Fear Nothing

serious threat to them-and not likely to become one. I had no proof of anything I'd seen.
        Nevertheless, they seemed inclined to take extreme measures to prevent the exposure of their inscrutable conspiracy. They might be loath to leave even the smallest of loose ends-which meant a knot in my neck.
        I expected to find Orson in the foyer when I unlocked the front door and stepped inside, but he was not waiting for me. I called his name, but he didn't appear; and if he had been approaching through the gloom, I would have heard his big paws thumping on the floor.
        He was probably in one of his dour moods. For the most part, he is good-humored, playful, and companionable, with enough energy in his tail to sweep all the streets in Moonlight Bay. From time to time, however, the world weighs heavily on him, and then he lies as limp as a rug, sad eyes open but fixed on some doggy memory or on some doggy vision beyond this world, making no sound other than an occasional attenuated sigh.
        More rarely, I have found Orson in a state of what seems to be bleakest dejection. This ought to be a condition too profound for any dog to wear, although it fits him well.
        He once sat before a mirrored closet door in my bedroom, staring at his reflection for nearly half an hour-an eternity to the dog mind, which generally experiences the world as a series of two minute wonders and three-minute enthusiasms. I hadn't been able to tell what fascinated him in his image, although I ruled out both canine vanity and simple puzzlement; he seemed full of sorrow, all drooping ears and slumped shoulders and wagless tail. I swear, at times his eyes brimmed with tears that he was barely able to hold back.
        “Orson?” I called.
        The switch operating the staircase chandelier was fitted with a rheostat, as were most of the switches throughout the house. I dialed up the minimum light that I needed to climb the stairs.
        Orson wasn't on the landing. He wasn't waiting in the second-floor hall.
        In my room, I dialed a wan glow. Orson wasn't here, either.
        I went directly to the nearest nightstand. From the top drawer I withdrew an envelope in which I kept a supply of knocking-around money.
        It contained only a hundred and eighty dollars, but this was better than nothing. Though I didn't know why I might need the cash, I intended to be prepared, so I transferred the entire sum to one of the pockets of my jeans.
        As I slid shut the nightstand drawer, I noticed a dark object on the bedspread. When I picked it up, I was surprised that it was actually what it had appeared to be in the shadows: a pistol.
        I had never seen this weapon before.
        My father had never owned a gun.
        Acting on instinct, I put down the pistol and used a corner of the bedspread to wipe my prints off it. I suspected that I was being set up to take a fall for something I had not done.
        Although any television emits ultraviolet radiation, I've seen a lot of movies over the years, because I'm safe if I sit far enough from the screen. I know all the great stories of innocent men - from Cary Grant and James Stewart to Harrison Ford - relentlessly hounded for crimes they never committed and incarcerated on trumped-up evidence.
        Stepping quickly into the adjacent bathroom, I switched on the low-watt bulb. No dead blonde in the bathtub.
        No Orson, either.
        In the bedroom once more, I stood very still and listened to the house. If other people were present, they were only ghosts drifting in ectoplasmic silence.
        I returned to the bed, hesitated, picked up the pistol, and fumbled with it until I ejected the magazine. It was fully loaded. I slammed the magazine back into the butt. Being inexperienced with handguns, I found the piece heavier than I had expected: It weighed at least a pound and a half
        Next to where I'd found the gun, a white envelope lay on the cream-colored bedspread. I hadn't noticed it until now.
        I withdrew a penlight from a nightstand drawer and focused the light beam on the envelope. It was blank except for a professionally printed return address in the upper left corner: Thor's Gun Shop here in Moonlight Bay. The unsealed envelope, which bore neither a stamp nora postmark, was slightly crumpled and stippled with curious indentations.
        When I picked up the envelope, it was faintly damp in spots. The