Jack looked for the k.n.o.b on the door and found instead a st.u.r.dy padlock. Odd. Every other piece in the store, no matter how small, had to be more valuable than all of these put together. Why the lock?

"We're getting ready to close now," said a voice behind him.

Jack turned to face the proprietor himself. The older man's expression was neutral.

"So soon?"

"Six o'clock is closing time today," Bellitto said. "Is there anything I can help you with before we lock the door?"

"Yes," Jack said, turning back to the display case. "I'm interested in one of these doo-dads."

"I can't imagine why. They are beyond question the least interesting items in the shop. Remnants of recent fads. Detritus of pop culture."

"Exactly why I want one."

"Which, may I ask?"

"The Roger Rabbit key ring."

"Oh, yes." His thin lips curved into a small, tight smile. "That one's special. Very special."

"Not so special. I'm sure half a zillion were sold, but no one's making them any more, and I know someone who'd really-"

"I'm so very sorry. It's not for sale."

"You're kidding."

"I a.s.sure you that I do not... kid."

"Then why put them on display?"

The anemic smile returned. "Because it pleases me."

"Oh, I get it. Kind of like a joke. Lock up the junk and leave the valuables lying around. You didn't strike me a postmodern dude."

"I should hope not. Let's just say that these tiny treasures carry a certain sentimental value for me and I like to leave them out where people can see them."

"Does the sentimental value of that Roger Rabbit Key ring exceed ten bucks?"

"I'm afraid it does."

"How about fifteen?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Twenty-five, then?"

"No."

"Fifty?"

"Sorry."

"A hundred?"

A head shake. Bellitto's smile had broadened. He was enjoying himself.

This was crazy. The guy couldn't mean it. Turn down a hundred bucks for that little piece of junk?

Jack took a quick look at Bellitto's ears. Nope, no hearing aids.

Okay, time to call his bluff.

"How about five hundred?"

Another head shake.

Smug son of a b.i.t.c.h, Jack thought. How can he say no? All right, one more try. This one has has to get him. to get him.

"Mister, I will give you one thousand dollars-are you listening?-one thousand US dollars for that key ring. And that's my final offer. Take it or leave it." US dollars for that key ring. And that's my final offer. Take it or leave it."

"I prefer to leave it, thank you."

Jack's shock was tinged with relief. He'd allowed himself to get carried away here. A thousand bucks for a worthless little, tchotchke like that? Who was crazier here?

He looked back at Roger Rabbit, whose eyes still held that imploring look.

"Sorry, guy. Maybe next time."

"No next time," Bellitto said. "When I said, 'Not for sale,' it was not a sales ploy. I meant it."

"I guess you did. Still, can't blame a guy for trying."

He glanced at his watch. "Past closing time, I'm afraid."

Jack said, "Yeah," and started for the door.

"Tell me, Mr...?"

"Butler," Jack said.

"Tell me, Mr. Butler. Would you really have paid me a thousand dollars for that key ring?"

"That's what I offered."

"Talk is cheap, Mr. Butler."

"So it is. And this is just more talk. So I guess we'll never really know, will we."

Jack gave him a wave and stepped through the door into the twilight.

Eli Bellitto... the man seemed a model of cool control. Jack sensed no seething cauldron of violence readying to erupt. Sensed no pa.s.sion at all, in fact. Admittedly it had been a brief meeting, and in his experience he'd found that people were rarely what they seemed, but Eli Bellitto seemed a long way from a new-moon lunatic.

He hoped he was right. He'd play watchdog for three nights and that would be that.

He made a show of casual window shopping, doing a slow sidestep to the end of the building, then crossing the street to a furniture store, already closed. At six sharp Jack saw the redheaded trainee clerk step out and head up toward Houston, followed by the older woman. With a clattering chorus, metal shutters began unrolling from their cylindrical bins over the windows. Bellitto came out a moment later and locked them down. Then he rolled down a similar shutter over the door by hand. After that was locked, he strolled right, turning the corner and moving a dozen paces down the side street to where he entered a doorway.

Home sweet home, Jack thought. Now be a good boy, Eli Bellitto, and stay in for the night. Catch up on all those Sopranos Sopranos episodes you missed during the season. episodes you missed during the season.

