What didn't feel good now was how good it had felt to squeeze the man's hands, to hurt him. Don had squeezed harder than he meant to. Hands that had worked pipe wrenches and hammers, hands with an iron grip, and he had found a fleshy gap between the long fingerbones in the hands and driven his fingers into that space like nails and while he was doing it he had felt so good.

  And Cindy had watched him do it. Had watched him use that kind of violence. What did she think of him now? He was ashamed.

  Bagatti slid out from between his car and Don's unmoving body. Without looking at either Don or Cindy, he scurried around the front of his car, got in the driver's side, and drove off. Quietly. No aggression left in the man. For now, anyway. Don noticed that he was steering with the edges of his palms. Those hands were going to be sore for a while.

  Cindy stood off near her car. Looking at Don.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "You told me not to hurt him, and then I did."

  She took a few steps toward him. He met her halfway.

  "It's been a long time," she said softly, "since anybody stuck up for me." She took his hands, one at a time, and kissed them.

  "Tell me if he gives you any trouble."

  "He won't," she said. "You can be pretty scary."

  "You heard what I told him?"

  "I didn't have to. I watched his face while you whispered in his ear."

  "I'm not a nice man, Cindy. That's what you didn't know about me till now."

  "A man who stops a bully from picking on somebody who's down? I call that nice."

  "What you don't know," said Don, "is how much I wanted to smash his face into his car. Just use his face to make dents until the bodywork on the car would cost more than the deductible."

  "I know I'm not what you wanted, Don," said Cindy. "But I've got to tell you this, you are what I wanted. But that's OK. Now that I know I'm ready to try, I'll find somebody else. I can settle for less than the best. I help my customers do it all the time. They all want perfect houses but sometimes all they can afford is a fixer-upper."

  "There's a lot of guys around who are better for you than I am."

  "Well, that's good to know," said Cindy. "Maybe I'll get lucky and meet one of those." She smiled. She even laughed. "In a pig's eye!" she said. Then she got into her car, gave him one last little wave, and drove away.

  He watched her out of sight. As he did, he could feel a kind of tingling in his hands, in his legs. Not like a tickle or an itch or a trembling, not even the prickly feeling when your leg's gone to sleep and it's waking up again. This was deeper, right to the bone, just a hunger to do something. It was maybe his rage at the owner of the house and his pet lawyer. Or rage at Bagatti. Or rage at the death of his daughter and all the things that had gone wrong and the people who had screwed up. He needed to kill somebody, to tear them apart, only there wasn't anybody to kill.

  So he charged back into the house, picked up his skillsaw and his two longest extension cords, and ran a powerline up to the room he was working on. Then he went back down and got a sledgehammer and brought it up, too. Time for this added-in wall to go. He set to work with the wrecking bar, peeling back the drywall on both sides, hacking it away, exposing the studs and the lousy wiring job that had been done to hook up the fridge and the stove. Should've been a fire years ago.

  With the studs exposed, it was time for the skillsaw. He plugged it in, turned it on, and it began to roar. Then he bit it into one of the studs at about chest height, and the roar became a whine, the sound of wood being killed.

  Down in the parlor, Sylvie was sitting on his cot when the skillsaw started up. She often sat there, leaping up and hiding in the other room when she heard him coming, so he wouldn't find her there, wouldn't accuse her of snooping. Because she wasn't a snoop. She just liked to be here. It was as if some of his warmth, some of his life clung to the cot after he slept there and lingered all day, fading slowly until he returned and replenished it with another night of his dark, hot sleep. He was a strange sleeper, this Don Lark. Not that she'd seen many men sleep in her life, but Sylvie Delaney had never felt such intensity in anybody who was sleeping. She'd stand there sometimes at night and watch him from the doorway, careful not to make any noise and waken him.

