"Just don't say it."

"I'm not a guy who says things he doesn't mean."

"I know."

"And I'm not saying it before I'm sure."

She wouldn't look at him.

He said, "I'm sure, Rebecca. I love you."

"I asked you not to say that."

"I'm not asking to hear it from you."

She bit her lip.

"I'm not asking for a commitment," he said.

"Jack-"

"Just say you don't hate me."

"Will you stop-"

"Can't you please just say you don't hate me?"

She sighed. "I don't hate you."

He grinned. "Just say you don't loathe me too much."

"I don't loathe you too much."

"Just say you like me a little bit."

"I like you a little bit."

"Maybe more than a little bit."

"Maybe more than a little bit."

"All right. I can live with that for now."

"Good."

"Meanwhile, I I love love you you."

"d.a.m.nit, Jack!"

She pulled away from him.

She drew the sheet over herself, all the way up to her chin.

"Don't be cold with me, Rebecca."

"I'm not being cold."

"Don't treat me like you treated me all day today."

She met his eyes.

He said, "I thought you were sorry last night ever happened."

She shook her head: no.

"It hurt me, the way you were, today," he said. "I thought you were disgusted with me, with yourself, for what we'd done."

"No. Never."

"I know that now, but here you are drawing away again, keeping me at arm's length. What's wrong? wrong?"

She chewed on her thumb. Like a little girl.

"Rebecca?"

"I don't know how to say it. I don't know how to explain. I've never had to put it into words for anyone before."

"I'm a good listener."

"I need a little time to think."

"So take your time."

"Just a little time. A few minutes."

"Take all the time you want."

She stared at the ceiling, thinking.

He got under the sheet with her and pulled the blanket over both of them.

They lay in silence for a while.

Outside, the wind sang a two-note serenade.

She said, "My father died when I was six."

"I'm sorry. That's terrible. You never really had a chance to know him, then."

"True. And yet, odd as it seems, I still sometimes miss him so bad, you know, even after all these years-even a father I never really knew and can hardly remember. I miss him, anyway."

Jack thought of his own little Davey, not even quite six when his mother had died.

He squeezed Rebecca's hand gently.

She said, "But my father dying when I was six-in a way, that's not the worst of it. The worst of it is that I saw him die. I was there when it happened."

"G.o.d. How* how did it happen?"

"Well* he and Mama owned a sandwich shop. A small place. Four little tables. Mostly take-out business. Sandwiches, potato salad, macaroni salad, a few desserts. It's hard to make a go of it in that business unless you have two things, right at the start: enough start-up capital to see you through a couple of lean years at the beginning, and a good location with lots of foot traffic pa.s.sing by or office workers in the neighborhood. But my folks were poor. They had very little capital. They couldn't pay the high rent in a good location, so they started in a bad one and kept moving whenever they could afford to, three times in three years, each time to a slightly better spot. They worked hard, so hard* My father held down another job, too, janitorial work, late at night, after the shop closed, until just before dawn. Then he'd come home, sleep four or five hours, and go open the shop for the lunch trade. Mama cooked a lot of the food that was served, and she worked behind the counter, too, but she also did some house cleaning for other people, to bring in a few extra dollars. Finally, the shop began to pay off. My dad was able to drop his janitorial job, and Mama gave up the house cleaning. In fact, business started getting so good that they were looking for their first employee; they couldn't handle the shop all by themselves any more. The future looked bright. And then* one afternoon* during the slack time between the lunch and dinner crowds, when Mama was out on an errand and I was alone in the shop with my father* this guy came in* with a gun*"

"Oh, s.h.i.t," Jack said. He knew the rest of it. He'd seen it all before, many times. Dead storekeepers, sprawled in pools of their own blood, beside their emptied cash registers.

"There was something strange about this creep," Rebecca said. "Even though I was only six years old, I could tell there was something wrong wrong with him the moment he came in, and I went to the kitchen and peeked out at him through the curtain. He was fidgety* pale* funny around the eyes*" with him the moment he came in, and I went to the kitchen and peeked out at him through the curtain. He was fidgety* pale* funny around the eyes*"

"A junkie?"

"That's the way it turned out, yeah. If I close my eyes now, I can still see his pale face, the way his mouth twitched. The awful thing is* I can see it clearer than I can see my own father's face. Those terrible eyes."

She shuddered.

Jack said, "You don't have to go on."

"Yes. I do. I have to tell you. So you'll understand why* why I am like I am about certain things."

"Okay. If you're sure-"

"I'm sure."

"Then* did your father refuse to hand over the money to this son of a b.i.t.c.h-or what?"

"No. Dad gave him the money. All of it."

"He offered no resistance at all?"

"None."

"But cooperation didn't save him."

"No. This junkie had a bad itch, a real bad need. The need was like something nasty crawling around in his head, I guess, and it made him irritable, mean, crazy-mad at the world. You know how they get. So I think maybe he wanted to kill somebody even more than he wanted the money. So* he just* pulled the trigger "

Jack put an arm around her, drew her against him.

She said, "Two shots. Then the b.a.s.t.a.r.d ran. Only one of the slugs. .h.i.t my father. But it* hit him* in the face."

"Jesus," Jack said softly, thinking of six-year-old Rebecca in the sandwich shop's kitchen, peering through the parted curtain, watching as her father's face exploded.

"It was a.45," she said.

Jack winced, thinking of the power of the gun.

"Hollow-point bullets," she said.

"Oh, Christ."

"Dad didn't have a chance at point-blank range."

"Don't torture yourself with-"

"Blew his head off," she said.

"Don't think about it any more now," Jack said.

"Brain tissue*"

"Put it out of your mind now."

"* pieces of his skull*"

"It was a long time ago."

"* blood all over the wall."

"Hush now. Hush."

"There's more to tell."

"You don't have to pour it out all at once."

"I want you to understand."

"Take your time. I'll be here. I'll wait. Take your time."

VIII.

In the corrugated metal shed, leaning over the pit, using two pair of ceremonial scissors with malachite handles, Lavelle snipped both ends of the cord simultaneously.

The photographs of Penny and Davey Dawson fell into the hole, vanished in the flickering orange light.

A shrill, unhuman cry came from the depths.

"Kill them," Lavelle said.

IX.

Still in Rebecca's bed.

Still holding each other.