The Walker

by Bryan Harrison

The first death I saw that summer was Frank Barber. I heard the whine first, brakes yelping against the pavement like some trapped animal, then the thud. That was when I looked, because the thud was way too loud to be what I knew it had to be and, of course, turned out to be: Frank.

He was a sudden a pile of ragged laundry held together by twisting limbs, bouncing into the intersection to the chorus of brakes and horrified screams. Behind windshields, mouths formed voiceless “Noooo”s and shock was written in all the faces bobbing in the ensuing sea of attention.

I couldn't stay afloat. The wall at the edge of Farnly's lot gave me the vantage, though my shoes gripped the crusty lip uneasily.

Frank was dead. That much was plain. Not that I thought there could be any other outcome to his quick relationship with the hood of the monstrosity, Ms. Hooper’s car, but seeing him there in front of me was different. No movie actor could ever look so dead.

It was the first one that summer, and He was there.

I really didn't notice him that first time. Rather, I remembered his presence when I saw him again. It was an instant recognition. Not so much because of what he wore or the way he looked, which was indistinct. It was what he did, or what he didn't do and that was stand out. He was, for all practical purposes, invisible. I wondered how in fact I had ever noticed him at all.

Picture the scene. There's Frank in the middle of the street, bloody, his body lain in angles all wrong to living things, his skinny face froze in an expression more dramatic than I'd ever seen on him, and then the old Hooper widow, all feathered hat and white gloves shakin' and trying to look like she might have a slight bit of composure left, fingers working at that fluffy thing she always wore around her neck and all the tears and 'I-never-even-saw-him's'. All of a sudden comes the restless sea of faces, rushing in waves from buildings and cars and trucks and commuter busses and everybody twitching all talking about 'I saw this' and 'Did you see that' and eventually the ambulance and cops trying to make their way through the cars and people; and then, there at the edge of the throng, as if on a casual afternoon stroll, fitting in way too much; him.

But, as I said, I didn’t think of this until the day Dizzy Morrison fell off the second story of the old condemned building on Brookshire. All the junkies played there, haggard, worried faces slipping under the rusted fence all day, in and out, in and out, and the cops ignoring it all. And then Dizzy takes a fall. A leap?

There were two things that had me there in the first place, a conspiracy of fates if you will. One was groceries, I needed some. Two was the fact that I owed Butcher Downs twenty bucks and wouldn't have it till Thursday. Otherwise I would have been walking on Mercer where Butcher lives.

I actually heard Dizzy hit. I heard the hollow clap of flesh and bone on the heated summer sidewalk. I almost dropped my groceries.

You can picture this one too. There's Dizzy, unmistakably dead, a tangle of matted blonde hair and a stupid smile of surprise plastered underneath bulging eyes and the halo of red growing on the asphalt around him like some demented special effect. Marj and Steve Brady and all the rest of the local losers came running from the building, faces more urgent than usual. Marj and Steve took hesitant steps toward the bleeding bundle wrapped in Dizzy's brown coat that he wore even when it was way too hot to wear a coat. All the 'ohmygawd ohmygawd's, and 'man-o-man's' and the junkies beating it in the other direction, and finally the big guy that lives next door stepped out to see what the commotion was and somebody's car wailed to a stop and the waves of spectators rushed in.

Then I see him. Again.

That’s when I realized Ms. Hooper had no more killed Frank Barber than Dizzy had fallen from the third story of a building whose stinking, condemned interior he could probably navigate blindfolded, high, on a dark night.

He did it. The Walker.

That’s what I immediately named him: The Walker.

You had to be there to understand. Nothing really makes any sense until you see it for yourself. Like a late night movie full of explosions and people falling out of airplanes and cars reduced to high velocity rubble in trite chase scenes, you'd change the channel to watch the weatherman. But if even one of those overdone gimmicks were really happening you'd be in the front yard yapping about it with neighbors you didn't even know you had.

Proximity makes all the difference.

