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don't
care if it is or if it isn't. What I care about is that you lied to me. You sat
there and talked about Joshua Cantrell as if you didn't have the faintest idea
that he was dead. Talked about wanting to find him."
        "I
said nothing about wanting to find him. I said I want to find her. In
fact, I assured you he was not the reason she had stayed out of touch."
        "You
already knew he'd been murdered and didn't bother to tell me that. Like it's
insignificant information, Harrison, that the guy is dead and the woman is the sister of a Youngstown mob figure— How did you get tied up with those guys
in the first place— Last I knew, the requirement was to be Sicilian, not
Shawnee."
        "I
was never tied up with them."
        "Sure."
        "I
shared minimal facts," he said. "That I will admit."
        My
laugh was heavy with disgust. "Shared minimal facts— Shit, that's brilliant.
You should've been an attorney, Harrison, instead of a murderer."
        That
seemed to sting him, and for a moment he looked entirely genuine again. Looked
hurt.
        "Would
you have taken this case," he said, "if you knew all of that
beforehand—"
        "No."
        "See,
that was my reasoning. I didn't think you would, but I knew if I could get you
to go out to the house, to stand there in that spot under the trees and feel
the energy of that place, that things might change. I knew that was possible,
because I knew this one was meant for you, that you'd been—"
         "Shut
up!" I hammered my fist onto the desk between us. "I don't want
to hear any more of it. I'm not going to take the case. We're done."
        I
stood up and walked to the door and opened it for him, just as Child had done
for me an hour earlier.
        "You
saw the house—" he said without turning.
        "Yeah."
        "You
didn't feel anything—"
        "No,
I did not," I said. Was there a tug somewhere along my spine at that— Some
twinge that comes from telling a lie— No, couldn't be.
        "All
right," he said. "I'm sorry you're offended. Sorry you feel
betrayed."
        "I
don't feel betrayed, I feel stupid. I'll give you this heads-up, though: I'm
going to track down whatever police agency is investigating Cantrell's death
and tell them about your request."
        "You
think I was involved—" He still had his head down, and now, standing above
him, I could see another scar, long and ugly, across the back of his skull and
neck.
        "I
don't know," I said, "but you've killed before, and you seem awfully
fascinated with this couple, one of whom happens to be dead. I think the right
cops ought to be told about that."
        "It's
my past that bothers you. That's why you refuse to give me any
credibility."
        "Yeah,
Harrison, that does bother me. Just a touch. Sorry."
        "Let
me ask you one question," he said, keeping his back to me.
        I was
silent.
        "Can
a good man commit a horrible act—" he said.
        I
stood there at the door, looking at his bowed head, and then I said,
"Harrison, get out."
        He
nodded and got to his feet. "Okay, Mr. Perry. Goodbye." It was the
first time he hadn't called me Lincoln.
        I
stood at the door while he went through it, and then I crossed to the window
and looked down as he walked out of the building and into a hard, driving rain.
    ----
        

Chapter Six
        
        A my
was in my apartment when I got home, and she was cooking, some sort of Italian
dish that had filled the rooms with a thick scent of tomatoes and garlic and
made the place feel more welcoming than at any time I could remember.
        "Did
anyone give you permission to touch my valuable implements—" I said,
lifting a cheese grater off the counter. Amy had never cooked a meal in my
apartment before.
        "You
want to be the only one to touch your implements, I can make that happen."
She shifted a pan on the stove and adjusted the