“What?” He spoke in a low, conspiratorial whisper.

“What is it?”

“Have a heart attack,” ze bool whispered, so that was what he did. He plodded slowly up the sidewalk toward where the cruiser was parked, plodding slower and slower as he got closer and closer. He was careful to keep his eyes down and look at the car only with his peripheral vision. They would have seen him by now, even if they were inept-they’d have to, he was the only thing moving out here-and what he wanted them to see was a man looking at his own feet, a man who was working for every step. A man who was either drunk or in trouble. His right hand was now inside his coat, massaging the left side of his chest. He could feel the blade of the letter-opener, which he was holding in that hand, making little digs in his shirt. As he drew close to his objective he staggered-just one moderate-to-heavy stagger-and then stopped. He stood perfectly still with his head down for a slow five-count, not allowing his body to sway so much as a quarter-inch to one side or the other. By now their first assumption-that this was Mr Ginhead making his slow way home after a few hours at the Dew Drop Inn-should be giving way to other possibilities. But he wanted them to come to him. He’d go to them if he absolutely had to, but if he had to do that, they would probably take him down. He took another three steps, not toward the cruiser now but toward the nearest stoop. He grabbed the cold, fog-beaded iron railing which ran up its side and stood there panting, head still down, hoping he looked like a man who was having a heart attack and not one with a lethal instrument hidden inside his coat. Just when he was beginning to think he had made a serious error here, the doors of the police car swung open. He heard this rather than saw it, and then he heard an even happier sound: feet hurrying toward him. Cheezit, Rocky, da cops, he thought, and then risked a small look. He had to risk it, had to know where they were in relation to each other. If they weren’t close together, he would have to stage a collapse… and that held its own ironic danger. In such a case one of them would very likely run back to the cruiser in order to radio for an ambulance. They were a typical Charlie-David team, one vet and one kid still wet behind the ears. To Norman, the rookie looked weirdly familiar, like someone he might have seen on TV. That didn’t matter, though. They were close together, almost shoulder to shoulder, and that did matter. That was very nice. Cozy. “sir?” the one on the left-the older one-asked. “sir, do you have a problem?”

“Hurts like a bastard,” Norman wheezed.

“What hurts?” Still the older one. This was a crucial moment, not quite crunch-time, but almost. The older cop could order his partner to radio for EMT backup at any moment and he would be hung, but he couldn’t strike just yet; they were just a tiny bit too far away. At this moment he felt more like his old self than he had since starting on this expedition: cold and clear and totally here, aware of everything, from the droplets of fog on the iron railing to a dirty-gray pigeon feather lying in the gutter next to a crumpled potato chip bag. He could hear the soft, steady susurrus of the cops” breathing.

“It’s in here,” Norman gasped, rubbing under his coat with his right hand. The blade of the letter-opener poked through his shirt and pricked his skin, but he hardly felt it.

“It’s like having a gallbladder attack, only in my chest.”

“Maybe I better call an ambulance,” the younger cop said, and suddenly Norman knew who the young cop reminded him of: Jerry Mathers, the kid who’d played Beaver on Leave It to Beaver. He’d watched all those shows in reruns on Channel 11, some of them five and six times. The older cop didn’t look a bit like the Beav’s brother Wally, though.

“Hang on a sec,” the older cop said, and then, incredibly, gave away the store.

“Let me take a look. I was a medic in the army.”

“Coat… buttons…” Norman said, keeping an eye on the Beavfrom the corner of his eye.

The older cop took another step forward. He was now standing right in front of Norman. The Beav also took a step forward. The older cop undid the top button of Norman’s newfound London Fog. Then the second one. When he undid the third one, Norman pulled the letter-opener out and plunged it into the man’s throat. Blood burst out in a torrent, gushing down his uniform. In the foggy darkness it looked like steak sauce. The Beav turned out not to be a problem. He stood, paralyzed with horror, as his partner raised his hands and beat weakly at the handle of the thing in his throat. He looked like a man trying to rid himself of some exotic leech.

“Bluh!” he choked.

“Ahk! Bluh!” The Beav turned to Norman. In his shock he seemed totally unaware that Norman had had anything to do with what had just befallen his partner, and this didn’t surprise Norman at all. It was a reaction he had seen before. In his shock and surprise, the cop looked about ten years old, now not just something like the Beav, but a dead ringer. “something happened to Al!” the Beav said. Norman knew something else about this young man who was about to join the city’s Roll of Honor: inside his head he thought he was shouting, he really did, when what was actually coming out was only a little bitty whisper. “something happened to Al!”

“I know,” Norman said, and delivered an uppercut to the kid’s chin, a dangerous punch if your opponent is dangerous, but a sixth-grader could have dealt with the Beav as he was now. The blow connected squarely, knocking the young cop back into the iron railing Norman had been clutching not thirty seconds ago. The Beav wasn’t as out as Norman had hoped, but his eyes had gone cloudy and vague; there was going to be no trouble here. His hat had tumbled off. The hair beneath was short, but not too short to grab. Norman got a handful and yanked the kid’s head sharply down as he brought his knee up. The sound was muffled but terrific; the sound of a man with a mallet whacking a padded bag full of china. The Beav dropped like a lead bar. Norman looked around for his partner, and here was something incredible: the partner was gone. Norman wheeled around, eyes glaring, and spotted him. He was walking up the sidewalk very slowly, with his hands held out in front of him like a zombie in a fright-film. Norman turned a complete circle on his heels, looking for witnesses to this comedy. He didn’t see any. There was a lot of hooting and hollering drifting over from the park, teenagers running around in there, playing grab-ass in the fog, but that was all right. So far his luck had been fantastic. If it held for another forty-five seconds, a minute at most, he’d be home free. He ran after the older cop, who had now stopped to have another go at pulling Anna Stevenson’s letter-opener out of his throat. He had actually managed to get about twenty-five yards.

“Officer!” Norman said in a low peremptory voice, and touched the cop’s elbow. The cop turned jerkily. His eyes were glassy and bulging from their sockets, the eyes of something that belonged mounted on the wall of a hunting lodge, Norman thought. His uniform was drenched scarlet from neck to knees. Norman didn’t have the slightest idea how this man could still be alive, let alone conscious. I guess they must build cops tougher in the midwest, he thought.

“Caw!” the cop said urgently.

“Caw! Fuh! Bah-up!” The voice was bubbly and choked, but still amazingly strong. Norman even knew what the guy was saying. He’d made a bad mistake back there, a rookie’s mistake, but Norman thought this was a man he could have been proud to serve with, just the same. The letter-opener handle sticking out of his throat bobbed up and down when he tried to talk, in a way that reminded Norman of how the bullmask looked when he manipulated the lips from the inside.

“Yes, I’ll call for backup.” Norman spoke with soft, urgent sincerity. He closed one hand on the cop’s wrist.