Artie rolled his head slowly to the side and peered between the slats of the walking board. He could just make out the figures standing below, both gesturing with outstretched hands. The man had the same raven-black hair as Mrs. Mitchell, but he was a good foot taller, meaning she had to crane her neck to look up at him. Artie froze. Any movement, any noise would surely get her attention, and something about this conversation sounded hinky.

  "Of course I trust you, Jerry. But I'm afraid this won't work. Every little thing has to be just right. If one little thing gets messed up, the whole thing will come unraveled.” She made a whimpering sound. “You just can't understand this from my side, Jerry. It would be a lot easier if I didn't love him."

  "I know you do,” he replied, his voice softer. “But you can't go weak now, this is the way we planned it. It's a brilliant plan, and it's going to come off perfectly. It'll be quick, and relatively painless. At least that's what they say. Anyway, you don't need to be worrying about it. It's out of your hands now. You just go inside, have a nice glass of wine, and think about how you're going to spend all that nice money."

  Artie squeezed his eyes shut and tried to quiet his breathing. He'd let his auburn hair grow a bit long, a reminder of his more carefree days, and it spilled out from below his painter's cap. He caught it in his peripheral vision, lifting on the breeze. If it was blowing beyond the edge of the walking board he might as well be waving a red flag. He felt it brush against his Adam's apple. Thank God. At least the wind was in his favor.

  Artie was no Columbo, but this conversation sounded like something you couldn't ignore once it got inside your skull. He didn't want to listen anymore, but what could he do? It wasn't like he could hum loud, kid-style, to drown them out. Or clamp his hands over his ears. All he could do was lie there and let the toxic river of words flow into his brain.

  "The quicker the better,” the woman said. “I don't want him to suffer one minute longer than he has to,” she said, already moving toward the house. “I think I'll go in now and do some yoga. I've got to do something to try to relax."

  Artie saw her stop suddenly and put both hands on her hips. “Will you look at that? How many times have I told that man I don't like him leaving all this stuff out when he quits for the day? What a mess."

  "Good help's hard to find, huh? But then again, it's not like you have to paint the damn thing yourself, right, sis?"

  "Well, I practically do. You have to stay on these lazy people every minute."

  "Poor baby,” the man replied. “When this is all over, you can just buy another house when something needs painting. The guesthouse all ready for me?"

  "Yeah, it's all set. You'll call me when it's all over? I mean the instant it's over with, right? I'll need some time to get pretty for the news cameras."

  The man chuffed a dry husk of a laugh. “Go on, then, get yourself all dolled up. I've gotta make a couple of calls and take a shower. I'm meeting them at the restaurant at seven. I'll be coming out with him. Our guy will be in place by nine. It'll be good and dark by then so he can do it and get clear."

  Within minutes, Artie heard the downstairs door of the guesthouse open and close, followed a few minutes later by the sound of Christine Mitchell's yappy little dog greeting her as she went into the sunroom off the back of the house. Now what? He couldn't just climb down off the ladder and sidle off to his truck. Surely the two had a good enough grasp of spatial relations to figure out he'd been where he could hear their whole discussion.

  But he couldn't stay here, either. He could be seen from the second floors of both the house and the guesthouse. He rolled over, making as little noise as possible and belly-squirmed his way to the ladder. Once in the shadow of an overhanging elm, he rose to a crouch and scrambled down. He peeled back the drop cloth he'd draped over the shrubs and darted underneath.

  He sat here, curled up in his drop-cloth wigwam, and pondered what he'd overheard. The more he turned it over in his mind, the worse it sounded. But Artie was motivated, and he had faith that if he tried hard enough he could convince himself he hadn't heard what he thought he heard. He stayed put until dusk. When he heard the shower running inside the guesthouse he took a peek outside. No lights on in the upstairs rooms of the house. He got his feet underneath him and almost groaned as his kinked muscles protested. He cursed his white painter's pants and T-shirt as he took off across the yard at a trot. He practically glowed neon in the twilight.

