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'
Is
the
door
locked
?
’
Case
waited
for
an
answer
,
but
none
came
.
He
crossed
to
the
office
door
and
tried
it
.
'
Julie
?
’
The
green
-
shaded
brass
lamp
cast
a
circle
of
light
on
Deane
’
s
desk
.
Case
stared
at
the
guts
of
an
ancient
typewriter
,
at
cassettes
,
crumpled
printouts
,
at
sticky
plastic
bags
filled
with
ginger
samples
.
There
was
no
one
there
.
Case
stepped
around
the
broad
steel
desk
and
pushed
Deane
’
s
chair
out
of
the
way
.
He
found
the
gun
in
a
cracked
leather
holster
fastened
beneath
the
desk
with
silver
tape
.
It
was
an
antique
,
a
.
357
Magnum
with
the
barrel
and
trigger
-
guard
sawn
off
.
The
grip
had
been
built
up
with
layers
of
masking
tape
.
The
tape
was
old
,
brown
,
shiny
with
a
patina
of
dirt
.
He
flipped
the
cylinder
out
and
examined
each
of
the
six
cartridges
.
They
were
handloads
.
The
soft
lead
was
still
bright
and
untarnished
.
With
the
revolver
in
his
right
hand
,
Case
edged
past
the
cabinet
to
the
left
of
the
desk
and
stepped
into
the
center
of
the
cluttered
office
,
away
from
the
pool
of
light
.
'
I
guess
I
’
m
not
in
any
hurry
.
I
guess
it
’
s
your
show
.
But
all
this
shit
,
you
know
,
it
’
s
getting
kind
of
.
.
.
old
.
’
He
raised
the
gun
with
both
hands
,
aiming
for
the
center
of
the
desk
,
and
pulled
the
trigger
.
The
recoil
nearly
broke
his
wrist
.
The
muzzle
-
flash
lit
the
office
like
a
flashbulb
.
With
his
ears
ringing
,
he
stared
at
the
jagged
hole
in
the
front
of
the
desk
.
Explosive
bullet
.
Azide
.
He
raised
the
gun
again
.
'
You
needn
’
t
do
that
,
old
son
,
’
Julie
said
,
stepping
out
of
the
shadows
.
He
wore
a
three
-
piece
drape
suit
in
silk
herringbone
,
a
striped
shirt
,
and
a
bow
tie
.
His
glasses
winked
in
the
light
.
Case
brought
the
gun
around
and
looked
down
the
line
of
sight
at
Deane
’
s
pink
,
ageless
face
.
