We were both flat on our butts for a moment, cursing, but unlike me Kellin wasn't cradling a hot bowling ball in his intestines. By the time I stumbled to my knees he was on his feet and running.

I wiped the roof sludge out of my eyes and looked back at the door to the stairwell. No Kellin. Just an empty doorway. I heard Lillian's giggles echoing from somewhere down below.

Wait a minute. Feet banging on metal.

I turned. Kellin was just reaching the far side of the catwalk. My body was telling me to stay doubled over, to curl up in the rainwater and take a nap. Instead, I forced myself to get up and follow.

I didn't have Ralph's phobia-not until I stepped onto the catwalk and it started bouncing up and down, creaking under my weight. Below there was nothing but five stories of blackness. The smokestack loomed out of the void, white and huge; its diameter was big enough to house a tennis court. Above me it rose another five stories like some massive antiaircraft gun. Kellin was only a few feet up the ladder now. He seemed to be having trouble with his right ankle.

I made it across. The concrete sides of the smokestack were surprisingly smooth and cold. The ladder rungs were wet. Kellin was breathing hard above me, still cursing. His hand was about two rungs below the bottom of the door.

I didn't know why he wanted back in that room. I just knew if it was more important to him than fighting over Lillian, I couldn't let him get there.

I got his ankle, the right one, as he was pulling himself into the doorway. He kicked back, reflexively, and I twisted, using his own kick to bend the joint. He screamed. It would've been perfect if I hadn't lost my balance.

For an instant I was hanging on only by my left hand, my feet dangling freely over nothing at all. My other hand let go of Kellin, then grabbed for a rung. I scraped against concrete instead. I felt my fingernails rip.

I was watching the Tower of the Americas tilting sideways in the distance, wondering why it was like that. I wondered if that revolving restaurant at the top of the Tower was still open, the place my dad used to go for his birthdays. I was also thinking what an inane final thought that would be. Then my foot found a rung.

Kellin could've kept me out of the doorway easily if he had been there. He wasn't. When I pulled myself into the tiny cement chamber he was limping off to the left, toward a milk crate full of hanging files that was sitting on the floor next to another metal door. On top of the files was a revolver.

The maintenance area wasn't much more than a hallway. It was only about six feet deep, but lengthwise it curved around with the circumference of the smokestack, ending in a metal door ten feet down on either end. The fuse boxes and metal cables along the inner wall were probably once used to light up the "ALAMO CEMENT" signs on the sides of the stacks. There was also some bedding on the floor, an open wicker picnic basket, some clothes scattered about.

Kellin heard me behind him and turned. His uniform was covered with sludge and white dust from the side of the smokestack. His short-cropped hair looked like a Brillo pad that had just been used. And his face, for once, was anything but impassive. I suddenly realized that he was much older than I'd first thought-closer to fifty than thirty. He was pointing the gun at me now.

You can never be faster than a squeeze of the trigger, no matter how fast you can hit or kick. I knew it, he knew it. I wasn't stupid. I smiled and spread my hands, admitting defeat. He smiled back at me.

Then I kicked the .38 out of his hand.

The shot went past my left ear and tore a chuck of concrete out of the wall. The gun landed in the corner.

For a second Kellin looked amazed at how stupid I had been, right before I pulled him forward and flipped him onto the concrete on his back, hard.

I'll give Kellin credit. He got up.

My right hand was starting to get sticky from the blood. The ruined fingertips throbbed so bad I was afraid to look.

"Is the lady of the house in?" I asked Kellin, who was now backing up to the exit.

He wiped the grime off his forehead with the back of his hand, then glanced over at the gun. He smiled at me.

"No offense, man," he said. "But you don't know shit about what's going on here."

"Fill me in."

He shook his head. "I was there," he said, still smiling almost pleasantly. "With that stupid shit Halcomb we set up for the fall. I was driving. Pretty damn funny watching Randall plow that fat fuck into his front lawn. Your face, man-"

He started laughing. Then he went for me, figuring I was disoriented.

I was. Tai chi would've demanded that I use his own force to send him into the wall behind. I didn't. I pushed back-force against force, a totally incorrect approach. Kellin was obviously appalled. At least he looked that way when he went out the door. His hands kept reaching for something, but there wasn't anything there. There was no sound at all until he reached the bottom and even then nothing much-a faint metallic clap like the echo of a snare drum, nothing nearly as loud as my heartbeats.

I sat down on the blankets. I wrapped my bloody hand inside one of Lillian's old T-shirts. I needed to get out of there. Instead I sat and stared out the door.

I must've gotten up and looked around after a while. I remember looking through a few of the files in the milk crate, learning all about the real owners of Sheff Construction.

All I really needed to do was look in the picnic basket. There were a few slices left, wrapped in a linen napkin and smelling wonderful. Obviously fresh baked today. The lady of the house had not been in. But she'd sent some banana bread.

60.

