Dobbs started the engine. “Yes, me again. Now, which door? We go through this every time, and I, for one, am getting bored with this little innocent routine you insist on playing. This stuff won’t stay fresh for long, not in this weather.”

The woman in the car next to me looked like she might burst a vein in her head if she held her laughter in much longer.

“Never mind,” said Dobbs to the Mickey-D’s crewperson. “I understand, all these witnesses and everything.” He winked at her. “We’ll find it.”

The young woman slunk back inside, shaking her head and muttering.

Dobbs pulled his Quarter Pounder out of the bag, unwrapped it, lifted the top part of the bun to check it, and then shrieked. Everyone else—including me—jumped at the sound.

“Oh, my God!” said Dobbs. “It’s true. God help us all, it’s true!”

He backed out then, shouting, “Soylent Green is people! Soylent Green is people! Soylent Green is peeeeeeeeeeeeeeople!”

The man in the other car gripped the steering wheel and placed his forehead against the backs of his hands. His daughter was jumping up and down, shouting “Soylent Green is people!” The woman in the farthest car was howling with laughter, and customers inside were lining the windows, staring.

Dobbs stopped at the exit, opened his door, and—brandishing his Quarter Pounder like it was the Olympic torch—stood up on the running board: “I can’t take it anymore! I warn you all—fear the Mystery Meat! Fear it! Fear it! For the love of all that’s good and decent, FEAR IT!” Then he got back inside the wagon and drove away as if nothing had happened.

After we were back on the road, I said: “You’re a very weird person, Dobbs.”

“But not boring. Gotta give me that much.” “What about your pension? Won’t you get into trouble if someone calls to complain?” “I haven’t yet. I pull this routine every time I get a new CS sidekick. Consider it your initiation.” “I thought the idea was to cheer me up.”

Dobbs shrugged. “Actually, the idea was to cheer me up. You were turning into a real Gloomy Gus.”

I figured I wouldn’t be going back to that particular McDonald’s anytime soon.

* * *

The rest of the day wasn’t nearly as interesting.

We took Miss Driscoll to the morgue, filled out the paperwork, then read over our orders for the rest of the afternoon: taking a body from the morgue to the Henderson Funeral Home (then more paperwork), picking up another body from the nursing home and transporting it directly to Criss Brothers’ Funeral Home (two different sets of paperwork on that one), topped off with moving a third body from Criss Brothers’ to Henderson’s because of a screw-up with someone else’s paperwork. (We never did get that one figured out, so no paperwork for us. Hoo. Ray.)

When I got home that night, there were three messages: the first was from Russell Brennert, assuring me once again that my job was safe, not to worry, my crew was doing fine, he’d checked up on them himself, and if I wanted to switch shifts to get in some evening hours during my CS period, he’d be more than happy to arrange it; the second message was from one of my crew members, telling me that things had gone okay and everyone was wondering if I’d still be handing out the paychecks at the end of the month or if they’d have to go to the office for them; and the last message was from Barbara Greer, my lawyer.

“Meet me for breakfast at the Sparta tomorrow morning. 8:30. It’s important.”

I’ve known Barb since high school. She used to date Andy Leonard. Like Brennert, she’d endured no end of suspicion and abuse from people during the months and years after the murders. And also like Brennert, she and I have never once discussed what happened that night.

Barb is not a person who talks in short sentences; she tends to preface things, give details, and lean toward excessive small talk, even when leaving phone messages. (I’ve always suspected that silence makes her uncomfortable, hence her always keeping the conversation going.)

There was a tension in her voice that I hadn’t heard since the murders.

And she used short sentences.

And she hadn’t asked me to meet her, she’d told me to. (Barb never orders anyone. Never.)

Whatever was going on, it must be important. She knew I had to be in the meat wagon with Dobbs by nine a.m. sharp, and if the traffic was on my side I could make it from the Sparta to the coroner’s office in about 15 minutes.

I fixed myself some microwave macaroni and cheese, popped open a soda, and watched a Cary Grant movie called People Will Talk that had one of those happy endings that leaves you with a lump in your throat. After that I washed the dishes, read the paper, then went to bed.

Yes, it’s a full life I lead.

4

“Where is it?”

Opening my eyes, I saw the digital clock on my bedside table.

4:42 a.m.

The voice from my dream was fading. I sighed, rolled onto my back, and started to drift off once more when a hand I could have sat in clamped around my neck and began to squeeze.

“Where is it?”

I opened my eyes and saw two bulky shadows leaning over my bed. One of them pressed down, increasing its grip around my neck. The pressure was enough to hurt me but not completely cut off my breathing.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” said this shadow, “and then we’re going to hurt you.”

I struggled against the grip but it did no good. “Where’s what?” I managed to get out.

“The map you stole from Road Mama’s apartment.”

Road Mama? Okay, I was still dreaming. Cool. Not quite so scared shitless now. “In the back pocket of my jeans. On the chair over in the corner.” “You shouldn’t have stolen it, you know.” Strange, how your conscience works on you. All day long I’d felt bad about taking that damned thing. One of the dream-shadows moved away from the bed. I heard some rustling, then: “Got it.”

The pressure was released from around my neck as the second shadow let go to remove something from its pocket. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.” It leaned down once again, and I felt a short sting in my right arm, and then everything got warm and shiny and I rode the high back down into sleep.

* * *

When the alarm went off, I stumbled out of bed, dry-mouthed, groggy, arms and legs feeling like rubber, and grabbed my jeans from the chair in the corner.

The map was gone.

For several seconds, I was afraid to breathe.

Then I got angry, grabbing a baseball bat from the closet and stomping through the apartment in only my underwear, kicking open doors, ripping aside the shower curtain, shouting curses and promises of broken kneecaps.

Then I noticed that the deadbolt and security chain were still in place.

I made another macho-man sweep of the apartment, at one point opening the refrigerator door to make sure no one was hiding in there (yes, I know…), and finally deciding that I just wanted to get the hell out.

Check the other pocket, you idiot.

Back in the bedroom, I grabbed my jeans and checked all the pockets.

No map.

So if it wasn’t a dream, how in hell did they get in? (And, for that matter, how did they leave?)

Just to make certain, I checked the front door—locked; I checked all the windows—locked; the sliding glass doors that opened onto the patio in back—locked; the

refrigerator again—I needed to buy groceries.

I stood in the middle of the kitchen, tapping the business end of the bat against the side of my leg and shaking.

Maybe it was a dream, I thought. Sure, a dream brought on by an overly-scrupulous conscience. Maybe you took the map out of your pocket and put it somewhere else and that’s why it isn’t in your jeans.