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happen along, Bob. I’ve been watching over you and Laura.” Slipping his pistol into his shoulder holster, the man looked down at Laura. She stared at him wide-eyed. He smiled and whispered, “Guardian angel.”
    Not believing in guardian angels, Bob said, “Watching over us? From where, how long, why?”
    In a voice colored by urgency and by a vague, unplaceable accent that Bob heard for the first time, the stranger said, “Can’t tell you that.” He glanced at the rain-washed windows. “And I can’t afford to be questioned by police. So you’ve got to get this story straight.”
    Bob said, “Where do I know you from?”
    “You don’t know me.”
    “But I’m sure I’ve seen you before.”
    “You haven’t. You don’t need to know. Now for God’s sake, hide that money and leave the register empty; it’ll seem odd if the second man left without what he came for. I’ll take his Buick, abandon it in a few blocks, so you can give the cops a description of it. Give them a description of me, too. It won’t matter.”
    Thunder rumbled outside, but it was low and distant, not like the explosions with which the storm had begun.
    The humid air thickened as the slower-spreading, coppery scent of blood mixed with the stench of urine.
    Queasy, leaning on the counter but still holding Laura at his side, Bob said, “Why can’t I just tell them how you interrupted the robbery, shot the guy, and didn’t want publicity, so you left?”
    Impatient, the stranger raised his voice. “An armed man just happens to stroll by while the robbery’s in progress and decides to be a hero? The cops won’t believe a cockeyed story like that.”
    “That’s what happened—”
    “But they won’t buy it! Listen, they’ll start thinking maybe you shot the junkie. Since you don’t own a gun, at least not according to public record, they’ll wonder if maybe it was an illegal weapon and if you disposed of it after you shot this guy, then cooked up a crazy story about some Lone Ranger type walking in and saving your ass.”
    “I’m a respectable businessman with a good reputation.”
    In the stranger’s eyes a peculiar sadness arose, a haunted look. “Bob, you’re a nice man ... but you’re a little naive sometimes.”
    “What’re you—”
    The stranger held up a hand to silence him. “In a crunch a man’s reputation never counts for as much as it ought to. Most people are good-hearted and willing to give a man the benefit of the doubt, but the poisonous few are eager to see others brought down, ruined.” His voice had fallen to a whisper, and although he continued to look at Bob, he seemed to be seeing other places, other people. “Envy, Bob. Envy eats them alive. If you had money, they’d envy you that. But since you don’t, they envy you for having such a good, bright, loving daughter. They envy you for just being a happy man. They envy you for not envying them. One of the greatest sorrows of human existence is that some people aren’t happy merely to be alive but find their happiness only in the misery of others. ”
    The charge of naivete was one that Bob could not refute, and he knew the stranger spoke the truth. He shivered.
    After a moment of silence, the man’s haunted expression gave way to a look of urgency again. “And when the cops decide you’re lying about the Lone Ranger who saved you, then they’ll begin to wonder if maybe the junkie wasn’t here to rob you at all, if maybe you knew him, had a falling out with him over something, even planned his murder and tried to make it look like a robbery. That’s how cops think, Bob. Even if they can’t pin this on you, they’ll try so hard that they’ll make a mess of your life. Do you want to put Laura through that?”
    “No.”
    “Then do it my way.”
    Bob nodded. “I will. Your way. But who the hell are you?”
    “That doesn’t matter. We don’t have time for it anyway.” He stepped behind the counter and stooped in front of Laura, face to