'Do you ever have the feeling people are following you?' Drummond whispered to Charlie.

Charlie had learned from Helen that paranoia was to Alzheimer's what sniffles were to a cold. 'When I'm getting on the bus,' he said.

Seeming to have forgotten all about the man, Drummond turned and resumed his course to the park. 'Ah, a sycamore maple!' he said, pointing at the branches spilling over the gate.

In summertime, when attendance peaked and with the musicians, jugglers, and balloon sellers in full force, entering Prospect Park at the Flatbush and Empire gate was like walking into a parade. Now, as Charlie bought a pair of hot dogs and he and Drummond settled onto a bench to eat them, the crowd was limited to the lonesome vendor, a homeless man perched on a wall blowing into fingerless gloves, and a trio of construction workers quietly sipping cans of beer wrapped in paper bags.

A young father and a beaming little boy pa.s.sed, hand in hand, probably on their way to the playground or the zoo or the carousel. Charlie was reminded how badly he'd wanted to go to those places as a kid. Drummond took him only to the historic house, where the b.u.t.ter-churning demonstration was as fun as it got.

Charlie tasted the same bitter regret now, which made broaching the topic of inst.i.tutionalizing his father no harder than asking him to pa.s.s the ketchup.

'Dad, I think you'd do well to live somewhere with people to look out for you.'

Drummond happily tore open his third ketchup packet. 'Why is that?'

'You remember the business with the Meals on Wheels van, right?'

Drummond was focused on squeezing the ketchup onto his hot dog. Charlie felt like he was talking over a lousy long distance connection.

'Meals on Wheels, Dad?'

'Right, right. I suppose that in another culture, I'd be shoved out to sea on an ice floe about now, correct?'

Charlie hadn't antic.i.p.ated nearly as much awareness. He hurried to unpocket the doc.u.ment. 'Signing this gives me your power of attorney.'

'That's reasonable, I suppose. What do you have in mind for me?'

'Helen recommended a few a.s.sisted-living residences.'

'Eh. Those places are just waiting rooms for the cemetery.'

'I'm not so sure about that.' Charlie opened the manila envelope Helen had given him. 'I personally would be delighted to move into any of these.' He pa.s.sed four brochures to Drummond, who grudgingly accepted.

They could have been mistaken for glossy advertis.e.m.e.nts for resorts, and the names would have done little to correct the misimpression*the Greens at Four Oaks, Mountain View Lodge, the Orchard, Holiday Ranch. Each brochure brimmed with striking, full-color photo graphs of ascendant suns igniting dewy fairways, hiking trails through forests at the blazing peak of New England autumn, and lakes that outshone most gems. Only Holiday Ranch hinted on the cover that it was a senior citizens facility, billing itself as 'An Active Retirement Residence!'

'According to Helen, Holiday Ranch is incredible across the board,' Charlie said. 'But the really incredible part is they've just had an opening, which hardly ever*'

'What I want is to go to Switzerland,' Drummond cut in. He pushed the brochures away as if they were junk mail.

'Switzerland?' Helen had said that Drummond initially thought he was in Geneva. As far as Charlie knew, Drummond had never been to Europe. Also Charlie couldn't recall him ever mentioning Switzerland, save a purportedly interesting piece of information about cheese. 'What is it with you and Switzerland?' Helen had said that Drummond initially thought he was in Geneva. As far as Charlie knew, Drummond had never been to Europe. Also Charlie couldn't recall him ever mentioning Switzerland, save a purportedly interesting piece of information about cheese. 'What is it with you and Switzerland?'

'I don't know anything about it.'

'For one thing, you just said you wanted to go there.'

'Oh, that, yes. The facility I had in mind is in Geneva.'

'That sounds great, but I have a feeling your financial picture doesn't include Geneva. Other than the one upstate.'

'I can afford to go wherever I want,' Drummond said with uncharacteristic defiance.

Helen had warned of delusions. 'My guess is we're going to need to wring every cent we can out of Medicare to swing any of these places,' Charlie said, 'and that's before the shuffleboard fees. And a.s.suming that Perriman Appliances has a decent pension plan. And And that you get top dollar for your house.' that you get top dollar for your house.'

Drummond dismissed the notion with a flick of his hand. 'I have nearly eight million dollars in my retirement account.'

'Oh, really? I didn't see a picture of you in the Daily News Daily News holding up one of those giant checks from the lotto.' holding up one of those giant checks from the lotto.'

'Give me the power of attorney doc.u.ment.'

