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chair—the one bought along with the van after the fund-raiser run by the police union. He was watching CNN on a television mounted on a bracket hanging from the ceiling in the corner. Another report on the Mideast situation.
    His eyes moved toward me but his face didn’t. A strap crossed above his eyebrows and held his head to the cushion behind it. A network of tubes connected his right arm to a bag of clear fluid that hung from a utility tree attached to the back of his chair. His skin was sallow, he weighed no more than 125 pounds, his collarbones jutted out like shards of broken pottery. His lips were dry and cracked, his hair was an uncombed nest. I had been shocked by his appearance when I’d come by after his call to me. I tried not to show it again.
    “Hey, Law, how are you doing?”
    It was a question I hated to ask but felt I owed it to him to ask.
    “About what you’d expect, Harry.”
    “Yeah.”
    His voice was a harsh whisper, like a college football coach’s who has spent forty years screaming from the sidelines.
    “Listen,” I said. “I’m sorry to come back so soon but there were a few other things.”
    “Did you go see the producer?”
    “Yeah, I started with him yesterday. He gave me twenty minutes.”
    There was a low hissing sound in the room that I had noticed when I came by earlier in the week. I think it was the ventilator, pumping air through the network of clear tubes that ran under Cross’s shirt and out of his collar and up either side of his face before plugging into his nose.
    “Anything?”
    “He gave me some names. Everybody from Eidolon Productions who supposedly knew about the money. I haven’t had a chance to run them down yet.”
    “Did you ever ask him what Eidolon means?”
    “No, I never thought to ask. What is it, like a family name or something?”
    “No, it means phantom. That’s one of the things that’s come back to me. Just sort of popped into my head while I’ve been thinking about the case. I asked him once. He said it came from a poem. Something about a phantom sitting on a throne in the dark. I guess he figures that’s him.”
    “Strange.”
    “Yeah. Hey, Harry, you can turn off the monitor. So we don’t have to bother Danny.”
    He had asked me to do the same thing on the first visit. I moved around his chair to a nearby bureau. On the top of it was a small plastic device with a small green light glowing on its face. It was an audio monitor manufactured for parents to listen in on their sleeping babies. It helped Cross call to his wife when he needed to change the channel or wanted anything else. I switched it off so we could speak privately and came back around to the front of the chair.
    “Good,” Cross said. “Why don’t you close the door now.”
    I did as instructed. I knew what this was leading to.
    “Did you bring me something this time?” Cross said. “Like I asked?”
    “Uh, yeah, I did.”
    “Good. Let’s start with that. Go into the bathroom behind you and see if she left my bottle in there.”
    In the bathroom the counter surrounding the sink was crowded with all manner of medicines and small medical equipment. Sitting on a soap dish was a plastic bottle with an open top. It looked like something normally found on a touring bike but a little different. The neck was wider and it was slightly curved. Probably to make the drinking angle a little more comfortable, I thought. I quickly took the flask out of my jacket and then poured a couple ounces of Bushmills into the bottle. When I took it out to the bedroom Cross’s eyes widened in horror.
    “No, not that! That’s a piss bottle! It goes under the chair.”
    “Ah, shit! Sorry.”
    I turned around and went back to the bathroom, pouring the booze out into the sink just as Cross yelled, “No, don’t!”
    I looked back out at him.
    “I would’ve taken it.”
    “Don’t worry. I’ve got more.”
    After the piss bottle was rinsed and returned to the soap dish I went back out