I looked at one that showed his face close-up. His skin was painted in camouflage, plus it was dirty, and there was a fresh cut over his right eye from which ran a trickle of blood. His whole face was shiny with sweat, and his eyes peered out from his blackened features, looking more hawk-like and piercing.

He said to me, “These photographs remind me of how lucky I am to be here.”

Well, I thought, let’s see how lucky you are. “I see three Purple Hearts.”

“Yes. Two minor wounds, but the third Purple Heart was nearly posthumous.”

I didn’t ask for any details, and he didn’t offer any, except “An AK-47 round, through my chest.”

Obviously, it hadn’t hit any vital organs but may have caused blood loss to his brain.

He said, “I was on my third tour of duty, and I was pushing my luck.”

“Right.” Harry hadn’t been so lucky.

“But you know what? I’d do the same thing again.”

I thought I should remind him that the definition of crazy was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

The odd thing, of course, was that, as Ms. Mayfield suggested, Bain and I had connected, and if he hadn’t apparently killed a friend of mine, and if he wasn’t trying to take over or fuck up the planet, I’d probably like him. In fact, he seemed to like me, despite my nosy questions. But then, I hadn’t killed any of his friends, and I hadn’t yet messed up his plans to nuke the planet, or whatever he was working on. So he had no reason not to think I was an okay guy.

As I studied the remainder of his photos, he asked me, “Have you ever been wounded in the line of duty?”

“I have.”

“Military or police?”

“Police.”

He informed me, “As you know, then, it’s traumatic. It’s so far removed from your normal, everyday experience that you can’t quite grasp what happened.”

“I think I got it.”

“What I mean is, if you’re in combat-or doing police work-you expect you may be wounded-or killed-and you think you’re prepared for it. But when it actually happens, you can’t believe it’s really happened to you.” He asked me, “Wasn’t that your reaction?”

“I really think I got what happened.”

“Did you? Well, maybe people react differently.” He expanded on his subject and said, “Then, after you comprehend what’s happened, you go into another state of mind.” He explained, “To paraphrase Winston Churchill, There’s nothing as satisfying as getting shot and surviving.”

“Right. The alternative is getting shot and dying.”

“That’s the point. It’s a near-death experience, and if you survive, you’re never the same again. But I mean that in a positive way. You feel very… euphoric… powerful. Almost immortal. Was that your experience?”

I recalled lying in the gutter on West 102nd Street after two Hispanic gentlemen popped off what sounded like a dozen rounds at me, managing an unimpressive three hits at twenty feet, and I remembered seeing my blood running into a storm drain in front of my face.

“How did you feel?” he asked.

“I think I felt fucked up for a few months.”

“But afterward. Didn’t it change your life?”

“Yeah. It ended my career.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s a big change. But I mean, did it change how you looked at life? How you felt about the future? Like, God had something big planned for you.”

“Like what? Getting shot again?”

“No… I mean-”

“Because I got shot again.”

“Really? In the line of duty?”

“Well, yeah. I wasn’t on vacation.”

“I thought your career was ended.”

“I’m on career number two.” I added, “Libyan guy. I’m still looking for him.”

“I see.” He seemed stuck on this subject. “Apparently, you take these attacks on you personally.”

You let the suspect talk because he may be headed somewhere. And even if he’s not revealing something about the crime, he’s revealing something about himself. I replied, “When people shoot at me, I tend to take it personally, even if it they don’t know me.”

He nodded and said, “That’s interesting because, in combat, you never take it personally, and you never think about finding the actual person who was shooting at you. That’s the last thing on your mind.”

“So, you weren’t pissed at the little guy who plugged you?”

“Not at all. He was just earning his pay. Same as I was earning mine.”

“That’s very forgiving. And you don’t strike me as the forgiving type.”

He let that slide and continued, “What I mean is, soldiers don’t see the enemy as individuals. The enemy is one big amorphous threat. So, it doesn’t matter who individually is trying to kill you, or whom you kill in return, as long as the guy you kill is wearing the same uniform as the guy who tried to kill you.” He explained, “You’re shooting at the uniform, not at the man. Understand?”

“Well… I never saw the Libyan, but the two Hispanic guys who tried to kill me were wearing tight black chinos, purple T-shirts, and pointy shoes.”

He smiled and said, “I guess you can’t go around shooting everyone who’s dressed like that. But I could shoot anyone who looked like the enemy.”

“That’s a treat.”

He informed me, “Revenge is very healthy, but it doesn’t have to be personal revenge. Any enemy combatant will do.”

“That may not be as healthy as you think.”

“I beg to differ. Revenge brings closure.” He added, “Unfortunately, that war ended before I could return to duty and even the score.”

I had the sudden thought that if I could pin Harry’s murder on this guy, his lawyer would plead insanity, and the judge would say, “I agree, Counselor. Your client is out of his fucking mind.”

It occurred to me that this guy had probably been lost in limbo after the Soviets went belly-up, and there were no major-league enemies left that were worth his attention, or who needed to be killed so that Bain Madox could save the nation.

Then came September 11, 2001. And that, I was sure, was what this was all about.

He changed the subject abruptly and asked me, “Have you gotten into the woods at all?”

“A little this morning. Why?”

“I was wondering if you’d seen any bears.”

“Not yet.”

“You should try to see a bear before you go back to the city.”

“Why?”

“It’s an experience. They’re fascinating to watch.”

“They don’t look that interesting on the National Geographic Channel.”

He smiled and said, “You can’t smell them on television. The thrill is being face-to-face with a wild animal that you know can kill you.”

“Right. That’s a thrill.”

“But if you’re armed, that’s cheating. The interesting thing about black bears is that you can actually interact with them. They’re dangerous, but they’re not dangerous. Follow?”

“I think I lost you after the first ‘dangerous.’”

“Well, think of a lion on one hand, and a lamb on the other. With those animals, you know exactly where you stand. Correct?”

“Right.”

“But a bear-a black bear-is more complex. They’re intelligent, they’re curious, and they will often approach a human. Ninety-five percent of the time, they’re just looking for a handout. But five percent of the time-and it’s hard to tell when that is-they’re looking to kill you.” He took a step closer to me and said, “That is what makes it interesting.”

“Right. That’s interesting.”

“You see my point? The potential for death is there, but the likelihood of death is low enough so that you are drawn into the encounter for the thrill. Your heart races, your adrenaline shoots out of your ears, and you’re stuck right there, between fright and flight. You see?”

I mean, I didn’t smell alcohol on his breath, but maybe he was drinking vodka, or snorting something, or he was nuts. Or maybe this was a parable, about John and Bain.

He concluded with, “Now, a brown bear or a polar bear is a different story. You know exactly what’s on their minds.”