He crossed back over to Bellitto's side, to check the street number, and he heard something crunch beneath his feet. He looked down and found a scatter of broken gla.s.s, some pieces frosted, some clear. As he moved on he glanced up and found the source: the lens of the street light had come loose and fallen. No... the bulb was missing, or broken off. He thought he could make out a couple of deep dings in the metal casing. Yeah. No question. Someone had shot out the street light. With a pellet gun, most likely.

Jack looked around. Didn't like this. The dead light would leave Bellitto's end of the street in darkness. Who'd done it? Bellitto himself? Or someone out to get him?

Jack continued to move down the block until he came to a small bistro across the street. A few couples sat around the white resin tables on the sidewalk. Jack positioned himself at one that gave him a view of Bellitto's door, and ordered a Corona, no lime. He'd nurse a few, eventually have dinner, killing the hours till darkness. Then he'd find a shadowed spot with a view of the doorway-not too hard with the street light out-and camp there till midnight.

Jack kicked himself for taking this nothing job. Instead of sitting alone at this rickety table, he could be hanging at Gia's, having a drink with her and playing sous chef as she fixed dinner.

But Edward had been so frightened that his brother might hurt somebody, and Jack had responded to that. Still, he could have let this one go by. He'd promised Gia he'd stay away from the rough jobs. At worst, this one might involve a little roll and tumble, but he didn't think he'd have too much trouble controlling Eli Bellitto.

He wished all his fix-its were like the Kentons'. He was looking forward to Tuesday's encounter with Madame Pomerol. That had all the makings of a fun fix.

IN THE IN-BETWEEN.

She realizes she is female, but nothing beyond that. She knows she once had a name but she can't remember it.

She also knows that she did not live in this place, this old cold house. She had a warm home somewhere but cannot remember where it lies. And even if she did, she could not-go there.

She cannot leave. She has tried, but she is tied to this awful house. She wishes she knew why. It might explain this terrible sourceless rage that envelops her.

If only she could remember her name!

She is lonely, but not alone. There are others in this place. She has reached out but cannot make contact. Yet she keeps trying...

IN THE WEE HOURS.

Lyle awoke to the sound of running water. His room was dark, the windows open to the night, and somewhere...

The shower.

"Now what?" he muttered as he pulled the sheet aside and hung his legs over the edge of the bed.

He blinked and brought the display of his clock radio into focus: 1:21 1:21. He stared dully at the red LED digits. He felt drugged. He'd been way down in deep, deep sleep and his brain and body were still fumbling back to alertness. As he watched the display, the last digit changed to a zero.

7:20?.

But just a few seconds ago it had been... or at least he'd thought it had been...

Never mind. The shower was running. He jumped off the bed and hurried to the adjoining bathroom.

Lyle felt the steam before he saw it. He fumbled along the wall, found the light switch, and flipped it on. Billows of moisture filled the bathroom, so thick he could barely find his way. He made it to the shower and reached out toward the curtain...

And hesitated. Something told him not to pull it open. Maybe one of those premonitions he didn't believe in, maybe the result of seeing too many horror movies, but he sensed something besides running water behind the curtain.

Feeling suddenly cold despite the enveloping hot mist, Lyle backed away, one step... two...

No. He wasn't giving in to this. With a strangled cry that antic.i.p.ated the terror of what he might see, Lyle leaped forward and slashed the curtain aside.

He stood there in the steam, gasping, heart pounding, staring at a shower running full blast at max heat. But the spray wasn't running straight into the tub. It was bouncing against something... something that wasn't there and yet was. And after the spray struck whatever it was, the water turned red and ran down into the tub to swirled away into the drain.

Lyle closed his eyes, shook his head, then looked again.

The shower continued to run and billow up steam, but the spray now flowed uninterrupted into the tub, and remained clear all the way down to the drain.

What's happening to me? he thought as he reached in and turned the k.n.o.b.

And then he sensed someone behind him in the steam.

"Wha-?"

He spun and found no one. But movement to his left caught Lyle's eye. Something on the big mirror over the sink... dripping lines forming on the moisture-laden gla.s.s... connecting into letters... then...

Words.

Who are you?

Lyle could only stare, could only think that this wasn't happening, he was dreaming again, and pretty soon- Three more question marks, each bigger than the last, added themselves to the end of the question.

Who are you????

"I... I'm Lyle," he croaked, thinking, It's a dream, so play along. "Who are you?"

I dont know.