“Well, you did have on that medium who claimed to be able to channel Joan of Arc and apparently she and one of her soldiers did not have a totally chaste relationship.”

Jack let out a long sigh. “Great,” he said. “That was one of the shows you tuned into.”

It was a warm Sunday night. In just a few days, the weather had shaken off its late spring chill and turned almost sultry. Jack and I were sitting at a table outside a restaurant on Seventh Avenue South, in the Village and he was telling me about his trip to Los Angeles, which clearly had not gone very well.

“But you told me they’ve been carrying your show for years. They know you. Why would they believe things like that?”

“Because there’s money involved. Blue Star Communications seems to have limitless amounts of it and they’re telling my bosses that they want to buy the company but won’t honor the contracts of anyone who’s morally unfit.”

“The Blue Awareness has an issue about morals? Maybe they can just hook you up to a Blue Box and cure you of your degenerate tendencies.”

Jack frowned at me. “Yeah, well. They didn’t offer me that remedy. All they’re going to do is buy out the rest of my contract, which just had a couple of months to run on it anyway, so they make out like bandits and I’m screwed.”

“But you’re going to sign on with World Air, right?” That’s what Jack had told me when he’d called me to arrange getting together tonight. Ostensibly, we were meeting so I could return his car to him, but I had also assumed that we were going to have a celebratory drink to toast the World Air deal. Now the situation seemed a lot less worthy of a celebration.

“I don’t have a choice,” Jack replied. “I have to say, though, I’m not as thrilled with what they’re offering as I thought I’d be. I mean, I thought they’d offer more. The deal on the table is two hours, from midnight to two A.M., five nights a week, on what they call their alternative talk channel. The problem is that my listeners aren’t exactly the kind of people who subscribe to satellite radio. There’s a big difference between what comes to you free, over the air, and something you have to not only pay an annual fee for but also have to go out and buy some special equipment to even get involved in listening. Would you do that?” he challenged me.

I thought about it for a minute. “I might,” I said.

“Yeah, you might. But then, you’re a radio freak.”

“Am I?”

Finally, Jack laughed. “You don’t know that? Boy, have you got your uncle’s disease. Same as I do. Everybody else is watching TV or surfing the web, but people like you and me . . . I don’t know. There’s something about turning on that little box and hearing voices come out of the air. It’s kind of tied up with nighttime, right? And for a lot of people, with working. People driving trucks and cabs, guys working night shifts . . .”

“Bartenders,” I added.

“Exactly. Night people. Strange, angry, weird, bored, curious, sure they’re being duped by the higher-ups who really control the levers of power . . .”

Now he had me laughing. “Well, we are, aren’t we?”

“Of course. Probably since the beginning of time. What’s scary, though, is people like Raymond Gilmartin having that kind of power. What is he but a rich guy who’s running a cult empire based on a bunch of science fiction books? Just my luck, they decided to diversify into media. And then picked me as a target.”

“Maybe you should be flattered,” I suggested. “They apparently think you have some influence.”

“I doubt it, really,” Jack replied. “I don’t think Raymond Gilmartin and his Blue Awareness disciples can distinguish between who’s just an irritation and who’s a real enemy. To them, everyone who isn’t with them is an enemy.”

Now he was sounding gloomy again; his few moments of lightheartedness had quickly fled. It was surprising to me to experience this side of him. Up until now, I had thought of Jack as a kind of unrepentant optimist. But even for him, apparently, there were a limited number of bright sides of life he could find a way to look on.

We parted around nine o’clock. He went to collect his car, which I had parked a block or so away, and I headed for the subway. When I got home, Digitaria, as usual, was waiting by the door. He was used to getting a walk at night, so I obliged him, putting on his leash and leading him downstairs.

Except for the one furtive truck lurking in an alley with its running lights on, the neighborhood was deserted, almost silent. I led the dog down to the end of the block, meaning to cross the street and walk him along the chain-link fence that bordered the marshy shore of the bay.

Just as I stepped off the curb, a van came careening down the block. I heard the sound off to my right and pulled the dog, who was a few steps ahead of me, back to the safety of the sidewalk. Holding tight to his leash, I moved back a couple of feet and waited for what I assumed was some kind of crazy drunken driver to pass by.

Only, that wasn’t what happened. The van came to an abrupt halt right in front of me, deliberately blocking my path. For a moment, I still thought that what I was confronting was just an impaired driver—until two men stepped out of the back of the van.

I knew immediately that this was a very bad situation, but was frozen in one of those moments where your eyes register what’s happening but your brain refuses to respond by initiating any kind of useful action. I saw the men walking—no, running—toward me, but did nothing. The dog, however, experienced no such hesitation. He reacted before I did.

I heard a sound come out of him that was bone-chilling—a growl that ended in yet another version of his strange, high-pitched yipping. This sound was clearly meant to be interpreted as both a warning and a challenge. I felt him stiffen at the end of the leash and then, in an instant, he pulled at the strap so hard that it ripped in half. The next thing I saw was Digitaria rushing at the two men.

He stopped just before he reached them, standing straight and still, with his tail coiled behind him like a hook. He bared his teeth and continued to emit his strange warning sounds. My thin shadow of a dog suddenly seemed deadly mean.

I hadn’t noticed it before—that frozen-brain blindness, I guess—but the two men had obscured their features by wearing yellow ski goggles, which gave them a bizarre appearance. Focusing on that for just a moment, whatever part of my mind was still logically processing information sent me a question: yellow goggles? Couldn’t they have found some that were blue?

But logical thinking was once again overcome by the kind of panic that takes away your sense, your breath and your voice. I watched them advance toward the dog, thinking they meant to walk past him to get to me. I knew I should at least start screaming, but I couldn’t seem to remember how.

Instead of moving toward me though, the men turned to the dog. One of them was holding a rope with a loop at the end. With a quick motion, he attempted to slip it over Digitaria’s head, but he never got the chance because, in an instant, the dog went into a frenzy.

Yowling like a mad thing, he leapt at the man with the rope and locked onto his arm. Then he let go and leapt at the other man, who had a box cutter in his hand. The sudden, terrifying notion that he might actually kill my dog brought back my voice. I started to scream for help.

That must have been what summoned another pair of men, who came running from behind the truck that was parked in the alley. One had a tire chain in his hand and the other was carrying an iron crowbar.

At this point, one of the two men in the yellow goggles had gotten hold of the torn piece of Digitaria’s leash that was still attached to his collar and was trying to drag the dog into the van, but each time they pulled at him, he spun around and sank his teeth into an arm, a leg, a hand . . .