I head north into Sunnyvale with a head full of carpet tacks. My foot hops up and down on the gas in time with my mood; I slow down just enough to exit on Fair Oaks, and wrap myself around a red marble of anger as I approach Tommy's place.

The building is desolate when I get there, lawn sweating off the morning sprinklers, just a rusting Cutlass and a microbus to keep the parking lot company. I tuck the Seal of Solomon in my pocket as I get out, take a quick spin to get my bearings. Two more cars in a blighted lot across the way, a Filipino guy on a smoke break outside the corner store. Perfect.

I stroll toward the building like I'm here on my lunch break, take the steps two at a time. I'm not even thinking as I get to Tommy's door; I just pound on the wood, step back, and try to play calm, but my muscles aren't having it.

The floor inside the house creaks. "Who is it?" Tommy calls, throat cinched up as usual.

"Cop-o-gram."

He shifts behind the door. "Randall?"

"One and only." I chuckle despite myself.

There's a heavy clack as Tommy unlocks the door. "Did you find her?" he asks, before the door's even open. "Did you find the girl, is she—"

I open the conversation with my fist.

Tommy chuffs back two steps, sits down on a rickety chair. Empty boxes spill off the card table next to him; he manages a whole syllable of objection before I give him another one in the nose.

"Did you do it?" I scream. "Did you do it?" I get flashes as I grab him by the collar, snapshots of the girl that only turn up the volume on the anger.

"I what?" he shrieks. "Did I what?"

My brain rips in half. "Don't fuck with me, Tommy. You're all over that girl's memories! Did you do it?"

"No!" He's squealing, eyes rolling in his sockets. "No, no, I'd never, I wouldn't, what disgusting—"

"Don't talk to me about disgusting!" I taste bile. "Don't talk to me about disgusting, Tommy, just tell me—"

"I didn't do it!" He's red-faced, big gobs of salt-water on his cheeks. "I didn't do it, God"—he can't breathe—"God, Randall, why would you think that?"

"Because you used to only be a step up." I give him the poisonous look I keep seeing in the mirror. "And because you somehow stumbled across a dying girl in the next town south from where you live."

Tommy shakes his head. "I didn't...Randall, I'd never...I'd never."

Crossing my arms is the best way to control my fists. "So then, explain it to me, Tommy." My pulse sets up a mining rig in my neck. "Tell me why I should believe you."

"I got...shit." His face crinkles; his words come out soaked. "I got...you won't believe me..."

"Not right now, no."

"I got a phone call."

My temper cracks down the middle. I want to believe it can't possibly be that simple, which keeps the iron in my voice. "Phone call?"

It's pathetic when a broken man nods. "Yes, one of those...some kind of taped message. Anonymous call." He presses a hand to his bloody nose, looks at the red stain like it's a UFO. "They told me where the missing girl was, they told me, they told me they wanted me to have her..."

"Uh huh," I interject, before I read Tommy's take on that suggestion. "You didn't recognize the voice?"

"It wasn't just one voice, it was five, six, maybe seven..." Tommy shakes his head. "I don't get it, Randall, I don't know why they called me—they have to be in the know, right?" He looks up at me, imploring. "They have to be."

"I'm not sure, Tommy." I feel his fear in my spine, feel him rolling up tight as I get closer; all his attention's on my hands. "I guess so, but—"

I press my hand to his. I get Tommy curled up in the dark, the pressure of the telephone on his ear, the rolling chill of revelation. Then there's a burst of him running toward a red and pink shape—I break contact and do my best to just breathe.

"Now I know so." I grin through the shudders. "Sorry about that, Tommy, needed you surprised to—"

I stop, cock my head toward the door. Tommy follows my movement, understands a second later. A cloud of empty rage just rolled up from downstairs, thick and smoggy; it lingers, jams steel rods into both of our backs. It's an emotion with layers, anger, sadness, pain, resignation like a boulder in the middle of my stomach. My pulse gets back to work in raw earnest.

I look at Tommy, take a step forward, but I'm conjuring theories that make me want to do anything but open the door. I watch the front window curtains for silhouettes, pat the Seal in my pocket in some vain bid for comfort. Then the emotion coils up in a burst of genuine shock, and it's gone, only a vague echo of serenity to mark where it used to be. Our eyes widen in tandem; we both look toward the door, and let out a decade's worth of breath as a car engine rattles off down the street.

"Someone got dumped?" Charlie suggests.

"Could be." But I've still got a raw nerve rolling around in my head. I fill my head with business. "You don't remember anything about the phone call, nothing special? Time?"

"Sure." He's got a face full of confusion. "They told me—they told me the hotel, the address, room number, everything, said where she'd be..."

"Which was where?"

"In the bathroom," he snipes, all that confusion gone kinetic. "The voice said she needed medical attention, but I—Randy, that girl should've been with me, should've been"—there's a flash I don't like, and by the way Tommy swallows he knows it—"I had to go myself."