  He reached the truck and opened the door with exaggerated care. He crawled in and pulled the door to him, grimacing as the latch snicked closed. He stared out at the guesthouse for a moment. Lights on in the bathroom and bedroom. Maybe the man was still in the shower, but he could be getting dressed already.

  Artie didn't dare fire up the engine. This was a quiet neighborhood and there was nothing to mask the noise. But he was on a very slight incline and he figured if he could get a coast going maybe he could get out to the main road.

  He pushed in the clutch slowly, his hopes deflating with every inch it descended toward the floorboard. Nothing. Artie looked back up to the guesthouse. Lights in the little kitchenette now, too. He had to get out of here. He scooted up on the seat and leaned forward as far as he could, adding his body weight to the effort. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the truck started to move. A snail could beat him to the road at this rate, but at least he was moving. He had to get himself and his ve-HIC-le out of there.

  He picked up a little momentum once he was on the straightaway. A row of shrubbery and young trees separated him from the guesthouse, but there were gaps. Artie made himself look over, and his heart tried to beat its way out of his chest. Jerry was standing on the porch of the guesthouse talking on a cell phone. As Artie rolled by, he seemed to stiffen. Then Artie thought—thought, but couldn't be sure—he looked up at the scaffolding.

  When Artie reached the road, he popped the clutch and made a beeline for the place where he'd always found comfort—well, back before he cleaned up his act, anyway. The Back Door, his favorite purveyor of liquid courage. With Larry, the don't-expect-me-to-give-a-crap bartender.

  Now Artie was nursing the remnants of his drink and replaying every word, every gesture he'd managed to catch through that crack in the walking board, every plausible explanation he'd thought up while he was hunkered down under that drop cloth. And he had a little movie loop in his head of that fleeting glimpse of the man standing on the porch as he made his getaway. Had he seen Artie's truck, or merely turned by coincidence as it rolled by? Had he really looked up to the scaffolding or was he leaning out to get a better signal on his cell, or looking at the main house, or stargazing, for God's sake?

  Some of it Artie could get around. There could be a logical explanation for all this talk of a plan, shooting, money. You had to want it, but it was doable. But there were a couple of things that kept relighting in his brain like those trick candles on birthday cakes. It'll be quick. There won't be much pain. Jerry had said something like that. And a sniper? There just didn't seem to be any explanation that worked for that, no matter how he tried to fold, spindle, and mutilate it.

  What the hell had he landed in the middle of ? Artie sighed. There was no way around it. He was going to have to go to the cops. He was going to sound like a lunatic, but there was nothing for it but to get it over with if he was ever going to be able to look himself in the mirror. For that you needed a clear conscience—and not to be dead. By now the guy would have figured out that Artie overheard, and they'd be hatching a second plan. Maybe not so quick and painless this time.

  He got up and plucked some bills out of his wallet and put them carefully under his glass on the bar. He was just getting ready to signal Larry when something on the television mounted above the bar caught his attention.

  The perky anchorwoman was announcing, in an inappropriate lilting voice, that “Raymond Mitchell, area business owner, was shot this evening as he left the Briarwood Restaurant where he and several members of his Board of Directors had met earlier. Mitchell was rushed to St. Joseph's Hospital, where an aide has just issued this statement."

  The station did a jump-cut to a serious-looking young man—a young man who Artie happened to know was named Jerry—on the steps at St. Joseph's. “Mr. Mitchell's wound is not life-threatening. The bullet struck him in the upper arm. He is resting comfortably. And he has instructed me to say to whoever did this cowardly thing—well, I guess I can't use his exact words—let's just say they've picked the wrong guy to try to intimidate."

  "Are you saying this has something to do with a power struggle within the company?” shouted a reporter from the gaggle surrounding cool-as-a-cucumber Jerry.

  "I'm saying just what I said,” Jerry replied, dipping his head for emphasis. “Mr. Mitchell will be back at the helm of the company—his company—tomorrow, if the doctors okay it. Maybe even if they don't,” he tossed off. “He is eager to get back to business."