It was a long ride to the West Side in Jess's pickup truck. The engine was bucking resentfully, my hand was bleeding, Ralph was still shaking from acrophobia too badly to drive, and Lillian was sandwiched between us mumbling lines from Dr. Seuss. So far she had not recognized either of us, but she seemed perfectly happy to go for a ride.

After her second complete and flawless recitation of Green Eggs and Ham, Ralph and I looked across at each other.

"Hijo," he swore.

"Yeah," I said.

I tried to force my mind not to think about what I'd learned up there in the Alamo Cement smokestacks. It didn't work. By the time we pulled up in front of the Arguello family home off McCullough, I'd put it all together and I was trying like hell to deny that the pieces fit. But they did.

Mama Arguello was quite possibly the shortest, widest person in the world. She was standing in the doorway, the entire doorway, when we drove up. Her faded plaid dress barely managed to contain her awesome cleavage. Her hair was pinned up in a black wedge; her eyes, like Ralph's, were hidden behind thick prescription glasses. The fact that her hands were covered in flour didn't stop her from grabbing Ralph by the cheeks and dragging his face down to kiss hers.

"Ay," she said, "is my boy in one piece? An amazing thing."

Then she came to hug me. Maybe she remembered me from high school. I'm not sure. I think she would've hugged me anyway. Her neck was bristly and smelled like chocolate. Then she hugged Lillian, who giggled.

Mama Arguello looked at Lillian again, more critically this time.

"Ay," she said, "what kind of drugs are these?"

I showed her the family-sized bottle of valium I'd retrieved from the smokestack.

She scowled, gave it back to me, and asked me to read the label. I did. Finally she announced her remedy: "Raspberry leaf tea."

Then she was gone.

Ralph and I got Lillian to lie down on the plastic-covered couch. She was frowning now, yawning, starting to look around in confusion. I decided to take that as a good sign. I sat and spoke to her for a minute while Ralph used the phone. He had some friends who were extremely interested in retrieving his car for him, especially since it was right next to a beautiful red Mustang that just needed some new tire valve stems. Then I used the phone. I called and asked Larry Drapiewski a favor.

When I came back I stroked Lillian's hair until her eyes closed and she started snoring lightly.

"What do you think, vato?" Ralph asked.

I looked down at Lillian asleep. With her face relaxed, her reddish-blond hair tousled, and her freckles dark, she looked about sixteen years old. And I should know-I remembered her at sixteen. And twenty. And now-Jesus. Half my life I'd either been in love with her or convincing myself that I wasn't. Which made it strange, now.

I kissed her forehead one more time, then asked Ralph: "Will your mom mind taking care of her for tonight?"

Ralph grinned. "She'll have her up and helping with the cleaning in no time, vato. You watch."

"Will you stay with her?"

"You look at yourself in the mirror lately, vato?"

"It's easier if I take it alone from here. And I want Lillian to be with somebody she knows if she comes around."

He didn't like it. "Take a piece, at least."

"Not where I'm going, Ralphas."

He shook his head. "Jesus, man, you're a hardheaded hijo-puta."

That's when Mama Arguello came back in with the tea and smacked Ralph on the arm for bad language. I tried to leave, but Mama Arguello insisted on bandaging my hand first and cleaning my face with a dish towel. She fed me homemade tortillas until my stomach stopped revolting. By the time I got out of her living room it was almost 10 P.M.

"We'll take care of her for you, Mr. Ralph's Friend," Mama insisted. "You don't worry."

Then she went back inside to force-feed Lillian some raspberry leaf tea. Ralph walked me out to the truck.

"Sorry, Ralphas," I said.

He just shrugged. "Eh, man, just means I got to be here when my stepdad gets home. He comes in drunk, I'll try not to kill him in front of Lillian."

"I'd appreciate that."

"Yeah."

I started the engine, which came out of the stall already bucking mad. Ralph shook his head and grinned.

"Some sorry wheels, man. You even know who you're going to see?"

"Yeah. The ghost of a father."

I looked back in the pickup bed, where a milk crate full of old files was rattling around. That's when Ralph's stepdad drove up, parking his Chevy half on the curb.

"Yeah, well," said Ralph, looking over. "If it turns out to be mine, let me know. I kind of miss the old man."

Then he turned away and headed up the steps of the front porch. I think he locked the door behind him.

61.

I almost decided to scrap my plans when I saw the car in the driveway.

Dan Sheff's silver BMW was parked crooked, pulled so close to the house that its nose was buried in the thick pyracantha bushes. Someone hadn't closed the passenger door hard enough to turn off the dash lights. As I got closer I could hear the BMW complaining about the situation with a muffled "eeeee-"

The house's porch light was off. I tried the black iron handle of the front door and found it securely fastened. At the far end of the house, where the study was, one heavily-curtained window glowed orange around the edges. Otherwise no sign of life.

