonder on your own time,” said the bald man, and he rolled the gurney over Sandy 's blocking foot.
        Sandy cursed and scuttled out of the way, and the man with the gurney came directly toward me. The wheels squeaked-as had the wheels of the gurney on which they had taken away my father.
        Still crouching, I slipped around the back of the hearse, between it and the white Ford van. A quick glance revealed that no company or institution name adorned the side of the van.
        The squeaking gurney was rapidly drawing nearer.
        Instinctively, I knew I was in considerable jeopardy. I had caught them in some scheme that I didn't understand but that clearly involved illegalities. They would especially want to keep it secret from me, of all people.
        I dropped facedown on the floor and slid under the hearse, out of sight and also out of the fluorescent glare, into shadows as cool and smooth as silk. My hiding place was barely spacious enough to accommodate me, and when I hunched my back, it pressed against the drive train.
        I was facing the rear of the vehicle. I watched the gurney roll past the hearse and continue to the van.
        When I turned my head to the right, I saw the threshold of the cold-holding chamber only eight feet beyond the Cadillac. I had an even closer view of Sandy 's highly polished black shoes and the cuffs of his navy-blue suit pants as he stood looking after the bald man with the gurney.
        Behind Sandy, against the wall, was my father's small suitcase. There had been nowhere nearby to conceal It, and if I had kept it with me, I wouldn't have been able to move quickly enough or slip noiselessly under the hearse.
        Apparently no one had noticed the suitcase yet. Maybe they would continue to overlook it.
        The two orderlies - whom I could identify by their white shoes and white pants - rolled a second gurney out of the holding room. The wheels on this one did not squeak.
        The first gurney, pushed by the bald man, reached the back of the white van. I heard him open the rear cargo doors on that vehicle.
        One of the orderlies said to the other, “I better get upstairs before someone starts wondering what's taking me so long.” He walked away, toward the far end of the garage.
        The collapsible legs on the first gurney folded up with a hard clatter as the bald man shoved it into the back of his van.
        Sandy opened the rear door on the hearse as the remaining orderly arrived with the second gurney. On this one, evidently, was another opaque vinyl bag containing the body of the nameless vagrant.
        A sense of unreality overcame me - that I should find myself in these strange circumstances. I could almost believe that I had somehow fallen into a dream without first falling into sleep.
        The cargo-hold doors on the van slammed shut. Turning my head to the left, I watched the bald man's shoes as he approached the driver's door.
        The orderly would wait here to close the big roll-up after the two vehicles departed. If I stayed under the hearse, I would be discovered when Sandy drove away.
        I didn't know