his father grabbed him by the shoulder and wrenched him around. Mr. Stockton’s face was an alarming shade of red, except for a branch of arteries in his brow, which bulged, pale and shiny, in high relief.
“You fuckin’ asshole,” Peter’s father said. “You know what you just did? You just wrecked his fucking trophy. Mr. Fallows paid thirty thousand for that cat, and now there’s a hole the size of a golf ball in its face.”
“Dad,” Peter gasped. His eyes were shiny with shock and grief. “Dad.”
“It’s not ruined,” Fallows said. “Easily fixed by the taxidermist.” He stared up into the darkness. “I might be ready for the taxidermist myself.”
Peter Stockton looked from Fallows to his father and back again with brimming eyes.
“How you like that, Pete?” Christian said. His own giddy voice was muffled and distant, as if he had cotton wadding stuffed in his ears. “Mr. Fallows just saved your ass. Lucky for you! That’s your best feature.”
The Saan bushmen had gone still in the tense aftermath of the gunshot. Now, though, they roared with laughter and erupted into cheers. One of them grabbed Peter by the hands, and another shook a beer and let it foam over the teenager’s head. In a moment Peter went from close to tears to crying out in laughter. Stockton gave his son a resentful, furious look—and then his shoulders dropped and he laughed, too.
Christian felt a cool trickle of air on bare skin and peered down, fingering two long slashes in his shirt. The very white chest beneath was unmarked. He laughed and looked at Fallows.
“I’m going to keep this shirt the rest of my life. That’s all the trophy I need.” He considered for a moment, then said, “Thanks for not letting me get clawed to bits.”
“I didn’t save anyone. You moved first. You jumped like a deer.” Fallows was smiling—but his eyes were thoughtful.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Fallows,” Christian told him modestly.
“We know what’s what around here, Fallows,” Stockton said, reaching down with his big hands to squeeze the little man’s shoulder. “We know a man when we see one.” And he turned his beer over and poured it on Fallows’s head, while the Saan whooped it up.
Christian gently collected up his drawing pad from the dust so no one could see what he’d been drawing.
Stockton Repays a Debt
When the bell chimed, Stockton went to the door of the suite and opened it a crack. Fallows was in the hall.
“Come in. Be careful, though. It’s dark in here,” Stockton warned him.
“What’s with the lights?” Fallows asked as he slipped into the room. “Are we attending a presentation or a séance?”
The lights were off and the curtains drawn in Mr. Charn’s corner suite on the fourth floor of the Four Seasons, across from the Boston Common. A single lamp shone, on an end table, but the usual lightbulb had been swapped out for one that was tinted red. Stockton had expected the red light. Stockton had seen the Edwin Charn show before.
He opened his mouth to explain—or try to explain, or at least press Fallows to be patient—but Charn spoke first.
“Get used to it, Tip Fallows,” came the reedy voice, wavering with age. “If I offer you a spot on my next huntin’ party, you’ll need to get used to the half-light. What’s to be shot on the other side of the little door will be shot at dusk, or not a-t’all.”
Charn sat in a striped easy chair to the left of the love seat. He wore a sprightly yellow bow tie and suspenders that pulled his pants too high. Stockton thought he dressed like the benevolent host of a television program for small children, one where they practiced naming the colors and counting to five.
The boys sat together on the love seat, Peter in a tailored Armani suit, Christian in a blue blazer. Christian didn’t come from money, had made it to private school on his wits. Stockton was proud of his son for looking past the other boy’s secondhand wardrobe and for quietly accepting Christian’s broke, shy, strictly religious foster parents. Of course, Christian was probably the only reason Peter had himself graduated from private school—Stockton was sure Christian let him copy on exams, and he’d probably written more than a few of Peter’s papers. That pleased Stockton as well. You looked out for your friends, and they looked out for you. That was the very reason Stockton had insisted on introducing Fallows to Mr. Charn. Fallows