He was pointing at a truck and horse trailer at the edge of the parking lot. I'd simply a.s.sumed that it was parked along the edge of the lot, with no other cars behind it. Now I saw, through the windows of the big Ram truck, a slice of the Nova's roof was visible.

"I think that guy's illegally parked," I said. "I don't think he's supposed to have a vehicle this long parked over two s.p.a.ces. Maybe I should cite him." We were headed across the parking lot, toward the trailer.

"You have a citation book with you?" Aidan said skeptically.

"I'm an officer of the law," I said as we circled around the rear of the horse trailer. "Anything I write on will hold up in court. I think."

"You think think?" Aidan said, and snorted with laughter.

"Sure," I said. "Where's your receipt for the groceries? I'll-Jesus!"

I jumped, and a thin brown waterspout of c.o.ke leapt from the can. A dog had sprung up from the bench seat of the pickup truck, barking and snarling, safely behind the closed window, but only inches from our faces.

"Holy s.h.i.t," I said. The Doberman continued to bark at us, its sharp-snouted face mashed up against the saliva-smeared gla.s.s, teeth bared. Then I got a good look at Aidan. He had dropped his bag of groceries and was half bent at the waist, his hands on his thighs as if for support.

"Are you okay?" I said.

"Yeah," he said, nodding, his face pale. "I'm all right." He tried to laugh. "I'm a real tough guy, eh? Scared of a dog locked in a truck."

"It startled me, too," I a.s.sured him.

He bent and picked up the grocery bag, taking a deep steadying breath as he did so. "Let's go," he said.

When we were out on the road, Aidan spoke again. "I've just got a thing about dogs," he said. "Because of my hand."

I nodded. "Do you remember the day you lost your finger?" I asked him, steering us onto the highway. "I mean, really remember it?"

"I have this snapshot image," he said. "I can see my hand with the finger half torn off, and the blood just starting to flow. The dog didn't take it off cleanly. It was semiattached, but I guess it wasn't... what's the word? Viable. So a doctor must have finished the job."

Aidan checked to see if I was okay with this grisly story, and apparently I wasn't turning pale, because he went on.

"At the base of the finger, below the main wound, there was a separate tooth mark, I guess from where the dog gripped and let go before biting down again and taking the finger. In my memory, it's a dent, just starting to fill up with blood. Now it's a scar." Aidan extended his left hand, slightly tilted, so I could see the pink mark just below the stump.

"What kind of dog was it?" I asked, returning my gaze to the highway.

"A pit bull, I think," Aidan said. "That's what I remember most, the white face with pointed-back ears."

"Pit bulls just don't seem to fit with your neighborhood," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "It's weird, I know."

After a moment, I spoke again, asking Aidan what most likely seemed to him an unrelated question.

"When you lived in Georgia," I said, "what did you do for fun?"

"Fun?" Aidan said. "Not a lot. There wasn't much to do out where Pete lived."

"Did you ever hunt?" I asked. "Go target shooting?"

"Hunt, no," he said. "I went target shooting, once. We knocked cans off a fence."

"How did it make you feel, handling a gun?" I asked.

"It was boring," Aidan said, shrugging. "Once I'd done it, I didn't feel like doing it again."

"Did it make you nervous?" I asked.

"Not really," he said. "Why? Are you recruiting for the police academy?"

"No," I said, shaking my head in amus.e.m.e.nt. "My job isn't really about shooting, anyway. They make you learn to use the gun before they turn you loose with it, but if you're lucky, you never have to shoot anyone on the job. I never have."

"I was going to say, you should be talking to Colm," Aidan went on. "I think he'd probably have about eight guns by now, if Hugh weren't so opposed to them."

"Yeah," I said. "Colm mentioned that, about your father."

The Hennessys were like a family viewed through a prism. Nothing lined up. Hugh loved his antique pistols and had kept them in his study; no, Hugh hated guns and wouldn't have one in his house. Marlinchen was afraid of loud noises, but Aidan wasn't scared of guns. On the other hand, he really was was afraid of dogs. It didn't square with my theory about the study. I didn't know if I could make sense of it at all. afraid of dogs. It didn't square with my theory about the study. I didn't know if I could make sense of it at all.

"What about you?" Aidan said, breaking into my thoughts. "Did you ever hunt?"

