Fear Nothing

gathered acorns off the graves. He was not a hunter tracking prey but a scholar satisfying his curiosity.
        From my belt, I unclipped my cellular phone, switched it on, and keyed in Sasha Goodall's mobile number. She answered on the second ring.
        “Dad's gone,” I said, meaning more than she could know.
        Earlier, in anticipation of Dad's death, Sasha had expressed her sorrow. Now her voice tightened slightly with grief so well controlled that only I could have heard it: “Did he… did he go easy at the end?”
        “No pain.”
        “Was he conscious?”
        “Yeah. We had a chance to say good-bye.”
         Fear nothing.
        Sasha said, “Life stinks.”
        “It's just the rules,” I said. “To get in the game, we have to agree to stop playing someday.”
        “It still stinks. Are you at the hospital?”
        “No. Out and about. Rambling. Working off some energy.
        Where're you?”
        “In the Explorer. Going to Pinkie's Diner to grab breakfast and work on my notes for the show.” She would be on the air in three and a half hours. “Or I could get takeout, and we could go eat somewhere together.”
        “I'm not really hungry,” I said truthfully. “I'll see you later though.”
        “When?
        “You go home from work in the morning, I'll be there. I mean, if that's okay.”
        “That's perfect. Love you, Snowman.”
        “Love you,” I replied.
        “That's our little mantra.”
        “It's our truth.”
        I pushed end on the keypad, switched off the phone, and clipped it to my belt again.
        When I cycled out of the cemetery, my four-legged companion followed but somewhat reluctantly at first. His head was full of squirrel mysteries.
        

    * * *
        
        I made my way to Angela Ferryman's house as far as possible by alleyways where I was not likely to encounter much traffic and on streets with widely spaced lampposts. When I had no choice but to pass under clusters of streetlamps, I pedaled hard.
        Faithfully, Orson matched his pace to mine. He seemed happier than he had been earlier, now that he could trot at my side, blacker than any nightshadow that I could cast.
        We encountered only four vehicles. Each time, I squinted and looked away from the headlights.
        Angela lived on a high street in a charming Spanish bungalow that sheltered under magnolia trees not yet in bloom. No lights were on in the front rooms.
        An unlocked side gate admitted me to an arbor-covered passage. The walls and arched ceiling of the arbor were entwined with star jasmine. In summer, sprays of the tiny five-petaled white flowers would be clustered so abundantly that the lattice would seem to be draped with multiple layers of lace. Even this early in the year, the hunter-green foliage was enlivened by those pinwheel-like blooms.
        While I breathed deeply of the jasmine fragrance, savoring it, Orson sneezed twice.
        I wheeled my bike out of the arbor and around to the back of the bungalow, where I leaned it against one of the redwood posts that supported the patio cover.
        “Be vigilant,” I told Orson. “Be big. Be bad.”
        He chuffed as though he understood his assignment. Maybe he did understand, no matter what Bobby Halloway and the Rationality Police would say.
        Beyond the kitchen windows and the translucent curtains was a slow pulse of candlelight.
        The door featured four small panes of glass. I rapped softly on one of them.
        Angela Ferryman drew aside the curtain. Her quick nervous eyes pecked at me - and then at the patio beyond me to confirm that I had come alone.
        With a conspiratorial demeanor, she ushered me inside, locking the door behind us. She adjusted the curtain until she was convinced that no gap existed through which anyone could peer in at us.
        Though the kitchen was pleasantly warm, Angela was wearing not only a gray sweat suit but also a navy-blue wool cardigan over the sweats. The cable-knit cardigan might have belonged to her late husband; it hung to her knees, and the shoulder seams were halfway to her elbows. The sleeves had been rolled so often that the resultant cuffs were as thick as great iron manacles.
        Even in this bulk of clothing, Angela appeared thinner and more diminutive than ever. Evidently she remained chilly; she was virtually colorless, shivering.
        She hugged me.