If you could have seen The Walker like I did that day, standing at the corner of Brookshire and 7th, dressed so inconspicuously that he might as well have not been there, 'not moving' in the purest sense, showing lack of motion to be an act in itself; staring at the spot where the ex-Dizzy Morrison spent his last sobering moment on the face of the planet; if you could have seen it that way, then you might have known too.

The Walker did things. On the outside he was just another head bobbing in the throng of gawkers, along for the excitement; just another face drowned into anonymity by the onslaught of tears and sirens and Marj screams, fighting against Stevens grip on her wrist, insisting they stay.

Then he was gone. Just like that. With him left my sudden, inexplicable understanding. For a moment I wasn't sure I'd seen him at all. I left when Butcher showed up to get his share of stories.

That night I tried to sleep. Really tried. I had never realized how many little cracks were in my ceiling before that night. I must have counted and recounted a dozen times. I was doing anything to make the images fade.

Buddy was pissed in the morning. He hates it when I call in.

"You’re sick? Again?" he said

"Yeah. Sick of working for you.." I explained.

"You're not funny anymore Scott! I'm backed up for the next week and ..."

"Did you hear about Dizzy?"

"Dizzy?"

"Dizzy... Toby's brother"

"The Junky" he said it like that. Like it was a title.

"Yeah. The Junky. Anyways, he falls out of this building yesterday and ..."

"The one on Brookshire?"

I grunted. He grunted back. I finished the story and he pondered aloud what this might have to do with me not coming to work.

"I was…like… there man. I seen the whole thing. Man, I heard his head smack! Like... like..."

He grunted.

"And so, you're not coming into work."

I wanted to explain about the Walker. About the flash of understanding and how I had just realized that he fascinated me; scared me, was beginning to consume my thoughts. Was I the only person that knew of him, saw him for what he was? Whatever that was. I thought, for one quick moment, that Buddy might get it, that maybe there were words that would communicate my inexplicable insight.

But, "I couldn't sleep last night," are the words I chose instead.

"Tomorrow your ass'll be here on time Scott," were the words he chose, and the line went dead.

I actually pulled the receiver away from my ear and frowned at it, as if I was doing a bit in a film. Then I hung it up. I took a dump, showered, toweled and combed and brushed. I dressed, slowly, methodically. My movements probably looked like that of some deranged robot. I sure felt like one. The face in the mirror was mine, I’d had it all my life, but for some reason I found myself pondering it, wondering just who was really behind those dark eyes. I shook that off quickly and went to the kitchen, cut up some old, hard ham and stirred it into scrambled eggs with what was left of my cheese. Then I combed and brushed again, and went to look for him.

Imagine the odds against finding a person, an unknown person, in such a manner as simply leaving the house in search of said person. I don't know what they are, but they must be staggering. I didn't know anything about this guy, who (or what) he was, where he might live, or where he might hang out if in fact hanging out is something he participated in.

So, how did I know I would find him at the mall? I don't think I did.

This time it was a woman unknown to me. She choked on her lunch at the pizza place; choked to death in front of the wide helpless eyes of a dozen screaming kids. I heard the sputtering cough, and saw the frantic helpless expression on the face of the cashier as the huge woman fell to the shining linoleum floor. The thick slice of pepperoni had lodged at just the right angle, and her girth made the Heimlich impossible. But I knew the truth; what really killed her.

I scanned the growing throng.

When I saw him for the third time, standing at the edge of the chattering sea near the food pavilion, I began to understand something.

This time I saw his exit. He was there 'not moving' and then, suddenly, he was moving. He ran a hand across his shirt, as if to flick something off. Then he left, walking in a casual, graceful, dance of brisk strides. His was a ballet of anonymity, sliding through the noisy mall, past shouting teenagers, rushing security guards and confused shop owners, out into the glare of the day. I realized then why he seemed to disappear. One just never noticed him leaving. I’m sure everybody knows someone like that, someone that's already gone just at the moment you're about to say 'see ya later'.