  The anchorwoman's face appeared on the screen again as she informed Artie that “no suspects have been identified and the investigation is ongoing."

  Artie stood frozen in place, unable to choose between panic and relief. So this was the plan. To get rid of Mitchell. And they'd actually gone through with it—and FAILED. Artie had a momentary feeling of exhilaration. What was it the old-timers said? There's no better feeling than bein’ shot at and missed.

  But the good feeling quickly faded. Everyone knows “the investigation is ongoing” is police-ese for we don't have a clue. What now? What was going to happen when Artie went to the cops? He could imagine the questions, starting with why hadn't he come forward in time to prevent the shooting? They'd think he was one of those kooks who always come out of the woodwork to grab a headline. A grassy-knoll nut.

  Artie turned and remounted the barstool. One more drink while he mulled over the best approach. He signaled Larry, who delivered the drink, but let Artie know he wasn't happy about it. Larry acted like the drinks he served up came from his own veins.

  "Okay, everybody outta the pool,” Artie mumbled as he looked into the glass.

  "You talkin’ to me?” Larry asked in an unintended De Niro imitation.

  "Naw,” Artie mumbled, “not unless you can hold your breath for a really long time."

  Larry threw a bar towel over his shoulder and gave Artie a scowl as he walked away.

  Lorraine wrung the dishcloth out over the sink and hung it over the faucet. She leaned against the countertop and sighed deeply. She'd gotten the kids off to school without either of them realizing their dad hadn't made it home last night, at least that was something.

  Unlike the bad old days, Artie had the good grace to call this time. He'd said he had something he had to do and not to worry. There'd been a time when that meant he had to get knee-walking drunk and stay gone for three days feeling sorry for himself. But not for a while now. Artie had pulled it together when he realized what he was doing to them, to her and to the kids. Say what you would about Artie, he was a good family man. And when it came down to it, he could always be counted on to do the right thing.

  Lorraine only wished there was something more she could do to take the burden off him. She'd gone back to work, but her receptionist job was only plugging one small hole in their financial leaky bucket.

  She glanced at her watch. The pay might be lousy, but still it was a job. She'd better getting moving or she'd be late. She gathered up her purse and jacket and checked to make sure the house was tidy. As she was poking through the key bowl on the table by the back door the doorbell rang. Who in God's name could that be at this hour?

  She strode to the front door of the little ranch house and jerked the door open, ready to give whoever it was a quick brush-off. She found none other than Mrs. Raymond Mitchell standing there. Jesus on a bicycle! What was that woman doing here?

  She didn't look happy. And she wasn't alone.

  Artie had failed to honor his own pledge to stick with one drink last night, but he had kept it at two. Still, he'd been a teetotal for such a while now his head was throbbing and his stomach felt like he'd drunk from the bucket he washed his paintbrushes in.

  He'd slept in his truck, and used the gas station men's room to wash his face and comb his hair. Nothing he could do about the bloodshot eyes and stubble on his chin.

  He stepped into the lobby of the MCS building. Everything around him had a sheen. Marble and brass, glass and polished wood. And there he was, looking like some stumblebum, moving toward the reception desk. He wanted to turn around and walk out. The very soles of his feet seemed to be itching to make a straight line for the door. He had no dog in this fight. Except his conscience. Damn nuisance conscience.

  The receptionist looked at him coolly. “May I help you?” she asked, not bothering to attach the perfunctory sir on the end.

  "I'm here to see Mr. Mitchell,” Artie said, placing his feet apart and trying to maintain a strong, confident stance.

  The girl actually huffed before asking, “Do you have an appointment?” This time she did add the sir, but Artie knew it had irony rather than respect loaded into it.

  "I'm painting his guesthouse out at the estate,” Artie replied, just as he had rehearsed it. “He wanted to talk to me about something special he wanted done."

  "Oh, okay,” the girl said, as if this explained it all. She picked up the phone and punched in a couple of numbers with the eraser of a pencil, sparing her fuchsia talons. “Hi, Ailene. There's a guy here, says Mr. Mitchell wanted to see him about a paint job he's doing out at the estate."

