Wilder looked blank. “I don’t think so.”

“But you’re not sure, hmm?” John picked up the bunch of keys, and shoved them into Wilder’s limp hand. “Let’s go check.”

“I really…uh…I don’t think that would be a good—”

“Let’s…go…check.” John hissed the last word, a sharp, silibant punch that made Wilder cringe against the door.

“Ah, um, whatever,” he muttered. He unlocked the door with hands that shook. “But I’m sure it’s useless.”

“We’ll see,” John said. Blood roared in his ears.

The place was dark, but Wilder flipped an all the big hanging banks of lights that hung from the high ceiling. He muttered as John followed him through the main gallery. They passed tables, one of which had several bottles half full of white and red wine, and trays of food with silver brocade cloth napkins flung over them.

Wilder’s nervous prattle came briefly into focus, like a radio tuning into an elusive frequency. “…useless cunt didn’t even finish cleaning up the food,” he said. “I’m kicking her scrawny little Italian ass tomorrow. If we get rats, it’s her fault.”

He started up the staircase, shooting nervous little looks over his shoulder. As if he thought John was going to play grab-ass with him.

But Wilder’s ass did not appeal to him. And it would take a lot more than that to calm the screaming, the pounding inside him.

He followed Wilder all the way around the upper balcony level of the gallery, to the lavish office in the back. Wilder unlocked the door, and pushed it open, blocking the door with his body. “Ah, one moment,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll check that address for you.”

Not in this universe, you little squeaking shitbird. John smiled and followed him in. Wilder rolled his eyes and scurried to his desk. He powered up the laptop and thumbed through his desk Rolodex. He clicked and tapped on the laptop, and shook his head.

“Sorry, no Rafael Siebling here,” he sang out. “Can’t help you.”

“Then why don’t you just do a search for me, on your computer?”

The guy looked miffed. As if he were way too important to perform such a basic, simple favor for John. As if he were better than John.

Giving him that look. The look that said, “You big, dumb fuck.”

John began walking toward the desk. Wilder turned gray, and scrambled to punch Siebling’s name into the search engine.

“Hey!” His voice was passionately relieved. “Here’s his gallery’s home site. I’ll just print out this page for you.” The printer’s buttons lit up. It hummed, and spat out a sheet of paper. Wilder grabbed it and handed it to John with a big, fake smile. “See? Address, phone number, e-mail, and website address. So glad to help. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment that I’m already late for.”

John glanced at his watch. 2:39 A.M. “At this hour?”

Wilder yanked the door open. “Don’t want to keep her waiting. You know. Women.” That genial tone, that world weary-smile irritated the shit out of John. Condescending to him. You big, dumb fuck.

The mocking words echoed in his head as he followed Brian out the door onto the gallery walkway. Wilder began walking faster. John lengthened his stride, closed the gap. Wilder began to trot.

Enough. John leaped, took him down. Wilder’s shoulder hit, with a brutal crunch, against the iron balcony rail. Wilder started to scream.

It hurt John’s head. There was already too much screaming inside, that constant screaming, driving him crazy. He grabbed the guy by his collar and his belt, lifted, swung, heaved him over the rail….

The screaming stopped.

Ah. He could breathe again, in the sweet, calm silence. John panted there for a moment, enjoying a sensation of intense relief, and began to stroll the entire perimeter of the balcony. It gave him an opportunity to enjoy the effect of his handiwork from every angle.

He was feeling much better. His vision had cleared, his breathing deepened, his heartbeat normalized. He was even feeling…nibblish.

He stopped at the table next to the enormous Waylan Winthrop bronze that held pride of place in the center of the gallery. The one he’d been so fascinated with a few weeks before. The one entitled Teeth.

He grabbed one of the napkins, and loaded it up with water crackers, mini caviar sandwiches, chunks of cheese, artichoke tarts. And a couple of juicy pineapple chunks from the remains of the fruit bowl. He’d be wise to tank up on food. There would be no time for a meal. He’d need to race to whatever airport had the earliest flight to Portland, Oregon. That old turd Haupt would insist on going, too, but at least John had finally gotten a lead. Maybe it would earn a break from the scolding. Lucky, that he’d been able to unload some bad energy.

He stuffed his face with tasty tidbits as he gazed up at the new, revised version of Teeth. Dark drops of blood plopped heavily down, dangerously close to his shoes. He moved his feet out of range and ate another couple of juicy chunks of pineapple as he gazed up, admiring the effect. He dug out his cell, framed the shot, snapped a few pictures.

He’d gotten a feeling, weeks ago, when he first saw those sharp, spiky teeth pointing straight up into the air, that the sculpture was missing something. It lacked that extra little thing, some color, some interest, that would really make it pop.

It was perfect, now.

The gophers were eating the Asiatic lilies again. He was going to have to rotate the bulbs to another field. The idea exhausted him.

Jack rocked back on his heels and stared at the big, spotted orange lilies, struggling to remember what the fuck he was doing. Bucket. Lilies. Clippers, in his hand. Yes, it would seem that he was cutting them. Then, haul them to the cooler. Before dawn, he had to drive them into Portland.

He grabbed the bucket, pushed his way listlessly through the towering stalks of Aconitum columbianum. The royal blue blossoms were about to open. The vivid pink of the Campanula medium hurt his eyes. The Penstemon azureus was about ready. And the Crocosmia ‘Lucifer.’ The gladioli, too. He was behind. Slacking off. He’d been too busy rolling around in bed to keep up with his flowers. He was going to lose money if he didn’t haul ass. That idea exhausted him even more.

He hauled the bucket across the field and squatted in front of the Physostegia, staring stupidly at the white blossoms. Snip. Put the cut stalk upright into the bucket. Mind on what he was doing. Second by second. Better to get used to it all at once. Much better than to get attached just to have it ripped away again. He’d be okay. He always was.

But she was everywhere. The cosmos flower reminded him of her posture. Colored yarrow, crimson bee balm made him think of her hair, her lips. His bed seemed as wide as a football field without her curled up in it. And her freckles. Faint constellations on her shoulders and throat. He knew them the way an astronomer knew the night sky.

He stared at a ladybug that was clambering into the glowing white cavity of a half-open Physostegia blossom, and thought of her skin, her throat. Her red hair, vivid against his pillows.

He’d never even told her he loved her. Didn’t want to confuse things, complicate things.

It was raining. He’d hunkered on his haunches so long, his feet had fallen asleep. He staggered to a tree and leaned against it, waiting for the pins and needles to die down. Rain pattering on the pine needles reminded him of the first time he’d seen her. The way her shirt clung.

He picked up the bucket and slogged toward the house, with the vague notion of making coffee, maybe some lunch, though it was late for lunch. He hadn’t eaten any breakfast. He’d have coffee. See if there was anything edible in the fridge. Didn’t really care if there wasn’t.

In his kitchen, he was as confused and slow as he had been in the field. Coffee. He unscrewed the pot, moving like an arthritic old man. Grabbed the half-and-half out of the fridge. The carton was empty.