Because I wasn’t the only one in the zone, was I? I wasn’t the only one who was really feeling it.

I returned the phone to its recharging cradle, then went back into the north bedroom. By the time I’d finished dressing, my fresh shirt was already feeling wilted under the arms; it was as hot that morning as it had been for the last week, maybe even hotter. But I’d be in plenty of time to meet the plane. I had never felt less like partying, but I’d be there. Mikey on the spot, that was me. Mikey on the goddam spot.

John hadn’t given me his flight number, but at Castle County Airport, such niceties are hardly necessary. This bustling hub of transport consists of three hangars and a terminal which used to be a Flying A gas sta-tion-when the light’s strong on the little building’s rusty north side, you can still see the shape of that winged Ao There’s one runway.

Security is provided by Lassie, Breck Pellerin’s ancient collie, who spends her days crashed out on the linoleum floor, cocking an ear at the ceiling whenever a plane lands or takes off.

I popped my head into Pelterin’s office and asked him if the ten from Boston was on time. He said it ’twas, although he hoped the paa’ty I was meetin planned to either fly back out before mid-afternoon or stay the night. Bad weather was comin in, good gorry, yes. What Breck Pellerin referred to as ’lectrical weather. I knew exactly what he meant, because in my nervous system that electricity already seemed to have arrived.

I went out to the runway side of the terminal and sat on a bench advertising Cormier’s Market (FLY INTO OUR DELI FOR THE BEST MEATS IN MAINE). The sun was a silver button stuck on the eastern slope of a hot white sky. Headache weather, my mother would have called it, but the weather was due to change. I would hold onto the hope of that change as best I could.

At ten past ten I heard a wasp-whine from the south. At quarter past, some sort of twin-engine plane dropped out of the murk, flopped onto the runway, and taxied toward the terminal. There were only four pas sengers, and John Storrow was the first one off. I grinned when I saw him. I had to grin. He was wearing a black tee-shirt with wu ^ THE CI–IAM?IOSS printed across the front and a pair of khaki shorts which displayed a perfect set of city shins: white and bony. He was trying to manage both a Styrofoam cooler and a briefcase. I grabbed the cooler maybe four seconds before he dropped it, and tucked it under my arm. “Mike!”

he cried, lifting one hand palm out.

“John!” I returned in much the same spirit (evoe is the word that comes immediately to the crossword aficionado’s mind), and slapped him five.

His homely-handsome face split in a grin, and I felt a little stab of guilt. Mattie had expressed no preference for John—quite the opposite, in fact—and he really hadn’t solved any of her problems; Devore had done that by topping himself before John had so much as a chance to get started on her behalf. Yet still I felt that nasty little poke.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of this heat. You have air condi tioning in your car, I presume?”

“Absolutely.”

“What about a cassette player? You got one of those? If you do, I’ll play you something that’ll make you chortle.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word actually used in conversation, John.”

The grin shone out again, and I noticed what a lot of freckles he had.

Sheriffandy’s boy Opie grows up to serve at the bar. “I’m a lawyer. I use words in conversation that haven’t even been invented yet. You have a tape-player?”

“Of course I do.” I hefted the cooler. “Steaks?”

“You bet. Peter Luger’s. They’re—”

“—the best in the world. You told me.”

As we went into the terminal, someone said, “Michael?”

It was Romeo Bissonette, the lawyer who had chaperoned me through my deposition. In one hand he had a box wrapped in blue paper and tied with a white ribbon. Beside him, just rising from one of the lumpy chairs, was a tall guy with a fringe of gray hair. He was wearing a brown suit, a blue shirt, and a string tie with a golf-club on the clasp. He looked more like a farmer on auction day than the sort of guy who’d be a scream when you got a drink or two into him, but I had no doubt this was the private detective. He stepped over the comatose collie and shook hands with me. “George Kennedy, Mr. Noonan. I’m pleased to meet you. My wife has read every single book you ever wrote.”

“Well thank her for me.”

“I will. I have one in the car—a hardcover…” He looked shy, as so many people do when they get right to the point of asking. “I wonder if you’d sign it for her at some point.”

“I’d be delighted to,” I said. “Right away’s best, then I won’t forget.”

I turned to Romeo. “Good to see you, Romeo.”

“Make it Rommie,” he said. “Good to see you, too.” He held out the box.

“George and I clubbed together on this. We thought you deserved something nice for helping a damsel in distress.”

Kennedy now did look like a man who might be fun after a few drinks. The kind who might just take a notion to hop onto the nearest table, turn a tablecloth into a kilt, and dance. I looked at John, who gave the kind of shrug that means hey, don’t ask me.

I pulled off the satin bow, slipped my finger under the Scotch tape holding the paper, then looked up. I caught Rommie Bissonette in the act of elbowing Kennedy. Now they were both grinning.

“There’s nothing in here that’s going to jump out at me and go booga-booga, is there, guys?” I asked. “Absolutely not,” Rommie said, but his grin widened.

Well, I can be as good a sport as the next guy. I guess. I unwrapped the package, opened the plain white box inside, revealed a square pad of cotton, lifted it out. I had been smiling all through this, but now I felt the smile curl up and die on my mouth. Something went twisting up my spine as well, and I think I came very close to dropping the box.

It was the oxygen mask Devore had had on his lap when he met me on The Street, the one he’d snorted from occasionally as he and Rogette paced me, trying to keep me out deep enough to drown. Rommie Bis-sonette and George Kennedy had brought it to me like the scalp of a dead enemy and I was supposed to think it wasfunny- “Mike?” Rommie asked anxiously.

“Mike, are you okay? It was just a joke—”

I blinked and saw it wasn’t an oxygen mask at all—how in God’s name could I have been so stupid? For one thing, it was bigger than Devore’s mask; for another, it was made of opaque rather than clear plastic. It was-I gave a tentative chuckle. Rommie Bissonette looked tremendously relieved. So did Kennedy. John only looked puzzled. “Funny,” I said.

“Like a rubber crutch.” I pulled out the little mike from inside the mask and let it dangle. It swung back and forth on its wire, reminding me of the waggy clock’s tail. “What the hell is it?” John asked. “Park Avenue lawyer,” Rommie said to George, broadening his accent so it came out Paa-aak Avenew lawyah. “Ain’t nevah seen one of these, have ya, chummy? Nossir, coss not.” Then he reverted to normal-speak, which was sort of a relief. I’ve lived in Maine my whole life, and for me the amusement value of burlesque Yankee accents has worn pretty thin. “It’s a Stenomask. The stenog keeping the record at Mike’s depo was wearing one. Mike kept looking at him—”

“It freaked me out,” I said. “Old guy sitting in the corner and mumbling into the Mask of Zorro.”

“Gerry Bliss freaks a lot of people out,” Kennedy said. He spoke in a low rumble.

“He’s the last one around here who wears em. He’s got ten or eleven left in his mudroom. I know, because I bought that one from him.”

“I hope he stuck it to you,” I said. “I thought it would make a nice memento,” Rommie said, “but for a second there I thought I’d given you the box with the severed hand in it—I hate it when I mix up my gift-boxes like that. What’s the deal?”