MY OFFICE was dim, the blinds drawn, but I didn't turn on a light. I went straight to my desk and took the pistol from the bag. It was covered with donut crumbs.
The clock on my wall said 9:01.
I shined the gun against my pant leg, removing the crumbs. Then I loaded the bullets.
When the clock flipped to 9:02, I picked up the phone to call Sarah.
The line was busy.
I put down the phone. I tried jamming the pistol into my jacket's right-hand pocket, but it was too big to fit: its butt protruded and its weight made the parka hang at an odd angle on my body.
I took off my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt, and slid the pistol into my waistband, barrel first, fiddling with it until it felt secure. It was in the center of my belly, sharp and cold against my skin, its grip pointing to the right. Its weight there gave me a peculiar charge, a little burst of excitement, making me feel like a gunslinger in a movie. I buttoned up my shirt but left it untucked, so that it covered the gun. Then I put my parka back on.
The clock changed to 9:03.
I dialed home again. Sarah answered on the first ring.
'It's him,' I said.
'What do you mean?'
I told her quickly about the badge, about how he hadn't wanted his picture taken, and how I'd called his name on the street. She listened quietly, not once questioning any of my deductions, but even so, as soon as I started to speak, I felt my sense of certainty begin to seep away. There were alternative explanations for everything that had occurred, I realized, all of which were just as plausible, if not more so, than the idea that Agent Baxter was an impostor.
'I called the FBI,' Sarah said.
'And?'
'And they said he was on field duty.'
It took me a second to absorb this. 'They have an Agent Baxter?'
'That's what they said.'
'You asked for Neal Baxter?'
'Yes. Agent Neal Baxter.'
I stood there for a moment, frozen, the phone clamped against my face. I was shocked; I hadn't expected this at all.
'What do you think that means?' I asked.
Even over the phone I could sense her shrugging. 'Maybe it's just a coincidence.'
I tried to force myself to believe this, but it didn't work.
'Baxter's not that uncommon a name,' she said.
I could feel the pistol digging into my gut. It felt alive, like it was kneading my stomach. I repositioned it with my hand.
'He might've even known there was a Neal Baxter,' she said. 'He might've picked the name on purpose.'
'So you're saying it's him?'
'Think about what you just told me, Hank. About him not having a badge and all.'
'I didn't say he didn't have a badge. All I said was that he didn't show one to Carl.'
Sarah didn't respond to this. Behind her, in the background, I could hear Jacob's teddy bear singing.
'Just tell me,' I prodded her.
'Tell you what?'
'If you think it's him.'
She hesitated, and then, 'I do, Hank. I really do.'
I nodded but didn't say anything.
'Do you?' she asked.
'I did,' I said. I walked from my desk to the window. I lifted the blind and peeked out at the day. Everything was cloaked in mist. The cemetery's gate looked black in it, like a net, the tombstones beyond it gray and cold and indistinct.
'I guess I still do,' I said.
'So you're coming home?'
'No. I'm going.'
'But you just said--'
'I got a pistol, Sarah. I borrowed it from Carl.'
There was silence on the other end, and I could feel her thinking. It was as if she were holding her breath.
'I'm going to protect him,' I said. 'I'm going to make sure he doesn't get hurt.'
'Who?'
'Carl. If it's Vernon, and he pulls a gun, I'm going to shoot him.'
'You can't do that, Hank. That's insane.'
'No,' I said. 'It isn't. I've thought it out, and it's the right thing to do.'
'If it's Vernon, it's important for us that he escapes. That way no one else will know how much money was on the plane.'
'If it's Vernon, he's going to kill him.'
'That's not our problem. We don't have anything to do with that.'
'What're you talking about? We have everything to do with it. We know what Vernon's going to try and do.'
'It's just a guess, Hank. We don't know for sure.'
'I can stop him if I go.'
'Maybe, maybe not. A pistol's not like a shotgun. It's a lot easier to miss with. And if you miss, he'll kill you both.'
'I'm not going to miss. I'm going to stay right up next to him the whole time. I'll be too close to miss.'
'He's a murderer, Hank. He knows what he's doing. You wouldn't have a chance against him.'
The bear continued to sing behind her, its voice slow now, shaky. I pushed the gun farther down into my belt. I didn't want to listen to her, wanted just to go, but her words settled into my mind like tiny seeds, sprouting pale shoots of doubt. I began to waver. I tried to revive my determination by imagining how it would feel to draw the pistol from beneath my coat, to crouch down like a cop on TV, aim at Vernon's chest, and pull the trigger, but what I saw instead was everything that could go wrong -- the gun snagging on my shirt; my boots slipping in the snow; the gun not firing, or firing wide, or high, or down into the ground at my feet, and then Vernon turning on me with his wooden smile.
I realized with a shock that I was scared of him.
'You have to think of the baby, Hank,' Sarah said. 'You have to think of me.'
My dilemma seemed simple: I could either go with them or stay away. To go would be the braver choice, I knew, the nobler one, but also the riskier. If it was really Vernon who was waiting across the street, then he was probably planning on shooting both Carl and me. By going home, I'd escape that. I'd leave Carl to his fate, whatever that might be, and save myself.
I stood there pondering these two alternatives. Sarah was silent, waiting for me to speak. My left hand was in my pocket; I could feel some coins in there, my car keys, a little penknife that had belonged to my father. I pulled out one of the coins. It was a quarter, a bicentennial one.
I tossed the coin into the air, caught it in my palm.
It was heads.
'Hank?' Sarah said. 'Are you there?'
I stared down at the quarter with a pit of fear in my stomach. I'd wanted it to be tails, I realized, had been praying for it with all my heart. I debated flipping it again, going for two out of three, but I knew it didn't really