I followed.

In the daylight it was obvious that he was from a long line of euro-descendents. He looked like he might live in a house that had no smells at all and an old-fashion television that was never watched. Windows might be opened but for some reason the light would never quite made it into the room. You might pass by such a house as he might have lived in and never notice it until years later when you wondered why you never noticed that house before.

He looked as if he might not sleep at all but simply cease to exist until the dawn of the following day.

I moved stealthily, at a distance, behind him. I tried my best not to let him out of my sight, even for a moment; for fear that he would simply disappear.

But I did. And he did.

Thursday was impossible.

Buddy was more of an asshole than usual, and I didn't really get much done, except a few new paper burns. The UPS guy was typically a in a hurry and some of the stuff had to wait till Friday. Buddy was burning. He didn't even say good-bye.

When I got home I heard about the inexplicable accident at the train station. Something about a window being opened and a girder slipping from the vent and some more words that wrapped ineffectually around my eardrums and slipped away. I knew what really happened.

I knew I'd never make it through Friday. But somehow I did. Buddy didn't even talk to me. I got a lot done though and when he handed me my check, he even smiled a little. It was back in a shaky grace.

The Walker got a cop that day. The silver-gray anchorman, (an obvious toupee') dramatically recounted the rumor about the foiled robbery attempt, the cops gun jamming, the fatal backfire and the emotionally distraught family and on and on. Silver-gray did a good job of affecting remorse before he cued the weather guy.

I tried to sleep that night and was finally stolen off to someplace a decent semblance thereof. In my dreams I was at the birthday party for the mother of somebody I never met before and, while a muted thin version of Auld Lang Seine was offered by the faceless crowd, I saw a giant roach crawling up the wall. No one else seemed to notice and for some reason I chose not to alert them. The roach flexed massive wings and began peeling off the wallpaper in violent gulps, exposing the naked wooden flesh of the world, the ancient cracks lined with mold and blood. I thought it would come for me next, but when it finally looked my way, as if beckoned by my gaze, I realized it was just a bug after all; just a big dumb bug in a nonsense dream.

I dashed out of the house that morning, hoping The Walker worked on weekends. I wasn't disappointed.

I had dressed well for the occasion, trying to mimic the innocuous look he had mastered. It occurred to me that he might notice my scrutiny, not that he had anything to worry about for I'd never be able to convince anybody of anything without being hauled off. But I wanted to be safe. If it was possible to be safe with something like the Walker wandering around.

I made a mental note of the places I'd seen him and the places I heard about on the news. I left then, pondering a pattern to his appearances, one perhaps beyond my admittedly limited scope of comprehension. But finding him was, as usual, so easy that it seemed preordained. This thought should have bothered me.

He was doing his casual stroll down Fifth Street when I locked in on him. I paced him for about five or ten minutes, but he just seemed to be rambling. I wondered if he had a routine, maybe a method of choosing his next victim.

Victim?

Even as I thought the word, I knew it was somehow inappropriate. Somehow I knew I wasn't seeing things clearly. Yet.

He turned onto Magnolia and then I saw how he worked. I saw him kill.

It was some guy that I'd seen around town before, around the park down on Seventh, though I didn't know his name. We were getting farther away from my running ground. The Walker stopped, seeming to adjust his glasses, but even in the innocence of that movement there was some purpose evident, some form of judgment pronounced and declared for execution. It was the way a man might be seen deciding to trim his lawn, suddenly, standing at it's edge, a quick flicker of some decision would cross his features, then resolve into action. But the lawn-mowing man would initiate a tell tale series of activities. The Walker, from all outward appearances, was simply standing, staring at his next... the next person, number five, who himself was standing at the junction of two buildings. On the left was the neon facade of Danny's Family Restaurant, though actual families were frequenting the place less and less as businesses fled and the neighborhood fell into ruin. To the right was the shabby exterior of the old skating rink which had yet to be courted by any prospective buyers and stood looking somehow forlorn in it's vacancy.

