How wonderful, to be read to. To be carried from this world and into another, borne away on words. And Amy’s voice, as she told the story: that was the loveliest part. It flowed through him like a benign electric current. He could have listened to her forever, their bodies close together, his mind in two places simultaneously, both within the world of the story, with its wonderful rain of sensations, and here, with Amy, in the house in which they lived and always had, as if sleep and wakefulness were not adjacent states with firm boundaries but part of a continuum.
At length he realized that the story had stopped. Had he dozed off? Nor was he on the sofa any longer; in some manner, unaware, he had made his way upstairs. The room was dark, the air cold above his face. Amy was sleeping beside him. What was the hour? And what was this feeling he had—the sense that something was not right? He drew the blankets aside and went to the window. A lazy half-moon had risen, partially lighting the landscape. Was that movement, there, at the edge of the garden?
It was a man. He was dressed in a dark suit; gazing upward at the window, he stood with his hands behind his back, in a posture of patient observation. Moonlight slanted across him, sharpening the angles of his face. Peter experienced not alarm but a feeling of recognition, as if he had been waiting for this nighttime visitor. Perhaps a minute passed, Peter watching the man in the yard, the man in the yard watching him. Then, with a courteous tip of his chin, the stranger turned away and walked off into the darkness.
“Peter, what is it?”
He turned from the window. Amy was sitting up in bed.
“There was somebody out there,” he said.
“Somebody? Who?”
“Just a man. He was looking at the house. But he’s gone now.”
Amy said nothing for a moment. Then: “That would be Fanning. I was wondering when he’d show up.”
The name meant nothing to Peter. Did he know a Fanning?
“It’s all right.” She drew the blanket aside for him. “Come back to bed.”
He climbed under the covers; at once, the memory of the man receded into unimportance. The warm pressure of the blankets, and Amy beside him; these were all he needed.
“What do you think he wanted?” Peter asked.
“What does Fanning ever want?” Amy sighed wearily, almost with boredom. “He wants to kill us.”
Peter awoke with a start. He’d heard something. He drew a breath and held it. The sound came again: the creak of a floorboard underfoot.
He rolled, reached his right hand to the floor, and took the weight of the pistol in his grip. The creak had come from the front hallway; it sounded like one person; they were trying to keep quiet; they didn’t know he was awake; surprise was therefore on his side. He rose and crossed the room to the front window; his security detail, two soldiers stationed on the porch, were gone.
He thumbed off the safety. The bedroom door was closed; the hinges, he knew, were loud. The moment the door opened, the intruder would be alerted to his presence.
He pulled the door open and moved at a quickstep down the hall. The kitchen was empty. Without missing a stride, he turned the corner into the living room, extending the pistol.
A man was seated in the old wooden rocker by the fireplace. His face was turned partially away, his eyes focused on the last embers glowing in the grate. He appeared to take no notice of Peter at all.
Peter stepped behind him, leveling the gun. Not a tall man but solidly built, his broad shoulders filling the chair. “Show me your hands.”
“Good. You’re awake.” The man’s voice was calm, almost casual.
“Your hands, damnit.”
“All right, all right.” He held his hands away from his body, fingers spread.
“Get up. Slowly.”
He lifted himself from his chair. Peter tightened the grip on his pistol. “Now face me.”
The man turned around.
Holy shit, thought Peter. Holy, holy shit.
“You think maybe you could stop pointing that thing at me?”
Michael had aged, but of course they all had. The difference was that the Michael he knew—his mental image of the man—had leapt forward two decades in an instant. It was, in a way, like looking in a mirror; the changes you didn’t notice in yourself were laid bare in the face of another.
“What happened to the security detail?”
“Not to worry. Their headaches will be historic, though.”
“The shift changes at two, in case you were wondering.”
Michael looked at his watch. “Ninety minutes. Plenty of time, I’d say.”
“What for?”
“A conversation.”
“What did you do with our oil?”
Michael frowned at the gun. “I mean it, Peter. You’re making me nervous.”
Peter lowered the weapon.
“Speaking of which, I brought you a present.” Michael gestured toward his pack on the floor. “Do you mind—?”
“Oh, please, make yourself at home.”
Michael removed a bottle, wrapped in stained oilcloth. He uncovered it and held it up for Peter to see.
“My latest recipe. Should strip the lining right off your brainpan.”
Peter retrieved a pair of shot glasses from the kitchen. By the time he returned, Michael had moved the rocking chair to the small table in front of the sofa; Peter sat across from him. On the table was a large cardboard folder. Michael cut the wax on the bottle, poured two shots, and raised his glass.
“Compadres,” he said.
The taste exploded into Peter’s sinuses; it was like drinking straight alcohol.