  She listened for a moment, then turned away from Artie slightly. “I know, can you believe it, after getting shot and all, he goes right back to business. He's something else, isn't he?” She dipped the mouthpiece underneath her chin and motioned Artie over to a row of upholstered chairs. “You can wait over there.” But as Artie started to move away, she called, “No, no, don't do that, just—it'll be just a minute.” She was looking his clothes up and down, probably envisioning smears of robin's-egg blue all over the burgundy leather.

  She listened for a moment, then frowned at Artie. “Mr. Mitchell says his wife is handling that. Talk to her."

  Raymond Mitchell had remembered Artie. He'd again been a very decent guy, commiserating with him about what the crappy economy had done to his life. But he'd made it clear that in all things domestic, his wife was in charge.

  "Tell Mr. Mitchell he can suit himself,” Artie said, infusing the words with a tone of regret, “and I hate to bother him, especially today. But I can't finish up unless I can get a go-ahead on more supplies, and Mrs. Mitchell's not home. I got another job waiting."

  The girl relayed the information, and Artie waited. He was totally screwed if Mitchell decided to call home and check in with his wife, but it was the only card he had to play.

  After a few uh-huhs and okays, the girl jerked her head toward the elevator bank. “Eighth floor,” she said, “but he said this better be quick.” She turned back to her real work, which seemed to involve leafing through a fashion magazine, and Artie stepped into the elevator and drew in a deep breath, trying to remember why he'd thought this was a good idea.

  As Artie came into the office, Raymond Mitchell stood, looking every inch the heroic survivor. His left arm was in a sling, but he stood straight and tall and seemed in good humor for a man who'd been shot the night before. The Reagan syndrome? Maybe all public men were now expected to be witty and sanguine after they've been shot.

  "Davis,” he said, gesturing toward a chair. “Can't any of you people stand up to one little bitty woman?” he asked. But his tone was congenial. “What is it now?"

  Artie glanced at the chair, but decided to stand. He squeezed his painter's cap in both hands and spilled the whole story, never allowing himself a glimpse of Raymond Mitchell's face until he'd unloaded everything.

  When he finally looked, Mitchell was half-sitting on the corner of the desk, his face ashen. He ran his good hand through his hair and cupped his neck. “Well, I'll say one thing for you, Artie,” he said, half-laughing. “You've got quite an imagination."

  Artie tried pushing his case, but Mitchell was having none of it. “Listen,” he said, going back around his desk and reaching for the intercom, “I appreciate that you're looking out after my welfare, Davis. But you just misunderstood, that's all. It's not my wife who wants me dead. It's those bloodsuckers I let weasel their way into my company. They're the ones behind this, I know that for dead certain.” He stopped and tilted his head to one side. “Bad choice of words,” he said, giving Artie a rueful smile.

  He pushed the intercom button and lowered his head toward the box. “Ailene, ask John to step in here, please."

  As he came back around the desk, he stopped suddenly and put his hand to his forehead. “Of course,” he exclaimed. “I know what this is. Christine and her brother fancy themselves to be some kind of writers. Think they're gonna come up with the next blockbuster action-adventure script. You probably overheard them discussing cutting a character. Christine gets very emotionally attached, even to fictional people."

  Artie thought about it a moment. If he strained he could make that plausible, he supposed, though he still had doubts. In any case, he'd done his duty. He could go home now, and his conscience could just shut the hell up.

  "That's probably it,” he told Mitchell. “I'm sorry if I bothered you with this. Ridiculous, I guess. But hey, I'm glad you're okay after that business last night."

  Before Mitchell could reply, the door opened and a man who appeared to be in his mid thirties stepped into the room. He was wearing a suit, but he didn't look quite right in it. Every movement carried a military precision.

  "John, this is my friend Artie Davis. Artie, this is John Coleman. I wanted you to meet him, so you can put your mind at ease. John's my bodyguard. And as you can see, I'm more than well protected."