My mental tumblers click into place. "And get your psychic fingerprints all over it." The words come out slow, bloated with discovery. I pinch the bridge of my nose. "This is planned out, shit, Tommy, this is planned out..."

"Planned out?" He gets it a second after he asks the question. "Randall, you really think so?"

"It's not so much 'think' anymore." I sniff, shake my head. I'm still listening to the outside, but all I'm getting is calm. "Damn it.

"...Damn it." I rub a hand across my face as the past two minutes click together in my brain. When I look at Tommy, my whole face sinks. "Tommy, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

Tommy looks again at his hand. He's a jumble of broken thoughts, flashes of a world outside his head that he doesn't quite have room for. "It's okay," he quavers. "It's really okay, Randall, it's really..."

I put a finger to my lips, and Tommy's acceptance dies out with a squeak. Now I feel like an ungrateful thuggish asshole. I shrug, and sigh, and head for the door.

"Thanks for the info," I say. I can't quite look him in the eye.

"You bet, Randall. You bet." He's unctuous now, trying desperately to smooth his world over. "If I can help, if I can do anything, take care of the girl..."

He trails off right as my gorge heaves. I take the doorknob in hand, make myself look back.

"Sure, Tommy. I will." The door shivers as I pop it open. "Make sure you lock your door."

Tommy blinks, but all he says is "Good luck, Randall."

"You too Tommy."

I close the door behind me, glance out over the parking lot—there's a new van next to the Cutlass, a happy-faced VW spotted with brown birthmarks. Before I've even registered the color I look down at the stairs, watch my feet, watch my car, anything to avoid looking again at the van. I get into my car, and let myself glance over at it. No movement, no noise. I pull out of the parking lot, and drive without further hesitation toward Fair Oaks.

My hand shoots down to the floorboards as I turn right; I've got some torn envelopes, a notebook, plastic grocery bags...my fingers go stiff as I find a hardcover book. I pick it up, drop it onto my lap—it's the Riverside Chaucer, to my chagrin—as I make two more rights and turn as slow as my nerves will let me onto Tommy's street. I park the car on the curb, book in hand, and leave the door unlocked.

The place looks like I left it thirty seconds ago, still L-shaped, still tacky; there's the Cutlass, and the big white van with the brown crumbs of neglect, and the man in the fisherman's vest taking prolonged, shuffling steps across the balcony outside Tommy's door.

Needles dance down the surface of my body. I press the Chaucer against my stomach, and seriously reconsider my stance on guns. My self-preservation starts signing its Dear John letter as I sprint toward the apartment.

"Hey!" I shout, as loud as I can manage. "What are you doing up there?"

The guy jerks around, starts, and goes pelting down the stairs. Unfortunately, he's headed for the staircase nearest Tommy's door, which puts him on a collision course with me. I shoot around the corner with the book out in front, and plow all nine hundred odd pages straight into a weather-chipped white face.

The man flies backward, smashes into the side of the building; he recovers while I'm still stumbling, and comes at me with a knife. Something inside me is swearing; I swing in a clumsy arc, feel the wind from the guy's slash, and almost laugh as I chop the book corner-first into his forehead.

He makes a noise like a drain full of mud, drops the knife, and ducks low to slam his shoulder into my gut. We go down in a tangle, and there's a flash of crimson as I connect with the lawn. Then pain snaps through my head, and the guy (big nose, weak chin, eyes like a Dario Argento movie) is rearing his hand back for another punch. I take it in the eye, feel some capillaries bust, and get a quick flash of gold light, dark-skinned mouth, familiar-looking tile.

"Nrk."

I reach out, grab onto him, try to get my hand up near his throat. My arm brushes the chain around his neck, and I'm zapped with a thought of angels in flight, sad-faced golden men with wings made of flames and swords made of regret. I startle backward, and I want to pretend it's cunning of me to give him a picture-perfect view of my chin.

He punches me again, and my equilibrium cashes out. There's someone yelling, and the guy in the vest is straining in the back of his throat. He bashes me across the cheek; I feel well-chilled panic and a half a second of a memory: him looking through his tears at a lit wooden match. I make myself go limp after the next punch.

The weight comes off my stomach; the lawn chuffs under someone's footsteps. There's more shouting, more running; someone leans down next to me, and I look up with bruising eyes at a Filipino man with the world's roundest face. Somewhere to my left, a car engine starts up.

"I'm okay," I slur. I rise to my elbows. "Don'tcallthecops." I look around, try to figure out left from right. "Don't call the cops."

"Are you okay?" His voice needs a better muffler.

"Yes." I sound like I've got two tongues in there; I rub a hand across my cheek, and regret that my nerves all still function. "Yes." I cough. "Be okay."

I get up, almost lay down again; but in my fumbling, I see what I'm looking for. I waddle over to the staircase, lean against the railing, and grin with a mouth full of blood at the old man's discarded knife.

"Gotcha."