"Hey," Rich turned to me, scratching at his shaggy, ill-trimmed goatee, "howdid it go with the creepy stalker dude Friday? Did you have to fend him of...with mace like we suggested?"My head reeled a bit, trying to recall exactly what they were talking about-or guess what they might be referring to, if I had no memory of it. Could Ihave no memory of it? Could Ione have been involved in something that Ihadn't? My head spun."What...creepy stalker guy?" I asked tentatively, still finding it weird. Golden, in fact, was no worse than woozy with a bad headache; he'd actually regained consciousness unaided, and had been the one to call for help. I'd shot Quiller in the chest all right, but I'd missed everything really important—it was, after all, only a low-caliber pistol round—and he, too, was expected to recover after surgery to remove the bullet.In fact, as time went along we became quite pals-y. At one point I remarked about the rental car I'd left at Union Station, and an FBI guy. More

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