Charlie happily handed it over, along with a pen, and flipped to the signature page. Drummond bypa.s.sed the signature line and began sketching, in the white s.p.a.ce beneath it, what looked like a washing machine*which might cause the official responsible for approving durable power of attorney doc.u.ments to question whether the signatory had been of sound mind.

'I think they're looking for a signature on that, actually,' Charlie said, laboring to maintain his facade of cheerfulness.

'I need to show you something first,' Drummond said.

He set the doc.u.ment on the bench and stuffed the remainder of his hot dog into his mouth, freeing up the foil wrapper. He smoothed the wrapper over a thigh, flipped it to the white, papery side, and began to draw again.

Another washing machine. This time, where the clothing would go, he added zigzags, squares, and circles.

'It's one of your machines,' Charlie said. 'I get it, I get it.'

'You do?'

'Sure, you made eight million bucks selling washing machines.'

'How on earth did you know?'

'You told me, like, a minute ago.'

'Oh.'

Drummond looked down at his picture without recognition. Charlie could practically see the fog rolling back into his mind.

'It's getting awfully warm,' Drummond said with a shiver.

'Sign the thing, I'll get you a nice cold soda.'

Drummond took up the doc.u.ment and wrought the firm signature Charlie remembered, the letters in perfect alignment, like a ship's masts. As soon as they left, the homeless man descended from his wall. He dipped a grimy sleeve into the garbage pail by the bench where Drummond Clark and his son had been sitting.

The construction workers swapped smirks. Probably they thought he was searching for redeemables. Were they to have looked closer, they would have seen him bypa.s.s several shiny c.o.ke cans in favor of two balled-up hot dog wrappers. A closer look still would have revealed him to be remarkably fit. Even at that proximity, though, his own mother probably wouldn't have recognized Pitman.

A glance at the inside of Drummond's wrapper was all he needed. In sketching the Device, even in this crude fashion, Drummond had effectively drawn his own death warrant, and possibly his son's.

Pitman pushed a frayed lapel to his lips. Into a microphone concealed by a dirt-caked b.u.t.ton, he said, 'I'm afraid our roof is leaking.'

9.

Charlie and Drummond crossed busy Bedford Avenue to Prospect Place, where Drummond lived. In the dwindling sunlight, the stucco homes looked like they were built of muck. This, Charlie thought, was the Brooklyn that Manhattanites had in mind when they wrote off the whole borough as depressing. Drummond's melodyless humming was a fitting sound track. Drummond crossed busy Bedford Avenue to Prospect Place, where Drummond lived. In the dwindling sunlight, the stucco homes looked like they were built of muck. This, Charlie thought, was the Brooklyn that Manhattanites had in mind when they wrote off the whole borough as depressing. Drummond's melodyless humming was a fitting sound track.

'We still have a few minutes before the bank closes,' Charlie said, thinking of Grudzev. 'I wouldn't mind getting them to cut a check for the Holiday Ranch deposit.'

Drummond halted abruptly in the middle of the crosswalk.

'As a backup, just in case Geneva doesn't pan out,' Charlie quickly added.

Drummond stared down Prospect Place. Any second the light on Bedford would turn, releasing a stampede of cars and trucks.

He was fixated, Charlie realized, on the gas company man lumbering out of a house halfway down the block. The distance and shadows made it impossible to tell whether it was Drummond's house or a neighbor's.

'What's the gas man doing here?' Drummond said.

'Something to do with gas?'

'They're never here this late.'

Drummond leaped onto the sidewalk and ran toward the gas man.

More paranoia, Charlie thought. He ran too, for fear that Drummond would keep going and wind up in Cleveland.

The gas man shot a look up the block at Drummond, and at once turned and strode in the opposite direction.

'Wait!' Drummond shouted.

The gas man didn't look back. Either he hadn't heard, or, Charlie supposed, he'd had his fill of addled seniors haranguing him about soaring utility rates. He disappeared around the far corner onto Nostrand Avenue.

Charlie reached Nostrand just after Drummond. Of the two, oddly, only Charlie was panting. 'I guess you forgot sixty-four-year-olds can't run like that,' he said.

Drummond didn't reply, instead taking to prowling the block like a bloodhound. This part of Nostrand was solely residential. There was no vehicular traffic now and just a half-dozen pedestrians, none of whom wore the gas company's distinctive baggy white coverall. Drummond peered into shadowy doorways, the gaps between parked cars, even behind cl.u.s.ters of trash cans.

'He probably just went inside one of the buildings,' Charlie said, hoping that would be the end of it.

'It's easy to find a parking s.p.a.ce around here,' Drummond said.

Charlie took it as a non sequitur. 'So?'

'It's strange that he had no truck.'

