The last time he’d seen the inside of the house was five years ago, the day he’d finally worked up the courage to leave.

Rolling down the blacktop under the canopy of elms wasn’t so different from driving through a tunnel. One that led to a past he had no desire to visit.

He passed the houses slowly—the green one, the yellow one, another green one, a beige one—all old, all unique in their own way despite the obvious similarities that came from having a common builder. Same gutters, same windows, same shingle roofs. Kevin locked his eyes on the white house, the fifteenth of the twenty on Baker Street.

Here resides Balinda and Eugene Parson with their thirty-six-year-old retarded son, Bob. Here is the childhood home of one Kevin Parson, adopted son, formerly known as Kevin Little until his mommy and daddy went to heaven.

Five minutes. Okay, Kevin, time’s running out.

He parked the car across the street. A two-foot picket fence ran around the front yard and then rose to six feet for its run around the back. Here the fence was painted brilliant white, but once you stepped past that gate to the right, it wasn’t painted at all, except by years of black ash. A flower bed ran the length of the front porch. Fake flowers, pretty and maintenance-free. Balinda replaced them every year— her idea of gardening.

A gray stone statue of some Greek goddess stood on a pedestal to the right of the Parsons’ elm. The front yard was immaculate, the neatest on the street, always had been. Even the beige ’59 Plymouth in the driveway had been recently polished so that you could actually see a reflection of the elm in its rear quarter panel. It hadn’t been moved in years. When the Parsons had reason to leave the house, they favored the ancient blue Datsun parked in the garage.

The shades were drawn and the door had no windows, making it impossible to see inside, but Kevin knew the inside better than he knew his own house. Three doors down stood the smaller brown house that had once belonged to a cop named Rick Sheer, who had a daughter named Samantha. Her family had moved back to San Francisco when Sam went off to college.

Kevin wiped his palms on his jeans and climbed out. The sound of his door slamming sounded obscenely loud on the quiet street. The shade on the front window separated momentarily, and then closed. Good. Come on out, Auntie.

Suddenly the whole notion of coming felt absurd. Slater obviously knew his facts, but how would he have knowledge of Bob’s dog? Or that the dog had indeed been Kevin’s best friend until Samantha had come along? Maybe Slater was after Dr. Francis or the priest. Sam had made the call. Smart.

Kevin paused on the sidewalk and stared at the house. What now? Walk up and tell Balinda that someone was about to blow up the dog? He closed his eyes. God, give me strength. You know how I hate this.Maybe he should just leave. If Balinda had a phone, he would have called instead. Maybe he could call the neighbors and—

The door opened and Bob stepped out, grinning from ear to ear. “Hello, Kevin.”

Bob wore a lopsided crew cut, undoubtedly Balinda’s doing. His beige slacks hung a full six inches above a pair of shiny black leather wing tips. His shirt was a dirty white and sported large lapels reminiscent of the seventies.

Kevin grinned. “Hello, Bob. Can I see Damon?”

Bob lit up. “Damon wants to see you, Kevin. He’s been waiting to see you.”

“Is that so? Good, then. Let’s—”

“Bobby, baby!” Balinda’s shrill voice cut through the front door. “You get back in here!” She appeared out of the shadows wearing red high heels and white pantyhose patched up with streaks of clear fingernail polish. Her white dress was lined with age-stained lace embedded haphazardly with a couple dozen fake pearls, the surviving remnant of what had once been hundreds. A large sun hat perched on jet-black hair that looked freshly dyed. A string of gaudy jewels hung around her neck. But it was the white makeup she applied to her sagging face and her bright ruby red lipstick that planted Balinda firmly in the category of the walking dead.

She glared past heavily shadowed lids, studied Kevin for a moment, and then turned up her nose.

“Did I say you could go out? Get in. In, in, in!”

“It’s Kevin, Mama.”

“I don’t care if it’s Jesus Christ, pumpkin.” She reached forward and straightened his collar. “You know how easily you catch cold, baby.”

She ushered Bob toward the door.

“He wants to see—”

“Be nice for Princess.” She gave him a little shove. “In.”

God bless her soul, Balinda really did intend good for that boy. She was misguided and foolish, certainly, but she loved Bob.

Kevin swallowed and glanced at his watch. Two minutes. He cut for the gate while her back was still turned.

“And just where does the stranger think he’s going?”

“I just want to check on the dog. I’ll be gone before you know it.”

He reached the gate and yanked it open.

“Gone! You’ve turned running away into a new art form, haven’t you, college boy?”

“Not now, Balinda,” he said calmly. His breathing came faster. She marched up behind him. He strode down the side of the house.

“At least show a little respect when you’re on my grounds,” she said.

He checked himself. Closed his eyes. Opened them. “Please, not now, Princess.”

“That’s better. The dog’s fine. You, on the other hand, are not.”

Kevin rounded the house and stopped. The familiar yard sat unchanged. Black. Balinda called it a garden, but the backyard was nothing more than one huge ash heap, albeit a fairly tidy ash heap, three feet deep at its center, tapering off to two feet along the fence. A fifty-five-gallon drum smoldered at the center of the yard—they were still burning. Burning, burning, every day burning. How many news-apers and books had been burned back here over the years? Enough for many tons of ash.

The doghouse stood as it always had, in the back left corner. A toolshed sat unused and in terrible need of paint in the other corner. The ash had piled up against its door.

Kevin stepped onto the hardened ash and then ran across the yard for the doghouse. Less than a minute. He dropped to one knee, peered into the doghouse, and was rewarded with a growl.

“Easy, Damon. It’s me, Kevin.” The old black lab had grown senile and testy, but he immediately recognized Kevin’s voice. He whimpered and limped out. A chain was latched to his collar.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Balinda demanded.

“Good boy.” Kevin stuck his head into the old doghouse and squinted in the darkness. No bomb that he could see. He stood and walked around the small house.

Nothing.

“What is he doing, Princess?”

Kevin turned back to the house at the sound of his uncle’s voice. Eugene stood on the back porch, staring out at him. He wore his customary English-style boots and riding pants complete with suspenders and a beret. The skinny man looked more like a jockey to Kevin, but in Balinda’s eyes, he was a prince. He’d worn the same outfit for at least ten years. Before that it was a Henry V outfit, awkward and clumsy on such a petite man.

Balinda stood at the edge of the house, watching Kevin with wary eyes. The shade lifted in the window to her left—Kevin’s old room. Bob peered out. The past stared at him through those three sets of eyes.

He looked down at his watch. Thirty minutes had come and gone. He reached down and patted the dog. “Good boy.” He unleashed him, tossed the chain to the side, and headed back for the gate.

“What do you think you are doing with my property?” Balinda asked.

“I thought he could use some exercise.”

“You came all the way out here to let that old bat off his chain? What do you take me for? An idiot?” She turned to the dog, who was following Kevin. “Damon! Back in your house. Back!”