Angelo?”
Charles stared out the window, through the lace curtains. The street was dark except for all the lights- streetlights, headlights, houselights. “The best thing. Why am I having to decide that for so many people?”
“We asked for this responsibility.”
“We didn’t ask to judge him, just to supervise him.”
“It all goes together,” Dorothy said. She sighed. “I think everything should just stay the same. He could have been in prison. How much mercy should he receive?”
“There is no end to mercy.”
Above the roofs there was no end to the dark.
“What is the best for Angelo?” Dorothy said again.
“Dorothy,” Charles said, slowly, his eyes still on the dark. “I am not God. I don’t know. How can I know?”
“I didn’t say you were God,” she said. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I’m sorry. I was talking to myself.” His eyes were on the black night. “Why did Karen Liu intervene? If we hadn’t found Derek’s papers, we would never have met her.”
“It just happened, dear.”
“What would we do if he were our son?”
“Charles?” She watched him closely, as he still watched out the window. “I can take care of this. I’ll just say that everything has been fine so far, we hope it won’t change, but we don’t want to push one way or the other.”
Charles wiped his forehead and his hand was covered with sweat from it. “That’s fine. That’s what’s best.”
“You seem distracted this afternoon, Derek.”
“A situation at the office, Charles. Somewhat out of control.”
“Is it serious?”
“More than it should have been. I might have overplayed my hand.”
“You often use game metaphors when you talk about your work, Derek.”
“Everything is a game. Everyone is an opponent.”
“I hope I’m not.”
“Only in chess, Charles.”
“I wouldn’t want to play against you in anything more important, Derek.”
“You would be a worthy adversary. But I have more than enough to worry about as it is.”
“You have a very different view of life than I do, Derek. I see human interactions as generally cooperative.”
“Then here’s a game, Charles. Your view of life, or mine? Which would win?”
“Mine doesn’t find value in winning. We could say, Which accomplishes the greatest good, yours or mine?”
“Mine doesn’t find value in the greater good. We need an intersection, Charles, where our views cross.”
“Personal contentment?”
“Personal success.”
“Perhaps, Derek, the winner will be whichever of us believes he is winning.”
“And how do we play, Charles?”
“Just living our lives, Derek.”
“More than that. Let me think, Charles. Perhaps I’ll find the proper game board for our game of lives.”
“And if I don’t want to play?”
“That’s part of my side of the game, to set you to.”
TUESDAY MORNING
Storms rode the fast wind and in the wind rode everything that wasn’t held fast. Loose clothing whipped around solid limbs, including Charles’s jacket and the sleeves and legs of Patrick White’s dark suit, standing on the front steps of the shop.
“Mr. White!” Charles’s voice was whipped by the wind, too. “What can I do for you?”
“We need to talk,” Mr. White said. He had no smile.
“Just a moment, and I’ll open the door.”
He turned the key and stepped into the abrupt tranquility. He turned the lights on and the alarm off. Mr. White turned the tranquility off.
“I’ve come to warn you,” he said. He was in the center of the room, an emotional whirlwind. Every volume on the shelves was watching him.
“About what?” Charles said, trying to get some of the attention for himself.
“Borchard. He’s getting ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“His next murder.”
The doorknob rattled.
Patrick White spun to face it. His back was now toward the counter, but Charles could still tell what his expression was because it was mirrored in Alice’s face as she opened the door. There was a brief motionless moment, and then the wind hurled Alice over the threshold and almost into Mr. White’s arms.
“Good morning, Alice,” Charles said at his calmest.
Her keel evened, and she managed to get around the visitor and to safety behind the counter. “Good morning, Mr. Beale.”
Charles had stepped forward and faced the bloodshot eyes of the storm.
“Let’s go downstairs,” he said at his even calmer calmest.
The books in the basement noticed Patrick White, but they were less impressionable. They knew human nature; they took his measure and then returned to their own business.
“Mr. White. Please, sit down.”
The judge took his seat at the bench, and Charles slid around to his own chair behind the dock.
“Now,” Charles said. “I will be candid. You’ve come four times now to rail against John Borchard. I want you to understand that I don’t know if anything you’ve said is true. These accusations are very serious and you could get in trouble for making them. I also don’t know why you’re making them to me.”
But Mr. White was gone, his jaw slack, and his blank eyes staring far away. Charles turned toward where he was looking, but the view was hidden.
He chose not to wait for the return. “Mr. White?”
“It’s you.”
Charles lost focus himself for a moment. “What?”
“He’s going to kill you.” Then the stare was on him full and ferocious. Charles’s was still foggy.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. Believe it or die. You’ll die if you don’t believe it.”
“I still don’t.”
“Then it won’t be my fault.” He shuddered in frustration. “I’ve done everything I can. I’m trying to save your life.”
Charles wavered. “Why would he want to kill anyone?”
“He’s mad.”
Charles tried wavering in a different direction. “What makes you think he would want to do anything to me?”
“He’s building a bomb.”
Even the books were now paying attention again.
“How do you know?” Charles asked.
