“I’m talking to you because I won’t go to the cops.” My frustration must have shown, because he took off his hat and scratched at the matted hair beneath. “He was killed the night after Thanksgiving, right? It was raining.”

I nodded, a strange sensation in my stomach.

“And they found his body in the Towne Mall, the empty one down by the interstate? Where the creek goes under the parking lot?”

“What…” I began, but he didn’t respond to me. It was as if he were talking to himself, but with his eyes so hot on me, I could feel them.

“I’m tellin’ you this story so you understand. It’s important.”

“What’s important?” I asked.

“I’m tellin’ you because I don’t think you killed that man.”

The sensation in my stomach expanded, heat rushing out into my limbs, my fingers tingling. “What are you saying?”

“I walk all the time,” he said. “Sometimes by the tracks. Sometimes the park.” A pause. “Sometimes by the interstate.” I realized that I had seized his forearm. It was hard and scrawny beneath the slick plastic. He didn’t even notice. “I remember that night because of the rain and because it was right after Thanksgiving. It was late, after midnight. And I saw the cars, near the mall. There are never cars there at night. It’s a dark place with maybe a bum or two, maybe some junkies, but that’s about it. Once I saw a fight there, a long time ago, but never cars. Not that late.”

My heart was thudding, my lips dry. What was he saying? I peered through those thick, filthy lenses, looking for something. For some sense of what he was about to say. For some reason not to be afraid.

“You heard something?” I said. “Saw something? What?” I realized that I was squeezing his arm so hard that my hand hurt, but he showed no sign of discomfort. I forced my hand to relax.

“Maybe it’s important. Maybe not. I don’t know. But I think that maybe the cops should know. Someone should tell them.”

“Tell them what?” It was almost a shout.

“I saw somebody come out from the mall that night-quick, but not running. This person moved past the cars and tossed something into the storm drain, then got in one of the cars and bailed.”

The enormity of Max’s revelation spilled over me. “Last year,” I said. “Night after Thanksgiving. You saw a person exit the Towne Mall, throw something into the storm drain, and then leave in a car?”

Max shrugged. “Like I said.”

“Did you see what this person looked like?” I asked.

“No.”

Relief surged through me. He could not identify Jean.

“It was dark, raining, and this person was far away, wearing a coat and a hat. All dark. But I don’t think it was you.”

I released his arm, but he paid no attention. “Why not me?”

“This person was shorter, I think. Medium. You are too tall.”

“Was it a man or a woman?”

“Who can say? Could have been either.”

“But you are certain it wasn’t me.”

Max shrugged again. “For years I’ve seen you. You never do anything. You sit on your porch and drink beer. I’ve known a lot of killers, seen a lot of dead men; I don’t reckon you could kill a man. But that’s just me, my opinion.”

I should have been offended, but I wasn’t. He was right. In spite of going to law school, getting married, and running a practice, I never did anything. I coasted.

“What was this person wearing?” I asked.

“Dark clothes. A hat. That’s all I can say.”

“How about the cars? Can you tell me anything about them?”

“One big. One not so big. Not black, I think. But dark.”

I thought for a minute. “Which car did this person leave in?”

“The smaller one. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. They were a ways off and I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“What happened to the bigger one?”

“It was still there when I left. I was just walking by. I didn’t stay. Two days later, I walked by the same place, but the car was not there.”

“What did this person throw into the sewer, Max? Did you see it?”

“Nope, but I have a theory, same as you.”

“Tell me,” I said. But I knew.

“When a person throws something into a hole in the ground, it’s gonna be something they don’t want to be found. The papers say the cops are looking for the gun that killed your father. I think maybe you look in the storm drain and you’ll find it. But that’s just me talking, and I’m just a guy.”

I saw it through his eyes. Like I’d been there. Of course it was the gun. And if the cops found it? Game over. But the irony was like a fork in my guts. When they found Ezra in the Towne Mall, it was bad enough, but the memories of that awful day so long ago were just that, memories. But this was the tunnel, the throat, and I had to go there, to get the gun before the cops did. Before Max decided that he should tell someone else. Lord help me.

“You were right to tell me, Max. Thank you.”

“You gonna tell the cops?”

I couldn’t lie to his face, so I gave him the best truth I could. “I’ll do what has to be done. Thanks.”

“I had to tell you,” Max said, and there was something in his voice, something unsaid. I turned back to him just as a car passed us. His eyes were on that car, and he watched it until it was gone; then he looked down upon me. “I’ve been in this town for nineteen years, Work, almost twenty. I probably walked ten thousand miles in that time. You’re the only person who ever asked to walk with me… the only one who ever wanted to talk. That may not seem like much to you, but it means something to me.” He put one of his shattered hands on my shoulder; his eyes were steady on mine. “Now that’s not easy for me to say, but it had to be said, too.”

I was moved by his sincerity, and realized that we’d traveled our own painful roads in this town. They were different, our roads, but maybe just as lonely.

“You’re a good man, Max; I’m glad that we met.” I held out my hand, and this time he shook it, best as he could. “So come on,” I said. “Let’s walk.” I started to turn, but he didn’t follow me.

“This is where I stop,” he said.

I looked around at the empty street. “Why?”

He gestured at the yellow cottage. “This is my house.”

“But I thought…” Fortunately, I stopped myself. “It’s a lovely home, Max.”

He studied the house as if looking for some imperfection, and then, finding none, he looked back at me. “My mother left it to me when she died. I’ve been here ever since. Come on inside. We’ll grab a couple beers and sit on the porch.”

I stood loose and still, embarrassed by all the years I’d seen him walk past my house, and by all the assumptions I’d made. In some ways, I was as bad as Barbara, and that fact humbled me.

“Max?”

“Yeah.” His face twisted in a smile that no longer looked so gruesome to me.

“May I ask a favor? It’s important.”

“Ask away. I might even say yes.” Another smile.

“If anything should happen to me, I’d like you to take my dog. Look after him. Take him walking with you.”

It would be a good life, I thought.

Max studied me before he spoke. “If something happens to you,” he said with great solemnity, “I’ll take care of your dog. We’re friends, right?”

“Yes,” I said, meaning it.

“Then good. But nothing’s gonna happen. You’ll tell the cops about the gun, and take care of the dog yourself. Now come on. I bought beer just for you.”

So we sat on his front porch, looked across his tidy lawn, and sipped beer from the bottle. We spoke, but not of important things; and for that brief time, I was not lonely, and neither, I thought, was he.