It was a decent insight, Charlie thought, particularly given Drummond's condition. The gas men drove everywhere, and if they couldn't find a spot within a short waddle of their appointment, they double-parked. If somebody gets blocked in for a couple minutes, their pragmatism dictated, them's the breaks. Yet there had been no gas company truck parked on Prospect Place, and there was no truck parked here or driving off.

'Still, there's a ton of good reasons he wouldn't have his truck,' Charlie said. 'Like, at his last stop, it got blocked by the phone company truck.'

'What got blocked by the phone company truck?'

'The gas man's truck.'

'Oh,' Drummond said. 'I hope we'll have as nice a day tomorrow.' He turned and strolled back toward his block.

When Drummond had first come charging onto Nostrand, the gas man*really, Dewart*was on the sidewalk, just fifty feet away, one of the six pedestrians. On rounding the corner, he'd whipped off his coverall and slung it into a trash can. Underneath he had on a black running suit that fit snugly over his slender frame. The tight knit cap, which he yanked from a pocket, compressed his thick hair, transforming the shape of his head dramatically, and even more so when seen from behind*Drummond and Charlie's vantage point. His intent was to appear to them, and to anyone else, as no lumbering gas man but, rather, as a trim yuppie en route to a jogging path in Prospect Park.

In fact he had visited Drummond's house on matters pertaining to gas. Before leaving, he lowered the thermostat to fifty-six. He figured Drummond would raise it when he returned home, at which point, on the opposite side of the readout panel, the thermometer coil and the mercury switch would rotate, sending current through the mercury and energizing the relay to the furnace two stories below. The burner would light a small amount of fuel, generating hot gas to warm the air in the house. The burner would also light the wick that was held in place, as of a short while earlier, by a nylon sleeve the size of a cigarette. The wick would set fire to a great deal of additional gas. Upon inspection, the resulting explosion would pa.s.s for a leak resulting from ordinary wear and tear. As the saying goes: Anybody can kill someone; it takes a professional to make someone die an ordinary death.

10.

The house smelled to Charlie of his childhood: industrial-strength cleanser. As ever, the place had all the warmth of a chain hotel*no framed photographs, no bowling trophies, none of the knickknacks usually found in a home. The closest the old man ever came to decorating was shelving books in alphabetical order by author. smelled to Charlie of his childhood: industrial-strength cleanser. As ever, the place had all the warmth of a chain hotel*no framed photographs, no bowling trophies, none of the knickknacks usually found in a home. The closest the old man ever came to decorating was shelving books in alphabetical order by author.

The only thing new was unopened correspondence, stacks of it, all around. After Drummond went to bed, Charlie nosed through it. He found numerous memos from Perriman Appliances, where Drummond had been placed on long-term disability leave. Charlie also found three unpaid utility bills. Adding them to his sudden awareness that the house was freezing, he figured he'd solved the mystery of the gas man: The guy had been here to cut the old man off.

Charlie climbed upstairs. Tiptoeing past Drummond's bedroom and to the end of the narrow corridor, he checked the thermostat.

Fifty-six.

So much for the gas man theory. On this cold night, Drummond must have lowered lowered the heat. Charlie cranked the thermostat to seventy-five. the heat. Charlie cranked the thermostat to seventy-five.

On the way back to the stairs, he paused at the doorway to his old room. The only remaining mementos of youth were the scale miniatures his father used to bring back from sales trips to D.C. Dust made it appear snow had fallen on the Lincoln and Jefferson memorials. Charlie again felt the chagrin of the birthday when he tore off the gift wrap, hoping for a PlayStation joystick, and found a Washington Monument.

His recollection was cut short by a gunshotlike crack that rippled into the night, leaving the mirrors and windows upstairs abuzz abuzz. He froze, until hearing the creak of floorboards in Drummond's bedroom.

Drummond had gotten out of bed in response to the cold, Charlie pieced together, then heaved open his bulky, spring-loaded window, which sounded like a gunshot.

Charlie stepped into Drummond's bedroom. In robe, pajamas, and slippers, Drummond stood at the wide-open window, gazing at the dark patch of a backyard a story below. Charlie joined him. There was nothing to see but the swing set Charlie's mother had given him, now just three rusty legs and a rusty crossbar.

Charlie said, 'It'd probably be best to shut*'

The blast, which must have been heard for miles, made it feel as if the house jumped its foundation. Cupboards banged open. Doors jumped off their hinges. Drawers flew. Gla.s.s shattered.

A ma.s.s of bluish-red flame surged up the stairs, through the door, directly at Charlie. He was burning hot before it was upon him. He thought he would be incinerated.

Drummond dove, wrapping his arms around him and propelling them both out the window.

11.