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anything but think it. If you feel like you gotta turn it over in your mind, that’s okay; that’s legal. Could be it’s even some sort of release.”
    “Listen to him, Fred,” Laura said. “Remember what he’s telling you.”
    Devine said, “Some things you should leave alone, Fred. That’s just the way it is.”
    Carver set his cane and stepped around Devine and Laura. “Call me if you need anything,” he said.
    “You call us ,” Devine said magnanimously, as Carver limped out.
    Carver drove north on 100, stopping once, at a grocery store, for a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label. Then he put up the canvas top on his rusty Oldsmobile convertible and continued north toward his cottage, driving too fast.
    The cottage was isolated on a curve of bright sand. A low finger of land jutted out to the north, and the public beach to the south was seldom occupied by swimmers and sunbathers, never crowded. Carver had bought the place with his disability settlement last year after being shot.
    He entered the one-room cottage, sniffed the stale air, and left the door hanging open. The sparse furniture had a dusty, unused look about it, and the viny potted plants that dangled on chains from the frame of the wide front window were dark and dead. Outside, the ocean whispered like a vicious gossip. Damn, the place was depressing!
    After prying open a couple of screened side windows, Carver sat at the Formica breakfast counter with the bottle of Scotch in front of him. He didn’t feel like uncapping the bottle, wasn’t sure why he’d brought it. A fat and glistening blue-black fly touched down exploringly on the counter, and he watched it crawl, wobbling out of sight over the far edge. Story of life.
    “Carver.”
    Edwina was standing in the doorway. He stared glumly at her.
    “Great welcome,” she said, “but not unexpected.”
    “I don’t feel like Mr. Effervescence,” Carver said. “Don’t feel like companionship. That’s why I came here.”
    She walked inside and stood near him. He used his cane to shove one of the stools out from the counter for her. Its legs made a loud scraping sound on the plank floor.
    Edwina sat down and said, “You came here to grieve and brood about how you’re going to avenge your son’s death.”
    “Incisive bitch.”
    She smiled. “That’s me.” She stood up, got a glass from the cabinet above the sink, and rinsed it out. Then she poured two fingers of scotch from the bottle and handed the glass to Carver. She sat back down, got a small brown plastic bottle from her purse, and set an incredibly tiny white pill in front of him on the counter.
    “What the hell is that?” he asked, staring at the pill.
    “It’ll help you sleep. It’s prescription stuff I’ve had around the house for about a year. It’s still plenty potent, though. I took one last month. It’ll have you blotto in no time.”
    “I don’t want to be blotto, God damn it! Don’t want to sleep. How’d you know I was here?”
    “Desoto told me.”
    “Figures.”
    “He’s your friend; he knows what’s best for you.”
    “He’s a plague.”
    “You know better.”
    Carver did. He picked up the pill, popped it into his mouth, and washed it down with a generous pull of Scotch. It was so minute he had to probe around the inside of his mouth with his tongue to be sure he’d swallowed it.
    “C’mon, baby,” Edwina said, and helped him to stand up, though he didn’t need help. She acted as if he should be groggy from the pill he’d taken only seconds before. He used the cane for balance for both of them and let her think she was supporting him. Easier than arguing with her.
    They made it to the bed and Carver lay down and she removed his shoes, dropping each of them to the floor with a loud thunk. Then she took off her own shoes and stretched out next to him. The bedsprings squeaked, then were quiet.
    “I’m going to find whoever did this,” he said. “Don’t try to talk me out of it.”
    “I