MONDAY 10:17 A.M.

I was in the office. It was several weeks since the worst blizzard in Chicago history in four categories, amount of snow, top sustained wind speed, low barometric pressure, and low temperature.

The day of the plane crash, international developments erupted in headlines around the world. I suspect that as I talked to them that last time, they’d been sending their data to every newspaper and political organization they could find. Hell, for all I knew, sent to every blog post including the ones devoted to cute kittens.

They’d dumped a great deal of secret information about foreign and domestic governments, terrorists, and right wingers. The Internet, newspapers, and political organizations around the world had been aflame all these weeks.

Their deaths in the crash made huge headlines. The possibility of recovering their bodies, dismissed as impossible. One small government in the Middle East had collapsed. The usual Middle Eastern terrorist groups bragged and claimed killings, but as far as I could tell, they were killing each other. Or maybe I hadn’t been paying enough attention and that’s what they’d been doing all along. Several right wing groups in this country were trying to find somebody to sue.

I’d had someone verify the flash drive of them dumping anti-gay terrorists off the roof of five story buildings. It was genuine.

The sheik Jerry had been guarding had decided to marry his favorite escort. Jerry had helped him hire a permanent security force. The sheik could afford it.

Georgia had caught the men trying to screw our client who owned the bar. The bad guys were paying him back quietly, as the client desired. We’d monitor them. If they slipped up, they had the threat of police intervention.

Duncan signaled he needed to come into my office. I put down the newspaper. He came into the office with a large, awkward, flat package. Behind him were two burly men.

Outside the temperature was thirty-three degrees above zero. It was agreed by all the weather forecasters that spring would arrive eventually. Hard to miss on that. Except for the new blizzard predicted for the end of the week.

Duncan placed the package on my desk and said, “These two express messengers just delivered this.”

I glanced at the men, then the package. On the outside it looked like a locked, gigantic pizza box, all metallic gray. There were no labels on the box, no address.

I gazed at the men. “Who is that from?”

The largest of the burly men said, “We deliver from the Gallery Roux.”

I said, “Never heard of it.”

Duncan said, “I Googled it. Very exclusive art gallery and auction house in the French countryside south of Paris. Near a place called Brioude, Auvergne.”

I said to the men, “What’s inside?”

The big guy said, “We just provide security and deliver.”

Duncan said, “There’s two more guards in an armored truck double parked outside on Diversey.”

The big guy produced a set of keys and proceeded to unlock tiny little locks. When opened and the lid raised, I saw a key pad. The small guy then produced an iPhone which he ran over the newly revealed keypad display, the way you would use a phone to pay at Starbucks. Several more soft clicks ensued.

All the metallic folderol was followed by a wooden box which itself was stuffed with soft packing material. When all was removed, they stood a framed painting on my desk. I looked at the artist’s signature. Matisse.

I glanced at the Picasso, remembered Jamie Vincek’s words about how it needed a companion on the other wall, maybe a Matisse.

I asked, “What’s going on?”

Big burley guy said, “We just deliver and provide security.”

Duncan held out his phone. “I called the gallery. It’s evening there, but they stayed open. They’ve been expecting your call. Guy’s name is Claude.”

Claude spoke English with a slight French accent. He said, “Congratulations, Mr. King.”

“Why am I getting this?”

“Our client prefers to remain anonymous. He said you would ask, but silence was part of the purchase price for the painting.”

“Skinny kid,” I began.

“I’m sorry sir.”

“When was it purchased?”

“The purchase was finalized late last week. It was brought in for shipping and security yesterday. We’d been notified of its impending arrival three days ago so we could prepare. These things need some delicacy in transfer.”

The big, burly guy handed me a packet of papers. Claude said, “You have the papers?”

“Just now.”

“You will find proof of provenance and transfer of ownership.”

I glanced at the papers. Duncan, who knew French, looked them over then pointed at various spots in them, “It says you own this thing.”

I said to Claude. “This is real?”

“The Matisse? An original? Most assuredly.”

The painting had mostly random bits of fruit in various spots on a table, as if someone had done a still life, but first spilled the fruit from the bowl all over, then painted them.

Claude went on, “I was assured you have sufficient security to take possession of the painting. That you have a Picasso for which you have the most up-to-date precautions.”

I said, “Yeah.”

“Then we are fine. Let me speak, please, with Renard.”

I held out the phone, “Renard?”

The big guy took the phone and listened for three minutes. Said, “Oui,” and handed the phone back to me. Renard clicked his heels, and he and his buddy marched out. Duncan made sure they got out the door, and then he came back in.

We both gazed at the damn thing.

I said, “The first time he was in here, Vincek mentioned the Picasso needed a friend on the opposite wall.”

Duncan said, “They’re not dead?”

“At least Vincek isn’t.”

Duncan pointed again. “There’s a sealed envelope with it.”

My name was calligraphed on the front in blue-black ink. It was on a cream colored, heavy wedding-invitation-weight envelope. I opened it.

All that was inside was a note on matching heavy card stock. In the same calligraphic font as on the envelope it said, “The six of us thought you might like this.” It was signed, Robin Hood.

I showed it to Duncan. He gaped at the note, the picture, then me. He said, “All six of them are alive?”

“According to this.”

Duncan left me alone. I thought about the vicissitudes of the universe. I was not going to be diving in the depths of Lake Superior now in icy winter or in the height of summer looking for remnants of bodies that might or might not be somewhere in the vast blackness at the bottom of the lake.

I thought about Kurt Vonnegut’s notion in Chapter Ten of The Sirens of Titan when Rumford tells Constant that people like the thrill of the fast reverse, and it doesn’t matter if the reverse is from good fortune to bad or vice versa. They’d gotten me from thinking they were dead to now presuming they were alive. I guess I’d have to live with the ambiguity of their existence or lack thereof.

Maybe that’s what they wanted. Vincek, the manipulative shit to the very end. But the new painting did fit quite well with the décor. I decided to keep it and let the vicissitudes of the universe take care of themselves. I couldn’t solve everything.