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"Three days ago."
"'They know how it started?"
"Something in the storage place, something flam-"
"Flammable?"
"Yeah," he said through a gap-toothed smile. "Maybe on purpose. Something about insurance."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh. My dad said maybe business was bad."
"It's been known to happen," I said. "Was anybody hurt in the fire?"
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"They thought maybe the artist who lived upstairs got burned up because nobody could find him. But
they didn't see any bones or anything like that. It was a good fire. Burned a long time."
"Was it nighttime or daytime?"
"Nighttime. I watched from over there." He pointed to a place across the street and back in the
direction from which I had come. "'They put a lot of water on it."
"Did you see anyone come out of the building?"
"No," he said. "I got here after it was burning pretty good."
I nodded and turned back toward my car.
"You'd think bullets would explode in all that fire, wouldn't you?" he said.
"Yes," I answered.
"But they didn't." I turned back.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
He was already digging in a pocket.
"Me and some of my friends were playing around in there yesterday," he explained, "and we found a
mess of bullets."
He opened his hand to display several metallic objects. As I moved toward him, he squatted and
placed one of the cylinders on the sidewalk. He reached out suddenly, picked up a nearby rock and
swung it toward it.
"Don't!" I cried.
The rock struck the shell and nothing happened.
"You could get hurt that way-" I began, but he interrupted.
"Naw. No way these suckers will explode. You can't even set that pink stuff on fire. Got a match?"
"Pink stuff ?" I said as he moved the rock to reveal a mashed shell casing and a small trailing of pink
powder.
"That," he said, pointing. "Funny, huh? I thought gunpowder was gray."
I knelt and touched the substance. I rubbed it between my fingers. I sniffed it. I even tasted it. I
couldn't tell what the hell it was.
"Beats me," I told him. "Won't even burn, you say?"
"Nope. We put some on a newspaper and set the paper on fire. It'll melt and run, that's all."
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"You got a couple of extras?"
"Well . . . yeah."
"I'll give you a buck for them," I said.
He showed me his teeth and spaces again as his hand vanished into the side of his jeans. I ran Frakir
over some odd Shadow cash and withdrew a dollar from the pile. He handed me two sootstreaked
double 30's as he accepted it.
"Thanks," he said.
"My pleasure. Anything else interesting in there?"
"Nope. All the rest is ashes."
I got into my car and drove. I ran it through the first car wash I came to, since the wipers had only
smeared the crap on the windshield. As the rubbery tentacles slapped at me through a sea of foam, I
checked to see whether I still had the matchbook Luke had given me. I did. Good. I'd seen a pay phone
Outside.
"Hello. New Line Motel," a young, male voice answered. "You had a Lucas Raynard registered
there a couple of days ago," I said. "I want to know whether he left a message for me. My name's Merle
Corey."
"Just a minute." Pause. Shuffle. Then: "Yes, he did."
"What does it say?"
"It's in a sealed envelope. I'd rather not"
"Okay I'll come by "
I drove over. I located the man matching the voice at the desk in the lobby. I identified myself and
claimed the envelope. The clerk-a slight, blond fellow with a bristly mustache-stared for a moment, then:
"Are you going to see Mr. Raynard?"
"Yes." He opened a drawer and withdrew a small brown , envelope, its sides distended. Luke's
name and room number were written on it.
"He didn't leave a forwarding address," he explained, opening the envelope, "and the, maid found
this ring on the bathroom counter after he'd checked out. Would you give it to him?"
"Sure," I said, and he passed it to me.
I seated myself in a lounge area off to the left. The ring was of pink gold and sported a blue stone. I
couldn't recall ever having seen him wear it. I slipped it on the ring finger of my left hand and it fit
perfectly. I decided to wear it until I could give it to him.
I opened the letter, written on motel stationery, and read:
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