“Maybe Granddaddy built your inuksuk,” Danny had said to Charlotte. Perhaps, he’d thought, the various Indians who’d worked on Turner Island over the years had rebuilt the stone cairn whenever the rocks had fallen down.

“The rocks don’t fall down,” Charlotte said. “Granddaddy had nothing to do with our inuksuk. A native built it-it won’t ever fall down.”

“But what do they mean, exactly?” Danny asked her.

“They imply origins, respect, endurance,” Charlotte answered, but this was too vague to satisfy the writer in Danny Angel; he remembered being surprised that Charlotte seemed satisfied with such a nonspecific description.

As for what an individual inuksuk meant-“Well, shit,” as Ketchum had said, “it seems to matter which Injun you ask.” (Ketchum believed that some inuksuit were nothing but meaningless heaps of rocks.)

Danny peered under his bed at the Winchester. Per Ketchum’s instructions, the loaded shotgun lay in an open case; according to Ketchum, the case should remain unzipped, “because any fool intruder can hear a zipper.”

It was obvious, of course, which fool intruder Ketchum meant-an eighty-three-year-old retired deputy sheriff, all the way from fucking New Hampshire! “And the safety?” Danny had asked Ketchum. “Do I leave the safety off, too?” It made a sound, a soft click, when you pushed the button for the safety, which was slightly forward of the trigger housing, but Ketchum had told Danny to leave the safety on.

The way the old logger put it was: “If the cowboy can hear the safety click off, he’s already too close to you.”

Danny looked first at the photograph of Charlotte with the inuksuk standing behind her, then at the 20-gauge shotgun under his bed. Perhaps the stone cairn and the Winchester Ranger both represented protection-the 20-gauge of a more specific kind. He was not unhappy to have the gun, Danny was thinking, though it seemed to him that every Christmas ushered in a morbid preoccupation-sometimes initiated by Ketchum (such as the Winchester) but at other times inspired by Danny or his dad. This Christmas Eve, for example, the cook could be blamed for beginning a downward spiral of gloominess.

“Just think of it,” Dominic had said to his son and Ketchum. “If Joe were alive, he would be in his mid-thirties-probably with a couple of kids of his own.”

“Joe would be older than Charlotte was when I first met her,” Danny chimed in.

“Actually, Daniel,” his father said, “Joe would be only a decade younger than you were-I mean, at the time Joe died.”

“Whoa! Stop this shit!” Ketchum cried. “And if Injun Jane were still alive, she’d be eighty-fucking-eight! I doubt she’d even be speaking to any of us-not unless we somehow managed to elevate our conversation.”

But the very next day, Ketchum had presented Danny with the 20-gauge shotgun-not exactly an elevation of their prevailing conversation, or their overriding fixation-and the cook had, seemingly out of the blue, begun to complain about “the sheer morbidity” of Daniel’s book dedications.

True, Baby in the Road (as might be expected) was dedicated as follows: “My son, Joe-in memoriam.” It was the second dedication to Joe-the third, overall, in memoriam. Dominic found this depressing.

“I can’t help it if the people I know keep dying, Pop,” Danny had said.

All the while, Ketchum had continued to demonstrate the sliding action of the Winchester, the ejected shotgun shells flying all around. One of the live shells (a deer slug) would be lost for a time in the discarded wrapping paper for other Christmas presents, but Ketchum kept loading and unloading the weapon as if he were mowing down a horde of attackers.

“If we live long enough, we become caricatures of ourselves,” Danny said aloud to himself-as if he were writing this down, which he wasn’t. The writer was still contorting himself in bed, where he was transfixed by the photo of Charlotte with the mysterious inuksuk-that is, when he wasn’t drawn to the dangerous but thrilling sight of the loaded shotgun under his bed.

IT WAS BOXING DAY in Canada. A writer Danny knew always had a party. Every Christmas, the cook bought Ketchum some outdoor clothing-at either Eddie Bauer or Roots-and Ketchum wore his new gear to the Boxing Day party. Dominic never failed to help out in the kitchen; the kitchen, anybody’s kitchen, was ever the cook’s home away from home. Danny mingled with his friends at the party; he tried to remain unembarrassed by Ketchum’s political outbursts. There was never any need for Danny to feel embarrassed-not in Canada, where the old logger’s anti-American ranting was very popular.

“Some fella from the CBC wanted me to go on a radio show,” Ketchum told Danny and his dad, when the cook was driving them home from the Boxing Day party.

“Dear God,” Dominic said again.

“Just because you’re sober, don’t think you’re a good driver, Cookie-you best let Danny and me handle the conversation while you pay attention to the mayhem in the streets.”

The cowboy could have killed them all that night, but Carl was a coward; he wouldn’t risk it, not with Ketchum in the house. The deputy didn’t know that the youth-model 20-gauge was under Danny’s bed, not Ketchum’s, nor could Carl have guessed how much the old logger had had to drink at the party. The cowboy could have shot his way into the house; it’s doubtful that Ketchum would have woken up. Danny wouldn’t have woken up, either. It had been one of those nights when the supposed one or two glasses of red wine with his dinner had, in reality, turned out to be four or five. Danny woke once in the night, thinking he should look under his bed to be sure that the shotgun was still there; he fell out of bed in the process, making a resounding thump, which neither his dad nor the snoring logger heard.

Ketchum never lingered long in Toronto once Christmas was over. A pity he hadn’t brought Hero with him and then-for some reason-left the dog with the cook and his son after Ketchum went back across the border. Carl couldn’t have entered the house on Cluny Drive, or hidden himself in the third-floor writing room, if Hero, that fine animal, had been there. But the dog was in Coos County, staying with Six-Pack Pam-terrorizing her dogs, as it would turn out-and Ketchum left early the next morning for New Hampshire.

When Danny got up (before his dad), he found the note Ketchum had left on the kitchen table. To Danny’s surprise, it was neatly typed. Ketchum had gone up to the third-floor writing room and used the typewriter there, but Danny hadn’t heard the creaking of the floor above his bedroom-he hadn’t heard the stairs creak, either. Both he and the cook had slept through the sound of the typewriter, too-not a good sign, the old logger could have told them. But Ketchum’s note said nothing about that.

I’VE SEEN ENOUGH OF YOU FELLAS FOR A TIME! I MISS MY DOG, AND I’M GOING TO SEE HIM. BY THE TIME I’M BACK HOME, I’LL BE MISSING YOU, TOO! EASY ON THE RED WINE, DANNY. KETCHUM.

Carl was happy to see Ketchum’s truck leave. The cowboy must have been growing impatient, but he waited for the Mexican cleaning woman to come and go; that way, the deputy had no doubt. With the guest bedroom empty-Lupita had made it up as good as new-Carl was convinced that Ketchum wasn’t coming back. Yet the cowboy had to wait another night.

The cook and his son ate their dinner at home on the evening of December 27. Dominic had found a kielbasa sausage in the meat market and had browned it in olive oil, and then stewed it with chopped fennel and onions and cauliflower in a tomato sauce with crushed fennel seeds. The cook served the stew with a warm, fresh loaf of rosemary-and-olive bread, and a green salad.