The Darkest Evening of the Year

stand over him and pop him, but he couldn’t be sure that he had hit the shooter in the hut, and if he lingered, he would be making an easy target of himself.
    The engine of the Land Rover had been switched off. Bobby probably had not left the keys in the ignition.
    For a quarter of an instant, Vern considered running away among the buildings, but these guys knew the layout better than he did, and any cat-and-mouse game wasn’t likely to turn out well for him.
    Instead, he sprinted west, directly into the low sun, because the glare would make him a harder target.
    The plain offered no hiding place, but Vern was faster than he looked. Maybe fifteen years younger and thirty pounds lighter than Rosewater, he was confident of being able to outrun him.
    If the shooter in the hut had not been wounded by the return fire, if he gave pursuit, Vern might be in trouble, but he didn’t glance back because he wanted to have hope.
    He ran as fast as he had ever run, heart slamming, and then he demanded more of himself. In the still air, he created a wind of his own. Without realizing what he was doing, he had raised his arms, trying to get some lift.
    But Vern Lesley didn’t have wings. Von Longwood had the wings, over there in Second Life, where he owned a car that could fly, too, and where he sometimes enjoyed sex four times a day.
    Hope shaken, he glanced back and saw a guy closing on him. His pursuer looked as young as Bobby Onions but bigger and smarter.
    Von Longwood didn’t take crap from anyone, and if Vern had to go down, he preferred to do it with Von’s style. He stopped, swiveled, and squeezed off all of the remaining rounds in his revolver.
    The pursuer didn’t weave or dodge but came boldly through the deadly horizontal hail, as if he were the real Von Longwood.
    Now Vern’s only hope was the Rapture, float straight up to Heaven without a change of underwear or breath mints, but that didn’t work out, either. A bullet burst his gut, another knocked the air out of him, and he rode a third round into oblivion.

 
    Chapter
32
    A fter coming up the stairs and through the door, the dogs did what dogs do: immediately went on a tour of the apartment, scouting the territory, by the nose alone taking in more information than did human beings with all five senses.
    Brian was not surprised to see that Nickie, although the newest member of the pack, had already assumed its leadership.
    Following the dogs through the door, Amy said, “What’s wrong?”
    When he called her, he had not been entirely coherent. Now he said, “Come with me. The kitchen. I want to show you.”
    Hurrying after him, she said, “Now you’ve really got bed hair. You look like you slept in a hurricane.”
    “I was drawing. Hours and hours, drawing. I was exhausted. Laid down. Fell asleep. Had a dream.”
    In the kitchen, he took her by the shoulders and met her eyes. “You know me. You know who I am.”
    “You’re Brian McCarthy. You’re an architect.”
    “Exactly.”
    “Is this a test to see if I have Alzheimer’s?”
    “Okay. Listen. Am I practical? Am I prudent? Am I levelheaded? Am I gullible?”
    “Yes. Yes. Yes. No.”
    “Am I smart? Am I a bright guy?”
    “Smart. Bright. Guy. Three for three.”
    “I’m sober, right? I’m rational, right? I’m not given to wild superstition, am I?”
    “Right. Right. No.”
    “I never believe in stuff like Antoine.”
    Clearly puzzled, she asked, “Antoine who?”
    “Antoine,” he said impatiently, “Antoine, the blind driving dog in the Philippines.”
    “Antoine isn’t blind.”
    “You said he was blind.”
    “ Marco is blind, not the dog.”
    “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”
    “It matters to Antoine and Marco.”
    “The point is, I’m a skeptic.”
    “Marco drives. Antoine directs him.”
    “See? That’s nuts. Dogs can’t talk.”
    “It’s a psychic thing.”
    He took a deep breath. “Are you like this with everyone?”
    “Like what?”
    “Crazy-making.”
    “Not with everyone. Mostly with you.”
    He frowned. “Did you just tell me something important?”
    “What do you think?”
    “I think you did. What was it?”
    “You’re a smart, bright, sober, rational, levelheaded, kinda cute architect. You figure it out.”
    His head was spinning too much to crunch the meaning out of her words. He just kissed her.
    “Too much is happening,” he said. “Let’s stay focused. Come here. Look at these.”
    He led her to the kitchen table on which were