Pomeroy’s table was an upended cable spool with oilcloth tacked to the top. The oilcloth was a redcheckered pattern and shone as if it had just been washed. Pomeroy moved behind the table.

”What do you want?“ he said again. His eyes were big and soft and eager for approval.

”Just some questions,“ I said. The kerosene stove was pouring out heat. ”Mind if I take off my jacket?“

He shook his head. I took off my leather jacket and hung it on a hook on the back of the door where his red plaid mackinaw hung. He looked at the gun under my arm without saying anything. Phillips went and pushed the dog out of the way and sat on the bed. He left his coat on. The dog gave a short sigh and moved to the foot of the bed and turned around twice and lay down again.

”Nice poster of Jill Joyce,“ I said. ”She your favorite?“

He nodded.

”You know she’s in Boston now shooting her series.“

He nodded again.

”She didn’t get killed,“ he said. ”I’d a seen it on TV if she got killed.“

”No,“ I said, ”she’s fine.“

”You know her?“ Pomeroy said.

”Yes,“ I said.

We were quiet. One of the dogs sleeping by the stove got up and went over and sniffed at Phillips’ shoe. Phillips pushed it away with his foot. I saw Pomeroy’s eyes shift nervously.

”Don’t be rude to the dog,“ I said to Phillips. ”Dog lives here and you don’t.“

Phillips got two bright spots on his pale cheeks. ”Who the hell you talking to?“ he said. His hand brushed instinctively against his gun butt. I turned my head slowly and looked at him without saying anything.

”I don’t like dogs,“ he said.

I looked at him for another moment, then turned back to Pomeroy.

”Do you know her?“ I said.

”Jill?“

”Yeah.“

He shook his head slowly. ”No. I’m a big fan of hers, but I don’t know her.“

”I heard you did know her,“ I said. Pomeroy looked past me nervously.

”No, honest.“

”I heard you knew her pretty well,“ I said. ”Guy named Randall says you knew her.“

The big soft eyes got wider and less focused. His gaze moved around the room, looking for someplace to settle.

”I haven’t been near her since he said.“

”How’d you get to know her in the first place?“ I said.

Pomeroy shook his head.

”Why not?“ I said. ”What’s not to talk about?“

Pomeroy looked at Phillips. I nodded, lifted my jacket off the back of the door and shrugged it on, lifted his off and handed it to him.

”You cover it here,“ I said to Phillips. ”Wilfred and I will take a walk.“

”You need me to back you up?“ Phillips said.

”No, I’ll be okay,“ I said.

When the dogs saw Pomeroy put his jacket on, all three of them were at the door, mouths open, tongues lolling, tails wagging. I opened the door and they surged out ahead of us and stopped in the yard looking back.

”Come on,“ I said.

Pomeroy went past me and I followed him and shut the door. The dogs moved out ahead of us in a businesslike way, sniffing along sinuous spoors, wagging their tails. The woods were empty at this time of year except for squirrels. The midday sun was warm in the southern sky and water dripped from the tree branches and made half-dollar-sized holes around the trees in the crust of the old snow. We followed the dogs along a path among the trees that had been pressed out by footfalls.

”Phillips is a mean bastard,“ Pomeroy said. He never looked at me as he spoke, and his speech was soft.

I nodded. Pomeroy seemed to sense my agreement even though he didn’t appear to be looking at me. ”These dogs are like my family,“ he said.

”Yeah,“ I said.

”I don’t have anything else,“ he said.

”Yeah.

There seemed no purpose to the path we were on. It meandered through the second-growth forest. llndcr the evergreens, where the snow was thin, dark pine needles and matted leaves were slick with ice and snow melt. The dogs ranged ahead of us, sniffing intently at the ground, and swinging back in singly or together to look at us before they ranged away again. We came up a low rise and looked down into a shallow swale where ground-water stood, frozen and snow covered. The flat surface was crisscrossed with dog tracks, and among them, bird tracks, partridge maybe, or pheasant.

We stopped and looked down at the swale. The trees and brush grew thickly right to its banks.

“I was married to her once,” Pomeroy said.

He was staring down into the swale. I didn’t say anything. It was as if he were a shattered cup, badly mended, with the shards of himself barely clinging together. I stayed very still. One of the dogs came back from ranging and sat on Pomeroy’s feet and looked down at the swale too.

“You don’t believe me,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “I do.”

“I used to tell people, but they never believed me. Most people think I’m a little off anyway.”

He reached a hand down absently toward the dog. The dog lapped it industriously.

“I probably am a little off,” he said.

“Maybe nobody’s on,” I said. “Maybe there’s nothing to be off of.”

He glanced at me for a moment. I nearly lost him. Then he shook his head and shrugged. Spenser the philosopher king.

“Guy lives in the woods with three dogs,” he said. “Guy like that isn’t all with it, you know?”

“When were you married?” I said.

He paused a moment, a little startled, trying to remember what he’d been saying about marriage. “Nineteen sixty-eight,” he said. “I was in the Navy in San Diego, I met her in a bar.”

“Love at first sight?”

“For me.”

“How about her?”

“She was seventeen. She liked the uniform, maybe.”

The other two dogs came out of the woods and circled along the rim of the swale and sat down near us, their tongues out, and looked at us.

“How long did it last?” I said.

“She ran away in a month. I never saw her again.”

“Until?”

“Until she came to Boston.”

“So you did try to see her,” I said.

He didn’t answer. The dog at his feet rose suddenly and made off with its nose to the ground. The two others followed. They went over the hill on the far side and out of sight and in a minute we could hear them yelping.

“Rabbit,” Pomeroy said.

I waited. The yelping faded, then stopped.

“I wanted to see her. After all that time, I… the month I was with her was…” He shrugged, spread his hands. “It was my best month,” he said.

The dogs trotted back, single file, and sat and looked at us again.

“She wasn’t friendly,” I said.

“No. She… what the hell. She’s a big star and I’m… look at me, you know?”

I nodded.

“But you persisted.”

“Persisted,” he said, rolling the word around like a piece of strange candy. “I wanted to see her,” he said finally. “I’m not much, but I am married to her.”

“Still?” I said.

“I never divorced her. I never heard from her. Far as I know we’re still married.”

“Was Jill Joyce her name then?”

“No.” For the first time since I’d met him Pomeroy almost smiled. “It was Jillian Zabriskie.”

“She born in San Diego?”

He nodded. “I never met her parents,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure they were around there somewhere.”

“Why’d she run off?”

“She never said. One day I came home and she wasn’t there and she was never there again.”

“You look for her?”

“Sure. I told the police and stuff. Everyone who knew anything about her knew she was wild. Everyone assumed she run off with somebody.”

“You think so?”

“She always liked men,” he said.

“What was the name of the bar?” I said. “Pancho Doyle’s,” he said. I knew he’d remember.

“Still there?” I said.

“I don’t know. After I got discharged I never went back to San Diego. I just come home here. I was a radar man when I got out. I went to Worcester Tech for a semester, gonna be an engineer, but…” He shrugged.

“Honorable discharge?” I said.