It was a night of front porches.

Diane and I have an ancient oak swing on the porch of our building, and from half a block away I could see that it was moving to and fro in a tight arc. A solitary person sat smack in the middle of the seat.

I was guessing it was a homeless man. I pulled five bucks from my wallet, remembered what day it was, and replaced the five with a twenty. I held the bill folded in my hand. In my Thanksgiving fantasy the man would use the money to sit at a nice table in a nice restaurant and treat himself to a bountiful plate of turkey and stuffing.

The porch was in shadows. From the end of the driveway I couldn’t make out the age or gender of the visitor.

Nor did I recognize the voice when he said, “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. You should be home with your family. I know I wish I was.”

I stopped walking. “Excuse me. Who are you? Do I know you?”

The swing stopped moving, and the man stood. He was still in the shadows, but I could tell that he wasn’t tall. “I brought you something. An explanation.” He waved some paper at me. An envelope, maybe. “I thought it might help save somebody. I was just going to stuff it through the mail slot when I saw your car. Felt the engine; it was warm. I thought I’d take a chance that you’d be coming back.”

“I still don’t know who you are.” I hadn’t moved. I remained right where I’d been on the narrow driveway. Ten yards of drought-starved lawn and a border of unhappy euonymus separated me from the stranger on the porch.

He moved forward inch by inch, and with each inch the light from the streetlamps seemed to crawl up his body like water rising in a flood.

As the light moved up from his shoulders and began to paint his face, I said, “Oh my God.”

“Hi,” Sterling Storey said. “What a week it’s been, huh?”

What did I think?

I thought,Catch me.

At first, Holly didn’t even notice the woman with the covered dish. The chaos associated with the arrival of her oldest sister’s family for Thanksgiving dinner was demanding all of her attention. The woman with the dark hair and the perfect skin and the casserole waited patiently through a procession of hugs and kisses, waited until no one remained on the porch but the two of them.

“Holly?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Remember your friend from church? From the basilica?”

Holly hesitated.Could she mean…?

“He said to mention the organ.”

She could.“Uh, yes. I remember.”

“He’s around the corner. Right this minute. He’d like to see you again.”

She stammered, “I have guests.”

“He knows. He wants to see you while they’re here. In your house. He thinks it will be fun. Especially fun.”

Holly took the woman’s elbow and guided her a little farther from the door.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Holly emphasized “you.”

“I want to watch. That’s what I want.”

“Watch?”

“At Notre Dame I was the woman in the purple suit. Remember me?”

Holly remembered. “My family… what-“

“Move them into the living room for a picture. Everybody. He and I will come in the back, go down into the basement. We’ll know when, because you’ll turn off the kitchen lights.”

“And then… what?”

“Before dinner you excuse yourself, say you’re going to take a bath. He’ll be waiting downstairs. Me too.”

At that moment Holly felt an explosion of anticipation. She felt it as she might feel the wind, or an ocean wave. It washed over her, covered her completely, engulfed her.

“Take this,” the woman said, handing over the casserole.

“What is it?”

“Some music. Some directions. Put it on, and turn it on as soon as you get to the basement. I should go. Someone may be watching us.”

Holly could barely breathe through the moist heat of expectation. She watched the woman go down the sidewalk and chanced a glance at the Cherokee with Colorado plates on the next block.

She went back inside. Fear?

Hardly.

Anticipation.

She peeked inside the casserole and saw the Walkman.

Her pulse shot way north of normal.

Once again she was off on an adventure. She was about to dash across the Brad Pitt line, again.

The family picture was a fiasco. Holly turned off the kitchen lights and herded everyone into the living room. Getting the ten children in place was like trying to get a bunch of houseflies to soar in formation.

Photos taken, Holly pulled the turkey from the oven, asked her oldest sister to remove the stuffing, and excused herself for a quick bath.

Instead of going into the bathroom, though, she scurried down the stairs, stopping halfway down to pull the headphones on and to hit the button on the Walkman marked “play.”

Her voice, not his. The music in the background? Chant. Gregorian chant.

Nice.

“Bottom step? See the duct tape? Wrap a long strip around your head, covering your mouth. Good. Now do another. We’re in the laundry room. Before you join us, take another strip of tape and bind your wrists. It’s not easy to do, but I’ve done it. You can do it, too.” Pause. “It’s what he wants. What do you want?”

A few moments of silence, then:

“Are you ready, Holly? When you’re ready, open the door to the laundry room. And come on in.”

I expected worse.

I was prepared for a whole mess of blood. I expected to find Holly’s head bashed in-for some reason, that’s how I thought she would be killed-but I was wrong. Holly’s wrist and ankles were bound, and she was gagged. Duct tape. She was sitting on top of the washing machine, not the dryer, and her pose was absurdly proper, significantly less erotic than the laundry room loop that had been playing relentlessly in my brain.

A Walkman hung from the waistband of her skirt, earphones in place on her head.

Gibbs? She sat across the room in an alcove barely large enough for an orange plastic chair that would have been labeled for a buck at a yard sale and would probably have gone unsold at the end of the day. Her legs were crossed, left over right. She was gripping a kitchen knife with a five-inch blade-a good knife, she’d probably brought it from home-in her right hand. A cell phone rested on her lap.

She looked as lovely as she had the first time I met her. But that didn’t matter to me at all this time. Not a lick.

Right.

“Let me go, Sam,” she said. It was as though Carmen and Holly weren’t even in the room.

Gibbs had two handguns pointed at her chest-mine and Carmen’s-and yet she’d managed to make her request sound perfectly mundane, like she and I were out on a date and she was wondering if I’d mind getting her a beer.

“Drop the knife, Gibbs,” I said. I’d like to say I barked the order. Or yelled it. But I didn’t. I merely said it.

“If you don’t let me go, Sam, I’ll kill myself. I will. I’ll plunge this right into my chest.”

Where did my head go at that moment? For some reason I thought about those crazy people who destroyed art treasures in museums. Like the guy who took a hammer to Michelangelo’sPietà. I thought,Gibbs, no! You can’t!But I also knew-instantly-that my silent protest wasn’t about Gibbs, the person. It was about Gibbs, the lovely art.