“He’s a graceless fellow, and not very bright,” Hideaway said eventually. “If I were you, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over killing him.”
There was an undercurrent in his voice, like the rustling of dried leaves.
“You shouldn’t have given him a gun,” Loogan heard himself saying. “He was bad enough with a knife.”
Hideaway turned to Loogan and fixed him with his piercing eyes. “It won’t do him any good,” he said. He raised Peltier’s knife and slashed at a branch of the elm. The blade passed through harmlessly.
Looking through Hideaway’s body, Loogan could see the porch light of one of the houses across the street.
Hideaway held up the knife and examined his reflection in the mirror of the blade.
“If I can see myself,” he said, “then I must still exist in some sense. Wouldn’t you say that’s true?”
Loogan ignored the question. He turned to look up and down the street, alert for any sign of movement. But nothing stirred. Overhead, a wisp of cloud hung frozen before the moon.
“What are you doing here?” he said to Hideaway.
The man folded and pocketed the knife. “I came to haunt you,” he said, “but I’m having second thoughts. I get the feeling it would be tedious work.”
“Have you seen Tom?”
Hideaway let out a hollow sigh. “Definitely tedious. Why don’t you ask me if I’ve seen the face of God?”
“Have you?”
“Not yet.”
“What about Tom then?”
“I don’t think he and I are in the same place.”
Loogan leaned forward eagerly. “You mean he’s still alive?”
“It’d be a neat trick if he was,” said Hideaway. He lifted his right hand over his head and mimed a body falling several stories. His left hand stood in for the sidewalk below. There was no sound when the two met. “What do you want with him?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Tedious,” Hideaway said again. He looked over Loogan’s shoulder at the Waishkey house. “Go back inside,” he said. “If I see Tom, I’ll send him around. I wouldn’t hold my breath.” He shooed Loogan away. “Go on. Those two in there have absolved you. You’re not going to do better than that out here.”
With that, he turned and began to stroll down the sidewalk. The knife came out of his pocket and he held it up, admiring his reflection.
“Wait,” Loogan said, but he made no move to follow.
Hideaway strolled on without responding. He started to fade almost immediately, and before he reached the end of the block he was gone.
Sound and movement returned with his passing: The branches of the elm swaying in the wind. A car’s engine puttering in the distance. A cat prowling among garbage cans across the street.
Loogan heard a door opening behind him, the creak of a floorboard, soft footsteps.
Elizabeth Waishkey saying, “Are you all right?”
He turned and looked up at her. She wore a long robe hugged tight around her. She tilted her head curiously and her hair was sleek and black under the porch light. Her feet were bare.
“Did something happen?” she asked him. “Was someone out here?”
He hesitated, but not for long.
“No,” he said.
“Come in then,” she said. “Get some sleep.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to offer thanks to Amy Einhorn and Victoria Skurnick, who conspired to make good things happen for me and the mysterious Mr. Loogan.
For their support and encouragement, I’m grateful to my family in New York: my parents, Carolyn and Mike, my brother, Terry, and my sister, Michelle. And to Linda Randolph, my family in Michigan.
Thanks also to Ellen Paul, Tamara Sharp, Elizabeth Carter, Monika Verma, Jan Ollila, and Mark Fowler.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
HARRY DOLAN graduated from Colgate University, where he majored in philosophy and studied fiction writing with the novelist Frederick Busch. He earned a master’s degree in philosophy from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and worked for several years as a freelance editor. He grew up in Rome, New York, and now lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, with his partner, Linda Randolph.
Harry Dolan Page 34
