WILSON AWOKE IN A ROOM PAINTED EASTER YELLOW WITH A window that overlooked a small patch of grass. There was an IV in his arm and a nurse looking over something on a clipboard. The blinds were open and Wilson blinked at the fog and then he heard a foghorn somewhere within it.
The nurse said, Okay, I’ll let you two be.
Huh? Wilson said. But when he turned his head he saw who the nurse was referring to.
How are you feeling? Price said.
He was sitting in a chair next to the bed and there was a plate of cookies on his lap.
I’ve been better, Wilson said.
I brought you cookies, Price said. Would you like a cookie?
No, thank you.
I was going to bring flowers, Price said, but I was unsure of how you would feel about being given flowers by another man. Might give the wrong impression.
Price shrugged.
He asked, May I have one? One of your cookies?
Wilson turned his head on the pillow and looked at the ceiling and made an ambivalent gesture.
Price took a cookie from the paper plate and ate it in two bites. He brushed his hands together to get rid of the crumbs.
Made it out of there okay, Price said. Didn’t you?
I wouldn’t say it like that.
How would you say it then?
I would say I just barely made it out of there.
It could have gone much worse.
I consider this much worse, Wilson said.
How old are you, Agent Wilson?
Thirty.
Thirty, Price said. I would have guessed thirty-five or so. But thirty makes sense.
Why does that make sense?
That answer you gave. Your reasoning. That’s the kind of answer a young man would give. Immortality is something all young men believe in. Feel like it’s been bestowed upon them solely. Like death isn’t real and you’ll live forever.
Is this some kind of philosophical lecture? Wilson asked.
No.
Then what’s your point?
My point is that it can always be worse. And at its worst, it’s you six feet in the ground.
Wilson looked out the window. Price put the plate of cookies on the counter behind him and then took off his Stetson and propped it on his knee.
How is it that you found yourself in that alley, Agent Wilson? Price asked.
I walked there.
Randomly? Just by coincidence?
I was looking out of my window and I saw someone that piqued my suspicion.
Piqued your suspicion, Price said. So you just decided to go take a look?
Yes.
Alone?
Just me, yes.
Did you think it was him? The Port Cook Killer?
Is that what you’re calling him?
Price shrugged.
You’re dealing with a pretty serious man, Agent Wilson, Price said.
I know exactly what I’m dealing with.
Do you? Price said. Because if you did, you’d run. You’d get the hell away from here and quick. And you certainly wouldn’t be tracking him down dark alleys in the middle of the night all by your lonesome. Shooting at the car like you did. Trying to bust it up.
Price snapped his tongue. Shook his head.
This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Agent Wilson, Price said. Thirty is awfully young to die.
Price’s tone instantly darkened.
You might want to let the grown-ups take over from here, he said.
A game? Wilson said. He let his tone match Price’s. Again with the games. Games are big with you, aren’t they? For playing the role of such a serious guy, you sure like to keep things light.
Price smiled with his lips together. His eyes went flat. He stood from his chair and squared his Stetson. He pulled up on his belt. When he did Wilson caught the glint of the nickel-plated Desert Eagle .50 holstered at Price’s hip. Wilson’s eyes snapped quickly at it and then snapped away. Price noted the exchange and levered his eyes to admire the gun.
Desert Eagle, Price said. You like it?
No, Wilson said. Not really.
Pity, Price said. Hope you feel better.
He touched the brim of his hat like a cowboy. At the hospital-room door he stopped and turned back to Wilson. Said, You try to stay out of trouble. Then he left.
It was a strange conversation, and it was strange for many reasons but the strangest part, and by far the most interesting to Wilson, was that he hadn’t told anyone about shooting at the car or even about the car itself.