  It was so confusing since he came to the house, because sometimes she could walk around as soundlessly as ever, and other times it seemed like every move she made echoed through the house. But watching him sleep, she was silent then. She could hear how he sort of panted and gasped in his sleep. Bad dreams. She knew about bad dreams. She had had a few of those herself. Lived in one for a long time, come to think of it. But she couldn't sleep like this man. It was like he attacked sleep, a frontal assault, took it by the throat and forced it to yield him the rest he needed. Rest, but no peace.

  So there she was soaking up his warmth like some people soaked up a suntan, when that roaring began from upstairs, and then a second later a high-pitched whine like a scream, like the house was screaming, and she could feel the house around her suddenly flinch. It didn't understand. How could it? It was like surgery without anesthetic. All that tearing down Don had been doing, ripping out cabinets, extra studs, lath and plaster, the house was writhing with the pain of it like having its teeth pulled, and now this, whatever he was doing, this new sound, the house was in pain.

  Don's toolbox slid across the floor, then stopped abruptly; his favorite hammer toppled out of it onto the floor.

  "Stop it," she said.

  The hammer trembled and rattled and danced. She knew what the house was telling her to do. After all, she'd done it before, hadn't she?

  "He's making everything right again, don't you see? You've just got to trust him."

  The hammer bounced upward, then clattered back to the floor. Behind her the workbench slid slowly, then rapidly toward her, stopping right at the edge of the cot. "Cut it out!" she demanded. "I'll see what he's doing, I'll make sure he isn't doing anything bad."

  The hammer leapt into her hand. She gripped it, then deliberately dropped it back into the toolbox. "And stay there," she said. Then she ran for the stairs.

  Don had cut through most of the studs when he saw Sylvie burst into the room, looking as agitated as if the house were on fire. He took his finger off the trigger of the skillsaw. The blade howled and moaned on down to nothing.

  "What are you doing?" Sylvie demanded.

  Was he supposed to clear his day's assignments with her? "Working," he said.

  "It feels like you're tearing the house down," she said.

  He wanted to blow her off, but she looked really upset. "Look," he said, "this isn't even part of the house. The real walls are timber-framed with lath and plaster. This is a modern wall, it was just added in by some landlord trying to squeeze a few more bucks out of the house by splitting this room in two. See? It just butts up against the ceiling. A real wall would be joined to the joists above, but this one is just tucked in under the plaster of the ceiling."

  "Oh," she said.

  "So I'm putting the house back the way it ought to be."

  "I've never seen anyone do this kind of thing before," she said. "Please can't I watch?"

  "Not if you're going to go on some save-the-two-by-fours kick."

  "I'll be quiet. I just want to see."

  But he didn't want her to see. He was using this destruction as therapy. With her watching, he'd have to act professional and cool. But what could he say? Sure, he could tell her, Get out, I work alone. But they were already past that. He'd given her a key. And it's not like this job took any concentration. "Watch if you want," he said.

  He turned on the skillsaw again and polished off all but the two end studs. With them there was the danger of biting too deep and damaging the structural timber behind them. When the studs were reduced to a row of stalactites dangling from the ceiling and a row of stalagmites rising up from the floor, Don set down the skillsaw and picked up the sledgehammer. Positioning himself like a golfer, standing between studs, he took aim and swung, striking a stud low, near the floor. The nails gave way and the stud flew, clattering against the kitchen wall. He struck again, again, again, ducking and dodging the dangling studs as he went. To get the last few, though, he had to face the other way. "You got to move now," he said, "or one of these suckers is going to hit you."

  "I'm quick," she said. "I can dodge."

  "Nobody's that quick and just humor me, OK?" He felt the anger building back up inside him.

  Maybe she felt it too, because she ducked back into the doorway. That was enough for a margin of safety. He knocked out the last two stalagmites. Then he started in on the dangling studs, swinging high like a lousy Little Leaguer who hasn't learned not to try for obvious over-the-head balls. Each stud clattered across the floor until they were all gone. Now what remained were two long strips of wood screwed to the floor and spiked to the ceiling, with bent nails sticking out of them where the two-by-fours had been attached. Don pried them away from the house with his wrecking bar, then peeled the two end studs away from the walls, and the room was one big space again.