As I watched the nameless man, not wanting to admit my anticipation about finding out what manner of death was obviously rushing at him, I realized that there was something about him that I recognized. My breath caught. I saw something, a flash that may have been who he was. It was in his face and gestures, the slight movements that let us know we are looking at a living thing. It was a pale light, a glimmer of some essence like a visual whisper. I am sure that my jaw hung open like some little kid at a magicians show.

Then I shaded my eyes as the flare of neon light maddened for a second. The man, alerted by the sound, jumped. But too late. The art deco lip of the old skating building came suddenly crashing down on him. It had grabbed a handful of Danny's Family sign as it fell and the man died in a pile of rubble and dust.

This time The Walker didn't wait for the cover of the crowd to make his leave. His retreat was quick, frantic compared to what I’d seen before. And he was headed towards me! I told me legs to move, but my body ignored my commands and I stood helpless, mesmerized by his sudden approach. His calm features were annoyed, his eyes more intense than they had been before, brows pinched and jaw working words muted by closed lips.

He passed within arms reach of me. I withdrew, the hair on my forearms rising from the thrill of him, like standing too close to some enormous beast. Just the proximity was exhilarating. Then he was gone, just the racing of my heart remained as a witness to his passage.

When my calm reluctantly returned I gathered myself and followed, steeping through the newly gathered crowd who didn’t seem to notice me. I pursued him through the distracting clamor of neon and billboards that comprised downtown and then turned as he headed calmly towards the quiet drives that sliced through the pseudo-suburban terrain that surrounded the old business districts. Then, past the nondescript cubist architecture of the corporate zone, to the seedier side of the town where dark police cruisers competed with darker vehicle for dominion on the sullen, garbage lined streets.

He was moving fast now. Much faster than I'd seen in the short time that I had been acquainted with him. I felt a strange kinship. Was I the only one who knew of him? I felt a chill at the thought.

He stopped, finally, at the mouth of the stairwell that led into the twisting walkways of Harris Park, deserted now save for the outcast souls for whom it served as home. They were often seen during the daylight hours, gathering bottles, discarded clothing or food, such as their need. At night they disappeared into the crannies of the city, noticed only when some sick teenagers indulged in the unofficially sanctioned madness of chasing or beating them, or some official agency came to tear down their hastily erected shanties.

And now the Walker was here.

He stood at the bottom of the stairwell for a moment, arms crossed, one finger flicking his chin as if pondering a strategy. He never looked in my direction, but I knew he knew I was behind him. I also knew that it didn't matter to him.

He was a sudden flurry of action again, and dashed up the stairs into the park. I followed quickly, taking the huge cement steps three and four at a time. I was panting when I got to the top and moved into the central area of the park. The Walker had already started down a dark trail, engulfed in brush and the overhang from poorly tended trees. His steps were calmer now. He was walking again, like a man on familiar ground. He continued this way for a short distance, trekking deeper into the mysterious park. Then he stopped.

I stopped, closer to him this time. I could feel him feeling my presence. It was like the heat of someone's breath too close. He waited. I waited.

We were waiting together.

The boy that walked into the park wasn't a resident. That much was obvious. You didn't have to see the clothes, the shoes, the watch, or the expensive shades dangling from the leather pocket in his coat, or the freshly cut trim of his retro ducktail. I saw all that, yes, but just the cautious way he walked, shuffled into the darkness, told me he was out of his natural habitat. Way out. The guy he was following, however, seemed much too comfortable, dangerously comfortable.

The Walker was invisible, as I must have been. The two young men that we witnessed were too preoccupied in the anticipation of their differing intentions too notice either of us. I stifled my shallow breathing as I realized which of them was about to feel the sting of mortality premature. I saw his secret light, the mist of a pale prescience that I knew was visible to only myself and one other.

