"Yeah. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry."

I started breathing again; then I took off my glove and offered my hand. He quickly averted his eyes, as if this naked appendage, pale and vulnerable in the dim light, was a part of my body he wasn't supposed to see. He made no move to return the gesture, so I stuck my hand back in my pocket.

"How'd you know it was me?" he whispered.

"I didn't know it was you," I said, matching his whisper, "but I know who you are. I would remember anyone who stood up to Big Pete."

He was perfectly still, as I'd seen him in the ready room, the only movement coming from his eyes, quick and alert, locking onto the faces of occasional strangers who happened by, making sure, I presumed, they were strangers. It was disconcerting to see him this nervous.

"Then why'd you send the fax?"

"On a hunch. I found your note to Ellen on the fax machine at her house."

He thought that over. "You took a big chance."

I didn't even want to think about all the chances I'd been taking. "Could we go someplace where it's warm and talk about this? My ears are so cold they're burning. I think that's a bad sign." I took a hopeful step in the direction of Charles Street, but he didn't budge. He didn't even turn in my direction.

"Why'd you want to meet?" he asked.

"I want to know why Ellen Shepard killed herself."

"Is that what you think? That she did that to herself?"

I walked back and stood right in front of him, sniffling. My nose was starting to run from the cold, and I didn't have any tissues. "Do you know otherwise?"

He still wasn't moving, and I knew what he was thinking. If he knew or he didn't, why tell me? I reached back for what I'd been feeling the moment I'd sent that fax. "I'm having a hard time with the union, with Big Pete, and maybe even with my own boss. I'm feeling overmatched and I'm looking for help. That's why I sent it. I need help, and I thought that if you were willing to help Ellen, you might help me, too."

He stood for a moment longer in his zippered jacket, T-shirt, and jeans, an ensemble that struck me as lightweight for the conditions. Then he offered his hand, big and callused, and I grabbed it. He wasn't wearing gloves, but his skin was warm anyway. For the first time he looked me in the eye. "Let's go," he said. "You shouldn't be out here by yourself."

"Too many windows," he explained, referring to Ciao Bella. "We would have been sitting right out on the street in one of the busiest parts of town."

"Would it be that bad to be seen with me?"

"By the wrong people, yeah, it would."

No one was going to see us here. We'd tried two other places before he'd approved of this one, a basement space off Charles Street with exposed brick, a big fireplace, but no windows and only two patrons besides us. I noticed how tiny the coffee mug looked in John's hands. I remembered his quiet confidence as he'd stood in the middle of the ready room and stared down Big Pete. And now he was telling me there was something at the airport that scared him. We were sitting in front of the fire, but I couldn't seem to feel its warmth.

"I told you why I sent the message," I said. "Why did you respond?"

He set the mug aside and rested his arms on the table, making a solid piece of furniture feel rickety. "My brother, Terry… I heard Big Pete offered him up in a deal for Little Pete."

"He did."

"I also heard you didn't take him up on it, so I figured you would maybe listen to the whole story before you made a decision."

"I'm more than willing to hear your brother's story, but he's not talking. I'm beginning to wonder if he was even at his own fight."

"He was there, and it's a good thing."

I sat back and studied John's face. It was a big face with a slightly crooked nose, a wide forehead, and a look of disgust that he was trying unsuccessfully to hide. "Little Pete was drunk, wasn't he?"

"They didn't do the test. How'd you know that?" He looked at me hard. "Is someone else talking to you?"

"No. I hear things. And next time, if there is a next time, there will be a test. The supervisor is being disciplined."

"For all the good that will do."

"Tell me what happened. If you want help for your brother, I need to know."

He let loose a long, dispirited sigh, then began, reluctantly, to tell me the story. "Little Pete was tanked up when he got to work that night. He sat in the bag room for a few hours drinking, from what I hear, about a dozen minis straight up. Myers's Rum-dark, that's what he likes. Then he got in a tractor, and while he was driving across the ramp, he fell out."

"He fell out of a tractor?"

"That's how he cut his head."

My chest started to tighten as if something were squeezing the breath out of me. Sometimes I threw my anger right out like a fishing net, catching what and whoever happened to be in range. But I couldn't be angry with this man. How could I? This time the anger seemed to settle in my chest and stay there like asthma. "Did Terry tell you this?"

"Yeah. But I also checked with enough guys I know it's true."

"So there were witnesses."

His back stiffened and he stared into his coffee cup. "I'm not giving any names. I'm only speaking for my brother here."

"I understand."

"So Little Pete's down on the ramp bleeding, but the tractor is still going. It misses the aircraft on Forty by about a foot and rams a bag cart instead. Also runs over a B727 tow bar. Terry sees all this and tells him to get somebody to drive him home. Little Pete says go to hell and starts staggering for the tractor. Terry tries to stop him and that's when Little Pete jumps him. You can check it out. The maintenance log will show a tow bar out of service that night."

I didn't need to check. He was telling the truth.

"And that's not even the worst of it."

"It's not?" I was almost afraid to hear the rest.

"Little Pete was running a crew that night, and one of his guys figured out while they were loading the airplane that he'd reversed the load."

I sat back in my chair. I couldn't even find the words to comment.

"Fortunately," John said, "they caught it before it ever left the gate. His crew sent him inside while they fixed it."

I felt numb just thinking about what could have happened. It's one thing to lose a bag or delay a flight and ruin someone's day. It's quite another to put them on an airplane that won't stay in the air because the load's not properly balanced and the load is not properly balanced because the crew chief was so drunk he couldn't tell the front of the aircraft from the rear. That would be hard to explain.

"Terry has to give a statement, John."

"He's waiting to see what you'll do to him if he won't."

"I'll fire him."

He nodded. "That's what I told him. If he says what happened, will he keep his job?"

"It's the only way he'll keep his job."

"And Little Pete gets canned?"

"If it's the last thing I do."

He angled toward the fireplace, turning his entire upper body, moving the way heavily muscled men have to move. His eyes were fixed on the dying flames, and he looked tired. More than tired, bone-weary. It was the same look I'd seen on Dan a few times. I waited. I knew he'd talk again when he was ready.

"When I first started at the airport," he said, still staring into the fire, "I was working down on the mail dock. My second or third day on the job, the union sent down a steward to tell me to slow down. He told me I was showing everybody up and if I wanted to keep working there, I should ease off. I told him to go pound sand."

"How'd they take it?"

"They gave me one more warning. Then one night in the parking lot, these two guys come up from behind and jump me. The one tried to grab me, I broke his arm. The other one ran away when he heard the bone snap."