I returned to the kitchen and thought I heard somebody between the houses again. I looked out the screen door, but the backyard was empty and the repairman was nowhere in sight. Then two doves settled on the telephone wire, and I glanced at the pole for the first time. The lowest iron climbing spikes were set in the wood some fifteen feet above the ground so children could not get up on the pole.

That's it, I thought. He didn't have climbing spurs strapped onto his boots and ankles, and he didn't wear a safety belt. I went back into the hallway and picked up the telephone receiver. It was dead.

I took the.45 out of the drawer of the nightstand next to my bed. It felt cold and heavy in my hand. I pulled back the receiver, eased a hollow-point round into the chamber, and reset the hammer. It was quiet outside, and the bushes next to the bedroom windows made deep shadows on the screens. I went to the front door just as the handbill carrier was stepping up on the porch. I stuck the.45 inside the back of my trousers and went outside.

"Listen, go to the little grocery on the corner, dial the operator, and ask for the police," I said.

"All you have to say is "Assault in progress at 778 Front Street." Can you do that for me, podna?"

"What?" He was middle-aged, but his stiff, straw-colored hair sticking out from under his cap and his clear blue eyes gave him a childlike appearance.

"I've got some trouble here. I need some help. I'll give you five dollars after the cops get here. Look, just tell the operator you need the cops out here and give them this number" I pointed to the tin numerals on the screen door. Then I took out my pocketknife, pried the set of attached numbers loose from the wood, and handed it to him.

"Just read the numbers into the phone. Seven-seventy-eight Front Street. Then say "Emergency." Okay, podna?"

"What's going on?" His face looked confused and frightened.

"I'll fill you in later."

"Just dial O?" A drop of sweat ran out of his cloth cap.

"You got it."

He started off the porch, the heavy canvas sacks swinging from his sides.

"Leave your sacks here. Okay?" I said.

"Yeah, sure. I'll be right back with the cops."

He headed down the street, the metal house numbers in his hand. I watched him go inside the little yellow-brick grocery store on the corner, then I headed around the side of the house, through the shrubs and shadows toward the backyard. I could see my telephone box, partly obscured by hedge under the bathroom window, and I was sure that the wires on it had been cut; but before I could look I saw the repairman walk across the sunny lawn toward my back door.

I moved quickly up to the edge of the house, the.45 in my right hand. I could feel the moisture in my palm against the thin slick of oil on the metal. The wind was cool between the houses and smelled of damp earth and old brick. The repairman pushed his yellow hard hat up on his forehead, rested his hand on the leather pouch of his tool bag, and started to knock on the screen door. Surprise time, motherfucker, I thought, cocked the.45, stepped out into the yard, and pointed it at him with both hands.

"Right there! Hands behind your head, down on your knees!" I shouted.

"What?" His face went white with shock. He stared incredulously at the automatic.

"Do it! Now!"

I saw his right hand flutter on his tool pouch.

"You're an inch from the next world, bubba," I said.

AlT right man! What the hell is this? All right! All right! I'm not arguing." He knelt on the wood steps and laced his fingers behind his neck. His hard hat slipped down over his eyes. His arms looked thick and red in the sunlight, and I could see the taut whiteness of his chest where the sleeves of his denim shirt were cut off. He was breathing loudly.

"You got me mixed up with somebody else," he said.

"Where's your truck?"

"Down the street. In the fucking alley."

"Because you're shy about parking it on the street. With your left hand unstrap your tool belt, let it drop, then put your hand behind your head again."

"Look, call my company. You got the wrong guy."

"Take off the belt."

His hand worked the buckle loose, and the heavy pouch clattered to the step. I rattled the tools loose out on the concrete pad pliers, blade and Phillips screwdrivers, wire cutters, an ice pick with a small cork on the tip. I held the ice pick up to the corner of his vision.

"You want to explain this?" I asked.

"Wasps build nests inside the boxes sometimes. I use it to clean out the corners."

"Drop your wallet behind you."

His fingers went into his back pocket, jerked the wallet loose, and let it fall. I squatted down, the.45 pointed at the center of his back, picked up the wallet, moved back on the grass, and shook everything out. The back of his neck was red and hot-looking in the bright air, and his shirt was peppered with sweat marks. I fingered through the dollar bills, ID cards, photographs, and scraps of paper at my feet, and gradually became more and more uncomfortable. He had a Montana driver's license with his picture on it, a social security card with the same name on it, a local Elks membership card, and two tickets to a U.S. West Communications employees dance.

I let out my breath.

"Where did you say your truck was?" I asked.

"Down the alley."

"Let's take a look," I said, getting to my feet.

"No, you walk ahead of me."

He stayed in front of me, as I had told him, but by this time I had eased down the hammer on the.45 and had let it hang loose at my side. We walked past the garage into the alley. Parked at the end of the alley, hard against somebody's toolshed in the shade of a maple tree, was his company truck. I stuck the pistol in my back pocket. His face was livid with anger, and he closed and unclosed his fists at his sides.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"You're sorry? You sonofabitch, I ought to knock your fucking teeth down your throat."

"You got a right to. You probably won't understand this, but somebody is trying to do me and maybe a little girl a lot of harm. I thought you were that guy."

"Yeah? Well, you ought to call the cops, then. I tell you, buddy, I feel like ripping your ass."

"I don't blame you."

"That's all you got to say? You don't blame me?"

"You want a free shot?"

There was an intense, measured look in his eye. Then the moment passed. He pointed his finger at me.

"You can tell the cops about it. They'll be out to see you. I guarantee it," he said. Then he walked to the back steps, put his tools back in his leather pouch, and replaced all the articles in his wallet. He didn't bother to look at me as he recrossed the lawn toward the alley and his parked truck. My face felt round and tight in the wind.

Two uniformed cops were there ten minutes later. I didn't try to explain my troubles with Sally Dio; instead, I simply told them that I was an ex-police officer, that the DEA had warned me that an attempt might be made on my life, that they could call Dan Nygurski in Great Falls to confirm my story, and that I had made a serious mistake for which I wanted to apologize. They were irritated and even vaguely contemptuous, but the telephone man had not filed charges against me, he had only phoned in a report, and I knew that it wasn't going anywhere and that all I had to do was avoid provoking them.

"I just didn't act very smart. I'm sorry," I said.

"Where is the gun?" the older of the two cops said. He was big and bareheaded and wore pilot's sunglasses.

"In the house."

"I suggest you leave it there. I also suggest you call us the next time you think somebody's trying to hurt you."

"Yes, sir, I'll do that. Actually I tried. Didn't the handbill man call you all?"

"The what?"

"A guy who puts handbills on front doors. I sent him to the grocery to call you when I thought my line was cut." I realized that I was getting back into the story again when I should let it drop.