The morning light was streaming through the half-closed blinds. I had slept some the night before after the doctor had attended my wound, but I could’ve used a lot more. I thanked the doctor for her consideration and settled in for a long nap. But she wasn’t inclined to leave. She replaced my chart in the plastic tray attached to the door and sat next to me.

“Michael Bettich is dead,” she said.

The news hit me so hard, I thought I had been shot again.

“Dead?”

“Four forty-two this morning. Duluth-General said respiratory failure, of all things.”

I heard her words, but I didn’t know what they meant.

“There were so many other things that could have killed her,” she added.

I still didn’t understand, and my face probably showed it.

“They said there was nothing that could be done.”

That last part got through. Only I didn’t know how to respond. My emotions concerning Alison were all ajumble. I knew too much of her history and not enough about her. So I stared blankly at the doctor, hoping she would tell me how to act.

“I told the sheriff. He didn’t take it very well. I guess he was in love with her.”

But I wasn’t. I didn’t love her. I was infatuated with the image I had created for her, that was all. And the image was incorrect, anyway. I didn’t really know Alison. We had spoken only a few words to each other.

“What will make you go away?”

“Tell me why, that’s all. Tell me why you went to all the trouble.”

“It’s a long story, and quite frankly, I see no reason to share it with you.”

“Who was she really?” I wondered aloud.

“Michael?” asked the doctor.

“Her name was Alison,” I told her.

“Who are you talking about?” the doctor asked, laying the palm of her hand against my forehead, determining if I was suddenly feverish.

“I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

I was woken by the light that fell across my face when the hospital room door was opened. “Are you sleeping?” a voice asked. The voice belonged to Gretchen.

“No,” I told her.

She came in, limping on crutches, letting the door close behind her.

“Turn on a light,” I told her.

“No lights,” she said.

We sat in the dark without speaking for—I don’t know—it seemed like a long time. In the dark a minute can be an eternity. Finally I said, “I’m sorry about Alison.” I didn’t know what else to say. I still hadn’t been able to sort it out.

“We buried her this afternoon.”

“So soon?” It was only yesterday that I’d heard she had died.

“There wasn’t any reason to put it off.”

“Her parents?”

“We buried her under the name Michael Bettich. That’s the way she wanted it.”

“I see.”

We went a few more minutes without speaking until Gretchen announced, “Sheriff Orman resigned. He’s moving to Duluth. He said he was quitting to paint full time.”

“Good for him.”

“Yeah.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Gretchen asked in reply.

We fell silent again. I liked Gretchen in spite of everything. But not so much that I was willing to conduct long conversations with her in the dark.

“Christ, Alison,” she said after a couple of minutes, her voice filled with pain and tears. “I don’t need this, I really don’t.”

Then the door was open and she was gone.

I was dressing in new blue jeans, white shirt, and gray sports jacket. They were gifts from Acting Sheriff Gary Loushine. It was the least he could do, he said.

“In my profession, you have to be smart or tough or lucky. Preferably all three,” I told him. “Lately I have been none of those.”

“Well, if you decide to quit the PI business and get a real job, you could always work for me.”

“No, thanks,” I told him. He was sitting on my bed, paging through People magazine. “How’s the investigation progressing?”

“What investigation?” he asked absentmindedly while glancing at a photo of Nicole Kidman.

I was amazed.

“The investigation into the murder of Michael Bettich!”

Loushine shrugged. “Case closed.”

“You’re kidding.”

“The UZI we took off Johannson: It fired the bullet we found in Bettich. And Thilgen. We have Johannson’s fingerprints. What more do you want?”

“How ’bout why,” I answered.

“Thilgen made a lot of threats against Michael. Thilgen had paid Johannson to do his dirty work in the past; he paid him for this job, too.”

“Why would Johannson then shoot Thilgen?”

“He was afraid Mr. Chips would give him up.”

I took the magazine from Loushine’s hands and set it on the bed. Once I had his full attention, I told him, “When I was at St. Mark’s Elementary School, Sister Agnes told us a cautionary tale: Two cars loaded with teenagers were on the highway driving toward each other at high speed. The first car had its high beams on. The driver of the second car flicked his lights to warn the first driver to dim them. The first driver didn’t. So the second driver said, ‘I’ll show him,’ and turned on his high beams, too. The drivers blinded each other, they hit head on, and everyone in both cars was killed.”

“What’s your point?” Loushine asked impatiently.

“If there were no survivors, how did Sister Agnes know what really happened?”

Loushine patted my shoulder and smiled.

“Taylor, do me a favor. Get out of town.”

Hunter Truman was in the lobby of the Saginau Medical Center, arguing over my bill. He paid it, but not before he threatened the cashier with litigation.

We left together. I drove off in my car, and he followed in his. We stopped at the Field of Hope Cemetery not far from The Harbor. It was a lonely place, little more than clearing among the trees, partially hidden from the county road. We found Alison’s grave near a stand of maples. She was buried under a marble stone that read BETTICH and nothing more. The flowers had already withered.

“Dammit, Taylor,” Truman said. “I told you to make sure that they knew it was Alison. Now I’ll need to have the body exhumed.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I strolled to a small bench, the kind you normally find next to a tee on a golf course. Truman joined me.

“I blame myself for everything that’s happened,” he said, trying mightily to sound conciliatory.

“So do I,” I told him.

“You do?” He acted surprised by my callousness.

“It worked out exactly the way you had planned, didn’t it?” I added.

“The way I planned?” Truman asked. “What are you talking about?”

“It would clinch things if it was you who defended Jimmy Johannson on an assault charge in Minneapolis last year.”

“Who?”

“It’ll be public record and easy enough to check,” I warned him.

Truman spoke slowly, cautiously.

“What if I did?” he asked.

“I expect he was very grateful. Let me guess. After the verdict he pumped your hand and said, ‘Anything, you need, anything at all, you call ol’ Jimmy.’ Am I right?”

Truman didn’t say if I was or I wasn’t.

“You were Dr. Bob Holyfield’s divorce lawyer, too, weren’t you?”

“What are you suggesting?” Truman asked.

“Nothing that can be proved,” I admitted.

And then Truman smiled. “That’s right.”

“It was the money,” I continued. “Everything could be explained somehow except for the money.”

Truman eyed me carefully.

“The fucking money,” I said. “I gave it a lot of thought while in the hospital. Let’s see if I finally have the facts straight: Dr. Bob wanted to divorce his wife and take up with his mistress, Alison. But he was afraid his wife would leave him a pauper. So he devised a way to secretly transfer all his liquid assets to Alison—with your help, I have no doubt. At least a quarter of a million dollars. I don’t know how he did it, but it’s been done before.

“Only Alison had no intention of hooking up with Dr. Bob once his divorce was final. Tie herself to that arrogant creep? Not a chance. She decided to take the money and run.