  Don stood there, panting a little, sweating. He looked over at Sylvie. She smiled at him and said, "The superhero saves the room."

  "Just call me Hammer Man," he said.

  She walked into the room and turned around, arms wide as if reaching for the walls. "It's so big."

  "This is the room that Bellamy built." Don looked around at the timbers, denuded of lath and plaster. "Of course he meant it to look a little more finished, but the size is right."

  "So from now on," she said, "you'll be putting things back in this room instead of tearing it apart."

  "A little more tearing," he said. "Here and there. Get the lath and plaster off the walls. Remove the moldings, get the drywall up. But yes, when I'm done it'll look as good as it did when Bellamy brought Mrs. B. upstairs for the first time."

  "There," she said. "I thought so."

  Yeah, she was still a loon.

  He gathered up two-by-fours and carried them down in armfuls and heaped them on the junkpile. As for the ones with nails sticking out, he took the time to remove what nails he could and hammer the others flat. No point in getting sued by the parents of some kid who got a spike through his foot because he couldn't stay off the junkpile.

  It was probably his next-to-last trip to the curb when he came back into the house to find Carville in the entryway, sitting on the bottom step. "I'm ready to haul that old water heater out," he said. "Actually, I was ready a while ago, but I been inspecting the rest of your plumbing and heating while you calmed down some."

  "Calmed down?" asked Don.

  "When I came to the door to get you a while back it looked like you was having a scene out there with some guy in a suit. Admit it, you was just showing off for the woman."

  Don was embarrassed. Cindy hadn't been the only one watching. "You just saw what I do when I don't kill a guy."

  "There was a minute there when I thought maybe he wished you would."

  "I just don't know my own strength."

  "Good thing, cause I was right about that water heater. So limed up we oughta have a winch to get it out."

  "Instead you've got the Man of Steel." Hammer Man, he thought, and almost smiled.

  "Batman and Lark."

  "Funny."

  Down in the basement, the old water heater lay like a corpse on the floor. Carville shone his flashlight around the pipes amid the joists overhead. "These are solid. You might as well keep using them, because taking them out wouldn't be worth the pain."

  "They're strong then? Nothing corroded through?"

  "If a nuclear bomb flattened this whole town, these pipes would still be hanging up there in the air."

  "Yeah, they built this place solid."

  "Any new pipes, now," said Carville. "Some of these bathrooms and kitchens was put in more recent than the others. Got cheaper pipes running along here and over here."

  "Yeah, but I won't need those now, they'll come on out."

  "You didn't need me to tell you this stuff."

  "Wanted to make sure I was right," said Don. "And I'm not a furnace guy."

  "Yeah, well, this gas furnace, don't ever hook it up, it'll kill you the first night."

  "Bad, huh?"

  "I sealed off the line till you can get a new one installed." Carville walked over and rapped his flashlight against the ancient coal furnace that must have been put in when the house was first built, because there was no way it could have been brought down the stairs. "This coal furnace," said Carville. "Man, it's big enough to heat one of those college buildings."

  "Yeah, I figured I'd just leave it down here."

  "Good choice. You know, I bet it would still work great. If you could stand shoveling the coal."

  "Or find anybody to deliver it," said Don.

  "Oh, they still do, you know. There's still a few coal trucks in the world." Carville walked around behind the furnace. "What I can't figure out is what this was for."

  "What?" asked Don. He followed Carville and saw at once what he was indicating. There was a gap in the foundation behind the furnace. It was filled with rubble, but not haphazardly—somebody had plugged a hole. No, a doorway.

  "I never actually looked back there. I mean, who'd break the foundation behind the furnace?"

  "It was probably a root cellar or something," said Carville.

