III
I put my eye on Koven. The gun was in my left hand, and my right hand was a fist. If I had hit him that first second, which I nearly did, mad as I was, I would have cracked some knuckles.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded.
My eyes were on him and through him. I kept them there for five pulse beats. It wasn’t possible, I decided, that he was that good. Nobody could be.
I backed up a pace. “We’ve found your gun.”
He gawked at me. “What?”
I broke it, saw that the cylinder was empty, and held it out. “Take a look.”
He took it. “It looks the same — no, it doesn’t.”
“Certainly it doesn’t. Mine was clean and bright. Is it yours?”
“I don’t know. It looks like it. But how in the name of God—”