All Shots

revolver in my hand. My right index finger twitched. I am an excellent shot. Exercising the gift, however, requires a weapon.
    Before I could respond to Grant’s repeated demand, a demand I’d have met if I’d been able, Grant suddenly did something peculiar. Background: I’d left the house in a hurry. In spite of my haste, I’d put the plate I’d used for my sandwich in the dishwasher, where I’d also put the dog bowls. Under the table, however, was one object I’d overlooked and thus failed to tidy up: Sammy’s Pink Piggy, in one of his three manifestations. To my astonishment, Grant pointed to it and said, “Cut the bullshit. Pick it up.”
    Pink Piggy? For a second, fear stole my power of rational thought. Could it possibly be true that Graham Grant had invaded my house and was holding a knife to Sammy’s throat because I’d left a dog toy on the floor? Because I hadn’t finished the housework?
    In what felt like a moment of temporary insanity, I obeyed the order. “It’s nothing,” I said. “But you can have it if you want.”
    Sammy’s gleaming eyes were on Pink Piggy. His full white tail was waving over his back. I took care not to squeeze the toy; if Sammy heard the squeaker, he’d be likely to leap for Pink Piggy, with consequences I didn’t want to risk.
    I said, “It’s nothing but an old toy. Look at it. You can see how worn it is. It’s a Dr. Noy’s toy. That’s all it is.”
    “Open it.”
    “If I do, my dog is going to go for it.”
    Grant tightened his grip on Sammy’s collar. I ripped the Velcro apart, extracted the pouch, opened it, removed the squeaker, and put all the parts of the toy on the kitchen table.
    “There,” I said.
    “The rest of them,” Grant ordered.
    “There are two more somewhere. Just like this one. Old toys. With new squeakers.”
    “Cut the bullshit!”
    “I have no idea what you mean. If I did, I’d give you whatever you want.”
    “It was in the paper. The body was found by Holly Winter. You. You were the first person there.”
    “I have already told you that there’s another Holly Winter. She lives in Cambridge. I cannot help it that we have the same name.” As I spoke, I frantically tried to think of a plan. If I could distract him, then...? Then I could somehow knock the phone off the hook? If Sammy broke away, then...? Then I could scream and hope that someone heard me? Mrs. Dennehy? Another neighbor? Kevin, returning home, getting out of his car, hearing me, and coming to my rescue, mine and Sammy’s? Or if Sammy freed himself and ran upstairs, I could bolt after him, race to the nightstand, and get my hands on my Smith & Wesson? “This is getting real old,” he said.
    “There is another Holly Winter. That’s true. And she has to be the one you’re looking for. I’m the one who found the body, but that’s all I did.” If Sammy got away? He could end up with knife wounds. Fatal wounds. Or deadly bullets in his perfect body. There was no reason to believe that the knife was Grant’s only weapon. “I looked in through the glass door of a house,” I said. “I called the police. End of story.”
    “Beautiful puppy you got here. Too bad you don’t give a damn about him.”
    Sammy knew that something was wrong. The sight of Pink Piggy had misled him into imagining that we were playing some kind of new game, one he didn’t understand, but one that might turn out to be fun. Now, he was catching on.
    “Okay. Look, I’m just trying to stay out of whatever mess this is. Here’s what happened. A guy showed up here. Adam, his name was. And I gave him what I found. All of it. He had a Harley. A new-looking Harley. Top of the line. With a Maine plate. He was a big, tall guy with curly black hair. Does any of that ring any bells with you? Because that’s who has your stuff. Adam. And that’s all I know about him. I should’ve said so to begin with, but he was a big, scary biker. He scared me. All I want is to stay out of this.”
    I wished that I were half as good at reading human beings as I am at reading dogs. Canine communication was my first language: facial expressions, body postures, vocalizations, all of it. Graham Grant was showing a response of some kind to what I’d said, but I couldn’t decipher exactly what he was making of my words. His eyes, in particular, were so flat and dead that they were hard to read. When I was describing Adam and the Harley, I thought that recognition flashed briefly across Grant’s