I took the side path around the house, crouching under hackberry branches and trying not to trip on the uneven flagstones. The poodle in the neighbor's yard yapped at me once without much enthusiasm. I jumped a short chain-link gate, then did a little searching on the back porch. The spare key for the kitchen door was still underneath the plaster St. Francis on the third step where it had been ten years before.

Inside, the kitchen smelled faintly of banana bread and fresh-brewed tea. The microwave door was open, giving off just enough light to make the copper baking molds and the olive-green counter tiles glisten.

I walked down the hallway, turned left into the main bedroom, and found what I was looking for with no trouble at all. The gun was in an unlocked nightstand drawer on the right-hand side of the bed. It was loaded too. No points for safety awareness. I continued down the hall toward the voices that were coming from the study.

Five feet from the lighted doorway, I heard one of the people inside say: "You did the right thing, kid."

The voice belonged to Jay Rivas, my best buddy at the SAPD. That made things just about perfect.

The ripped fingernails on my right hand were starting to throb against the bandages. My stomach ached. When I tried to move closer toward the entrance my feet wouldn't cooperate. I found myself staring at family photos on the hallway wall-daguerreotypes of Victorian ancestors, Easter-egg-colored Sears portraits from the sixties and seventies, a recent panorama from a family reunion. There was a time when I'd imagined my wedding pictures hanging here, maybe even pictures of kids, happily accumulating dust and the odors of Thanksgiving dinners over the years.

Looking at that photo collection now, I felt as if I were holding a hammer to it, about to cause a lot of noise and broken glass that wouldn't make me feel a damn bit better.

When I stepped into the doorway, Zeke Cambridge was the first to notice me. He'd apparently had a hard day at the office. His black suit was rumpled, his collar loosened, and his tie twisted with the tag side out. His unshaven whiskers made a dark gray sheen along his jawline. He'd been pacing in front of the baby grand piano at the far end of the room, and had already been looking at the doorway before I appeared, as if he were anxiously waiting for someone. I was not the person he was expecting.

A few feet closer to me, Mrs. Cambridge and Dan Sheff sat on the couch, consoling one another. Dan had his back to me, but Mrs. Cambridge saw me. Her hands slipped off Dan's knee. She stood up. Her bright yellow sundress and Day-Glo plastic earrings seemed absurdly incongruous with her pinned-up gray hair, her pearl necklace, her white liver-spotted shoulders, and her morose, weary face. She looked like she'd been the victim of a failed makeover attempt by a much younger woman.

Surprisingly, Dan looked better than I'd seen him in days. He was freshly showered and dressed-his blond hair gleaming with gel, his khakis creased, his white Ralph Lauren button-down neatly starched and tucked in. Only his miserable expression hadn't changed.

Jay Rivas stood behind Dan. Rivas looked better than I'd seen him in days too, though for Jay that didn't mean much. He was sporting brown double-knit slacks and his usual silver and turquoise belt buckle and a white polyester shirt so thin that his armpit hair and the lines of his undershirt showed through. The real fashion statement for me, though, was the side-holstered 9mm Parabellum, the same kind of gun that had drilled holes in Eddie Moraga's eyes.

The second disk, the one that had been taken from the Hilton over Beau Karnau's dead body, was sitting casually on top of a Country Living magazine on the coffee table, next to an untouched plate of banana bread and a pot of tea. Dan was staring at the CD, but he was so engrossed in his own thoughts I think he would've stared at anything. Nobody else seemed to be paying the disk much attention.

Jay patted Dan Sheff's shoulder roughly and said again: "You did the right thing."

Then Rivas saw me out of the corner of his eye. He registered my face, then the .22 in my unbandaged left hand. His hands stayed where they were, one on Dan's shoulder, one hooked in his belt about an inch away from the handle of the Parabellum Dan was the last to notice me. When he finally looked up he didn't seem very surprised. He spoke as if we were continuing an old conversation.

"I told them about my mother. They had to know."

The Cambridges both looked at me intently, not saying a word. Even Rivas was silent.

Dan glanced at each of them, frowning when he realized he was no longer the center of attention. Everybody else kept looking at me, at the single-shot Sheridan Knockabout I was holding.

"I'm going to set this right." Sheff tried to put some steel into his voice. "I don't care if it is my mother. I-I called Lieutenant Rivas. I've told him everything."

My own voice sounded papery. "Must be a real load off your conscience. I suppose the lieutenant suggested you talk with Lillian's parents. Rivas wanted to be present, of course."

Dan sat up a little straighter. "My mother lied to them about Lillian. She tried to keep the police away. She might have even taken Lillian herself. She lied to me and I can't-I can't just-" He made it that far without taking a breath, saying each sentence with the intense concentration of a toddler trying to stack blocks. Then his composure dissolved. He shut his eyes, his nostrils dilated, and he curled himself inward until his forehead was resting on his knees. He let out a single quivery sound, like he was trying to match his pitch to a tuning fork.