Fear Nothing

industrious digging was Orson's way of working off the nervous energy of grief.
        I lowered my bicycle to the grass and hunkered down in front of the burrowing fiend. I gripped his collar and gently forced him to pay attention to me.
        'What's wrong with you?'
        His eyes had in them the darkness of the ravaged soil, not the brighter glimmering darkness of the starry sky. They were deep and unreadable.
        'I've got places to go, pal,' I told him. 'I want you to come with me.'
        He whined and twisted his head to look at the devastation all around him, as though to say that he was loath to leave this great work unfinished.
        'Come morning, I'm going to stay at Sasha's place, and I don't want to leave you here alone.'
        His ears pricked, although not at the mention of Sasha's name or at anything I had said. He wrenched his powerful body around in my grip to look toward the house.
        When I let go of his collar, he raced across the yard but then stopped well short of the back porch. He stood at attention, head raised high, utterly still, alert.
        'What is it, fella?' I whispered.
        From a distance of fifteen or twenty feet, even with the breeze dead and the night hushed, I could barely hear his low growl.
        On my way out of the house, I had dialed the switches all the way off, leaving lightless rooms behind me. Blackness still filled the place, and I could see no ghostly face pressed to any of the panes.
        Orson sensed someone, however, because he began to back away from the house. Suddenly he spun around with the agility of a cat and raced toward me.
        I raised my bike off its side, onto its wheels.
        Tail low but not tucked between his legs, ears flattened against his head, Orson shot past me to the back gate.
        Trusting in the reliability of canine senses, I joined the dog at the gate without delay. The property is surrounded by a silvered cedar fence as tall as me, and the gate is cedar, too. The gravity latch was cold under my fingers. Quietly I slipped it open and silently cursed the squeaking hinges.
        Beyond the gate is a hardpacked dirt footpath bordered by houses on one side and by a narrow grove of old red-gum eucalyptuses on the other. As we pushed through the gate, I half expected someone to be waiting for us, but the path was deserted.
        To the south, beyond the eucalyptus grove, lies a golf course and then the Moonlight Bay Inn and Country Club. At this hour on a Friday night, viewed between the trunks of the tall trees, the golf course was as black and rolling as the sea, and the glittering amber windows of the distant inn were like the portals on a magnificent cruise ship forever bound for far Tahiti.
        To the left, the footpath led uphill toward the heart of town, ultimately terminating in the graveyard adjacent to St. Bernadette's, the Catholic church. To the right, it led downhill toward the flats, the harbor, and the Pacific.
        I shifted gears and cycled uphill, toward the graveyard, with the eucalyptus perfume reminding me of the light at a crematorium window and of a beautiful young mother lying dead upon a mortician's gurney, but with good Orson trotting alongside my bike and with the faint strains of dance music filtering across the golf course from the inn, and with a baby crying in one of our neighbors' houses to my left, but with the weight of the Clock pistol in my pocket and with nighthawks overhead snapping insects in their sharp beaks: the living and the dead all together in the trap of land and sky.

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    11
        
        I wanted to talk to Angela Ferryman, because her message on my answering machine had seemed to promise revelations. I was in the mood for revelations.
        First, however, I had to call Sasha, who was waiting to hear about my father.
        I stopped in St. Bernadette's cemetery, one of my favorite places, a harbor of darkness in one of the more brightly lighted precincts of town. The trunks of six giant oaks rise like columns, supporting a ceiling formed by their interlocking crowns, and the quiet space below is laid out in aisles similar to those in any library; the gravestones are like rows of books bearing the names of those who have been blotted from the pages of life, who may be forgotten elsewhere but are remembered here.
        Orson wandered, though not far from me, sniffing the spoor of the squirrels that, by day,