Things like this don't happen in 1953. So I didn't get loaded that night. I went home, went to the davenport, sat down and told myself they don't happen. Things like this have never happened, will never happen. What occurred last night was something in the bottom of a bottle of Jamaica rum.
"Thinking, Mr. Anders?"
I took a slow breath. He was swaying gently in the air a foot from my elbow and he was still a black mucous scum, as he had been the night before. I got up.
I said, "I'm not loaded tonight. I haven't had a thing all day." I took two steps toward him.
He wasn't there.
I took another breath—a very very slow breath. I turned around and went back to the davenport.
He was back again.
"They'll find that musket," he said. "I have no use for it now. You see I wanted it only to convince you, Mr. Anders."
I put my hands on my knees and didn't look at him. I was suddenly trying to remember where I'd put that Luger I'd brought home from Germany a couple years back.
"You're not quite convinced yet, Mr. Anders?"