"Me?" I said.

"Well, you grew up on the Range," he said. "Lots of people hunt and fish there."

I shook my head. "When I lived in New Mexico, for a while I was infatuated with my older brother's crossbow. Then I shot a deer with it. I can't even remember if it was deliberate or a whim or even just an accident, but I know after that I never wanted to hunt. Couldn't stand the idea." I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "But my anti-hunting morals don't run that that deep. I mean, I eat meat." deep. I mean, I eat meat."

"Good," Aidan said. "You can stay for dinner, then."

Aidan's meal-baked chicken and mashed potatoes with a green salad- was simple and satisfying, not quite as well seasoned as the dishes his twin sister prepared. At the table, the kids talked about final exams, summer coming, and their plans to visit their mother's grave on her upcoming birthday.

After we were done eating, Marlinchen said, "Donal, maybe you want to go watch some TV? We're going to talk about some boring stuff."

To a lot of kids, a phrase like that makes the radar go straight up; they know the truly interesting grown-up issues are going to be put on the table. But Donal accepted his sister's words at face value. He left.

When he'd gone, Marlinchen said, "I talked to Ms. Andersen today, about Dad."

I recognized the name, after a moment: I'd seen it on a bulletin board at Park Christian. She was the medical social worker in charge there.

"How is he?" Colm asked.

"Good," she said. "He's been steadily improving. You guys knew that. In fact, Ms. Andersen says he can live at home."

Beside me, I felt Aidan shift in his chair, but he said nothing.

"He still needs physical therapy, and speech therapy," she said. "But all that can be done here. Ms. Andersen's going to help us with all those things. I agreed that we can move him home next week."

"Wait a minute," Aidan said. "Just like that? This is something we need to talk about."

"I would have discussed it with you guys before I said yes," Marlinchen said, "if we had any alternative. But we don't. Dad's insurance won't pay for his hospitalization if the hospital itself has recommended outpatient treatment." She speared a stray piece of lettuce on her salad plate, but didn't eat. "You know what the money situation is like. We can't pay for it ourselves."

"Isn't physical and speech therapy and home care going to cost us, too?" Aidan pointed out.

Marlinchen straightened confidently. "That's the thing," she said. "Dad's insurance is pretty good on paying for outpatient services like that. The therapists can even come out here. Home care is a little different. We won't have someone live in, but Dad's at moderate-a.s.sist level." When no one seemed to know what that meant, she explained. "That means he needs help with 50 percent or fewer of daily activities."

If anyone was bothered by my presence at a family discussion, they didn't say so, and I made no move to get up.

"That'll improve as Dad keeps up with his rehab," Marlinchen went on. "It won't be a big deal, especially since there are five of us here with him. We'll all pitch in."

"I won't," Aidan said.

Marlinchen looked politely confused, as if she'd misheard.

"I've got a job," Aidan said. "I'll help with money. But I can't bring him his meals or sit with him and pretend... pretend that..."

Liam was looking down at the carpet, as if embarra.s.sed. Colm's face was unreadable.

"Aidan," Marlinchen said softly, pleading. For a brief, golden time, all had been right in her world. Aidan had returned, and her father was ready to come home. Now that facade was crumbling.

"What do you want from me, Linch?" Aidan asked. "You want me to say it doesn't still bother me, or pretend it didn't happen?"

That was exactly what Marlinchen wanted. She wanted to lay psychological Astroturf over everything ugly.

"I know you have legitimate grievances," she said. "But Dad's had a stroke; he could have died. That changes people, profoundly. It might soften him, in a lot of ways."

Could. Might. So much of what Marlinchen said was wishful, divorced from hard evidence. So much of what Marlinchen said was wishful, divorced from hard evidence.

"If you can just keep an open mind," she went on, "I think maybe we've got a chance to start over here. All of us."

Aidan shook his head. "He won't change, and I won't share a home with him."

"I don't understand," she said. "Where else could you live?"

"I'll live out there," Aidan said, pointing to the detached garage.

"No, you won't," Colm said, unexpectedly entering the conversation. "That's my place. I'm not moving my things out to make s.p.a.ce for you."

"Colm, your workout s.p.a.ce is hardly the issue here," Marlinchen said.

