Strangers

surgery. At the moment, she could only keep a hand on his shoulder in a feeble attempt to reassure him.
        She looked up entreatingly, but the gunman only said, "And what the hell's he doing packing a gun? A fucking eighty-year-old man, a gun in his fist, as if he knows how to handle something like this."
        Until now, Ginger had not noticed the pistol on the carpet, a few feet from Pablo's out-flung hand. When she saw it, a cripplingly sharp pang of horror went through her, and she nearly passed out, for in that instant she knew Pablo had been aware all along that it was dangerous to help her. She had not suspected that the mere attempt to probe at the memory block would quickly draw the unwanted attentions of men like this one in the leather topcoat. Because this meant she was being watched. Maybe not hour by hour or even every day. But they were keeping tabs on her. The moment she first called Pablo, she unwittingly endangered his life. And somehow he had known, for he had been packing a gun. Now, Ginger felt the weight of guilt.
        "If he hadn't pulled that stupid.22," the gunman said miserably, "and if he hadn't insisted on calling the cops, I'd have walked away without laying a hand on him. I didn't want to hurt him. Shit."
        "For God's sake," Ginger said beseechingly, "let me call an ambulance. If you didn't mean to hurt him, then let's get help."
        The gunman shook his head, and his gaze moved to the crumpled magician. "Too late anyway. He's dead."
        Those last two words, like a pair of hard punches, knocked the breath out of her and drew the shadowy curtain of unconsciousness to the edges of her vision. One glance at the old man's glassy eyes was enough to confirm what the gunman had said, yet she resisted the truth. She lifted his left hand and put her fingertips to his thin black wrist, feeling for a pulse. Finding none, she searched along the carotid artery in his throat, but in spite of the remaining warmth of the flesh, there was only an awful stillness where once had been the throb of life. "No," she said. "Oh, no." She touched Pablo's dark brow, not with the diagnostic intent of a physician but tenderly, lovingly. Her heart was so painfully constricted with grief that it was difficult to believe she had known the magician only two weeks. Like her father, she was quick to give her heart, and because Pablo was the man he was, the gift of affection and love was even more easily bestowed than usual.
        "I'm sorry," the killer said shakily. "I'm really sorry. If he hadn't tried to stop me, I'd have walked right out of here. Now, I've killed someone, haven't I? And… you've seen my face."
        Blinking back her tears, suddenly aware that she could not afford to grieve right now, Ginger rose slowly to her feet and faced him.
        As if thinking aloud, the gunman said, "You've got to be dealt with now, too. I'll have to ransack the place, empty out drawers, take a few things of value, and make it look like you two walked in on a burglar." He chewed worriedly on his lower lip. "Yeah, it'll work. Instead of copying the tapes, I'll just take them, so they won't be here to raise suspicions."
        He looked at Ginger and winced. "I'm sorry. Jesus, I really am, but that's the way it'll have to be. I wish it didn't. It's partly my fault. Should've heard the old bastard coming in. Shouldn't have let him surprise me." He moved toward her. "Should I maybe rape you, too? I mean, would a burglar just shoot a good-looking girl like you? Wouldn't he rape you first? Wouldn't that make this look more real?" He came closer, and she began to back away. "God, I don't know if I can do it. I mean, how can I get a hard-on and do it to you when I know I've got to kill you afterward?" He kept coming toward her, and she backed up against the bookshelves. "I don't like this. Believe me, I don't. This shouldn't have to happen. I really hate this."
        His apparently genuine pity, repeated apologies, and sorrowful self-recriminations gave Ginger the creeps. He would have been less frightening if he had been pitiless and bloodthirsty. The fact that he had scruples but could set them aside long enough to commit one rape and two murders… that made him more of a monster.
        He stopped six feet from her and said, "Please take off your coat."
        It was useless to beg, but she hoped to make him overconfident. "I won't give a good description of you. I swear. Please let