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wonder about motive in situations like this. Maybe your mind works different.”
    Uh-oh. Was Stine saying something bad about Bernie’s mind? Right there was why you
     always had to keep an eye on him. Didn’t he know that Bernie was always the smartest
     human in the room? How could anyone miss that?
    The biker’s eyes were open. Bernie gazed down into them. The biker’s eyes gazed back
     in a way that bothered me. Wasn’t Bernie or Stine going to reach out and gently close
     the lids? Proper procedure at a time like this, in my opinion; I’d seen it done lots
     of times. But not now. “Haven’t got a clue,” Bernie said. “Car thief surprised in
     the act?”
    “Seems unlikely,” Stine said. “What with this Harley Softail on the scene”—he nodded
     his chin at the wrecked bike now lying in the gutter—“and no one to drive it away.”
    “Mistaken identity?” Bernie said.
    “Can’t rule it out completely,” Stine said. “But just about, in the case of someone
     like you.”
    “Someone like me?”
    “How about I revise that to someone in your profession? Can’thelp making enemies, no matter what a sweetheart you might be inside.”
    At least Stine hadn’t missed that: Bernie was a sweetheart inside. But did we have
     enemies? I myself liked most of the perps and gangbangers we’d come across. And they
     liked us. Take Whispering Hex Voidman, for example, who on his very first day out
     on parole made a point of dropping in with some antler snacks just for me. Those antler
     snacks: a dream come true. And dreams coming true happens a lot in my life! I often
     dream about antler snacks, for example. Maybe you do, too. All of that probably fits
     together in a way that might come to me later. Too bad old Hex had boosted the antlers
     from Petco and ended up back behind bars by dinnertime, but that wasn’t the point.
     The point was, I couldn’t think of any enemies.
    “What might be useful,” Stine was saying, “is if you came up with an enemies list
     and we put our heads together over it.”
    “We could also turn the A/C way up and sit around the fire,” Bernie said. I started
     panting, not sure why.
    “Huh?” Stine said.
    “That’s another thing Nixon liked to do.”
    Stine rose. I listened for the knee crack that often happens when humans rise like
     that, and there it was. Little pleasures are all around. “Don’t start,” Stine said.
    On what? The only Nixon I knew was our mechanic, Nixon Panero, and there was no fireplace
     in his shop.
    Stine walked to one of the cruisers, leaned against it in a tired sort of way, took
     out his phone. Doc Devine came over.
    “What’s with your forehead?” he said.
    “Nothing,” said Bernie.
    “Let’s have a look-see,” Doc said.
    Bernie dabbed the wound with his T-shirt one more time, letDoc have a look-see. I had a look-see, too. Poor Bernie. He had a deep gash on his
     forehead, still seeping blood.
    Doc peered at the gash. “Gonna need stitches.”
    Stitches? I’d had stitches on my head once, back at a time Bernie and I had had a
     dustup with some no-good Russian dudes. Stitches on the head meant wearing one of
     those horrible cones around your neck for days and days. Bernie wasn’t going to like
     that.
    “Okay,” Bernie said. “Let’s do it.”
    “I can’t do it,” Doc said. “You have to go to the ER.”
    “You forgot how to stitch?” Bernie said.
    “You know it’s not that,” Doc said.
    “Then let’s get it done.”
    Doc glanced around, lowered his voice. “It’s illegal.”
    Bernie called over to Captain Stine. “Doc here’s going to stitch me up.”
    “Doc?” said Captain Stine.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “When you’re done I’ve got a couple skin tags you can snip off.”
    “No problem,” said Doc. “Depending where they’re situated.”
    Bernie and Doc went over to the ambulance. Bernie sat on the back bumper. Doc dabbed
     something on his forehead, threaded a needle. “This might smart a