  But Don knew that nobody would put a root cellar where you had to walk behind a blazing furnace to get to it. "Couldn't be a coal bin either, could it."

  "No, the chute's over there. Oh, well, you never can figure out some of the weird things people do with their houses."

  "It doesn't weaken the foundation, does it?"

  "Not with that beam over the gap. Looks to me like this was here when the house was originally built. It wasn't added in later."

  "Well, someday when I'm feeling more ambitious I'll dig it out and see what's behind there," said Don.

  "Tell you what, don't call me in on that job."

  "I wouldn't dream of it. All that's back there is Al Capone's vault anyway."

  "Nice working with you, Geraldo," said Carville. "Now pick up your end of this chunk of limestone and let's get it out of here."

  They were both strong men but they had to rest twice, getting the old water heater out. And getting it onto the junkpile had them both dripping with sweat and panting like fat old men jogging for the first time.

  "I've been younger," said Carville.

  "Yeah, but you were stupid then."

  "But I didn't know I was stupid," said Carville. "I knew you were stupid, though."

  "Go home, man, you've given me half the day, I can't afford any more."

  "Hot water'll be ready in an hour or two."

  "You did the electrical too?"

  "I'm a full-service heating and plumbing and air-conditioning guy."

  "That's why you're such a babe magnet."

  "Naw. It's my pipe wrench."

  "Take your tiny little pipe wrench and go," said Don.

  A few more dumb jokes and Carville was on his way. It was a friendship that began in high school, and that was the level it was still at. Which was OK. That was all he needed from the guy.

  The shower was all he'd hoped it would be. The new shower head didn't pulsate or anything like that, but it delivered a stream of water so intense it tingled and that was fine with Don. It was nice to shower in a tub he'd cleaned himself, instead of those truck-stop showers, which always felt kind of clammy and slimy and fungusy.

  And then to pull back the shower curtain and dry off on his own clean new towel and put on a new bathrobe and slippers—it was downright domestic. From now on living here wouldn't feel like camping anymore.

  Down in the parlor, he was just finishing buttoning his shirt when he heard Sylvie's voice from the hall. "Knock knock?" she asked.

  "I'm decent," he said.

  She came in. He sat down on the cot and started putting on socks. "Clean clothes," he said. "You ought to try it sometime."

  "The dress isn't as dirty as it looks," she said. "After a while, the old grime builds up so thick the new grime just brushes right off. Sort of Teflon clothes."

  "Bet we can market that and make a killing."

  She smiled wanly.

  "I left the soap and shampoo in the shower. Be careful cause it gets really hot now."

  "I can hardly wait," she said. "You clean up nice."

  He didn't know what to say. "Thanks." And then he had to change the subject. "Now that I'm cleaned up, I'm going over to call on those old ladies next door."

  "I thought you said they were crazy."

  "Yeah, but they really cook. Want to come, see if we can wangle two snacks for the price of none?"

  She shook her head. "I'll stay here."

  "They told me I could ask them if I had any questions about the house. They used to live here. Before you"

  "What question are you going to ask them?" asked Sylvie.

  "There's a gap in the foundation behind the old coal furnace. Might have been a root cellar or something."

  "It's nothing."

  "People don't leave a gap in their foundation for nothing, Sylvie." His shoes now tied, he got up and headed for the door. "I'm locking up behind me," he said. "You've got your key?"

  She took it out of the wilted little pocket in her sad blue dress and held it up for him to see. "Thanks," she said.

  He stepped out and closed and locked the door.

  Sylvie listened to the dead-bolt close. She didn't need the key. She knew the house would open for her whenever she asked. But it still mattered to her. The key meant that he was admitting she belonged there.

  But just because she felt better about things didn't mean the house did. She had tried and tried to calm it all afternoon, but the removal of that wall had been traumatic. "It's cosmetic surgery," she explained. "That wall was a goiter. It hurts to have it removed, but you're glad it's gone. The room is beautifully proportioned now, and the windows are in just the right places on the wall."