"Yes, it is," Colm said, and there was unexpected heat in his voice.

"Maybe I should be going," I said, but no one seemed to hear it.

"If he doesn't want to help with Dad," Colm went on, "then he shouldn't even be here. And if he doesn't want to live with Dad, then he should-"

"Will you stop talking about your brother like he's-"

"- get his own G.o.dd.a.m.n apartment or something."

"- not sitting right here!" Marlinchen finished.

"No!" Colm said. There were patches of red in his cheeks, like he'd been running in winter cold. "He talks about Dad like that, like Dad's not even his father. He calls him 'Hugh.' If he doesn't want to help us-"

"He is helping!" Marlinchen interrupted. "He's got a job, and-"

"Who cares about his f.u.c.king job!" Colm's voice rose yet higher. "We don't need his money! We were doing fine!"

"We?" Marlinchen echoed. "What do you do around here? How would you know? It's not you balancing Dad's checkbook. You're not clipping the coupons and buying the groceries!" Marlinchen echoed. "What do you do around here? How would you know? It's not you balancing Dad's checkbook. You're not clipping the coupons and buying the groceries!"

"Linch," Aidan said, his voice low. "Cool it."

"I didn't ask him to come home! I don't care if he stays here or not!" Colm leapt up with a noisy backward sc.r.a.ping of his chair, and left. The room was so quiet in his wake that I could hear the ticking of the old Swiss clock, all the way from the living room, and then the start of a commercial from the family-room TV filled the silence.

"That went pretty well," Liam said dryly.

Aidan pushed his chair back from the table and said quietly to Marlinchen, "Yell at me if you have to, but I'm going to have a cigarette."

Marlinchen shook her head numbly, meaning no, she wasn't going to lecture Aidan about smoking. He got up and left the table.

"I'll clear the dishes," Liam said.

When it was just the two of us, Marlinchen wiped away a tear. "I just don't get it," she said. "Aidan taught Colm how to swim. He taught him to catch. Colm used to want to be be Aidan." Aidan."

I looked out through the window and saw Aidan, pacing on the back deck. He tipped his head back and exhaled smoke.

"Why don't you let me talk to Colm?" I said.

A dull thudding, like an irregular heartbeat, came from the other side of the garage wall. I heard it before I even opened the door. like an irregular heartbeat, came from the other side of the garage wall. I heard it before I even opened the door.

Inside, the heavy bag that hung from the rafters was jumping steadily under the blows Colm was laying into it. He was still wearing the Adidas sweatpants he'd had on at dinner, but from the waist up had stripped to a narrow wife-beater undershirt, and his hands were protected by black bag gloves.

I wasn't a fight fan, but I knew enough to see that Colm was pretty good. He didn't make the amateur mistake of standing back from the bag, thinking the point was to strike with your arm extended as far as possible. He stood close in while throwing his hooks and uppercuts, getting his body weight into them. He didn't hyperextend on his jabs, either, so they were quick, like they should be.

"You want me to hold the bag for you?" I asked. His blows were hard enough to make the bag dance.

"I like to let it move," Colm said. "It simulates a real opponent, one that could evade you." He moved back and aimed a roundhouse kick at the bag.

"It simulates an opponent with no arms who can't run away," I pointed out.

Colm's eyes narrowed slightly at my words, and the uppercut he followed the kick with grazed the side of the bag instead of digging in. I stepped in to hold the bag, laying my hands on each side, about level with my shoulders. "If the bag is still," I said, "it's easier for you to work on your form."

I was comfortable in gyms, and comfortable with guys who hung out in gyms. Colm and I probably had a lot in common, under the surface. It could so easily have been pleasant.

But Colm was scowling. He executed a powerful front kick, pushing hard through his heel. It was supposed to rock me backward, off my feet, and nearly did. It was only because I saw him set his feet, preparing for a powerful strike, that I knew what he was going to do and had leaned my full weight against the bag so he didn't dislodge me.

Colm shifted tactics and spun a high roundhouse kick into the bag, hitting my right hand, up where I thought I'd positioned it out of reach. It wasn't a hard strike. If he'd wanted to, he probably could have broken bones, since I wasn't wearing gloves. He was just showing me what he could have done, a point he underscored by not meeting my eyes afterward.