They disappeared into the dark of a cluster of trees and there was silence. More silence. Then, finally a youthful laugh, almost a giggle. Innocent. His last. The laugh was cut short and an awful, desperate sound, terribly childlike, suddenly filled all the crannies of night shadows, then a thud. It was heavy and wet.

The screaming stopped. The boy, who shouldn't have been there, was there no more.

I started breathing again. The one he had followed was in the grassy clearing again, and then, just as quickly, he was gone, rushing from the shadows and down the steps at the mouth of the park. There was no need to call the police. What would they find? Some desperate addict who feigned one appetite just to feed another? Or maybe one more in the growing torrent of tortured souls taking revenge on an innocent (innocent?) unsuspecting world. The real killer was beyond suspicion.

I left then. Walking quickly. Almost running. ‘No more! No more!’ I told myself, ‘I’ve seen enough!’ I was as empty as the starless black of sky above the humming streetlights I passed. I was lost in a world inside my head, one I dared not show on my face. I strode casually, trying to be invisible to the cars that rushed by me.

What time had I finally arrived home? When had I finally pressed into the welcome cushions of my bed and felt the shock of my experiences wither, and float off into the grasp of some forgotten dream? I can't recall.

When I awoke the next morning, the part of my nightmare that followed me into consciousness, left a stench on anything that might have helped me forget night before.

"So is this is new improved Scott?" Buddy gazed at the stacks of unpacked boxes and then at the clock. I only grunted a response.

"Hey, what the fuck is with you?" he yelled. His eyes locked mine as if he was trying to look inside my skull. What would he see there? The possibilities scared me. I shrugged. I was supposed to be lost in the physical routine that is my duty: boxing, wrapping, tagging, stacking; a monotony of motion. But I was sitting again, watching the things that I had begun to see on the way to work that morning.

Buddy was acting ticked off, but I knew he was really concerned and that it was hard for him to show it. His father had made sure of that when he'd left Buddies dog in Arkansas, abandoned him on some desolate back street when he'd packed up his family, once again, and told Buddy to tell all he friends goodbye, again, because they were moving, again; to Oregon this time. Buddy was eight and had already called five shabby apartments home. There was his father’s "We'll get you another friggin dog!” and “You aint cryin'.. you cryin? Jeez and Mary. Don't be a gawdam sissy Buddy, we'll get you another gawdam dog!" and his mother’s, "You're a big boy now, Buddy," even when he wasn't. He was still just a little boy in a big boys body, staring out confused at a rapidly changing world. He'd made it through somehow.

And how did I know all this? Buddy was still watching me.

"I'm sick or something man. I feel like shit," was all I could offer.

"Can't keep this up Scotty," a serious whisper. No more messing around.

"I know."

And I did know. I knew too much. It wasn't a big rush or anything. It was slow, persistent. Everything just sort of came at me. Suddenly people had this leaky valve and their lives hissed out like compressed air, their story carried in the scent. I smelled them all. I saw them too, saw them in the thin haze of pale light in which they were enveloped.

Justin, the guy from the sales office and the collection of dead bugs he had at seven and at fifteen the cat he'd tortured with a friend and the drunken girl he raped at college and how the memories of those actions, the impulses that drove them now repressed, still gave him warmth somehow. And there was Marjorie with the weird Czechoslovakian last name, and her boyfriend, the one her husband had found out about and forgave her for, the one she had never stopped seeing even as she swore it was over; and then Stan in the parts department who was still looking for a man strong enough to take his fathers place, someone to berate him, mock his efforts, hit him occasionally; Mary at the lunch counter and her fuzzy warmth of beauty, a thin crust above the suicidal uncertainty that she lived in most of the day; and all the faces of harried customers, a thousand unwanted impressions, a growing reek of sensation. And every once in a while I'd see a luminescence that was different than the ones around it. The colors spoke of a secret portent longing to press into the real world. Like the one on the boy in the park. These lights filled me with dread. I had to…

"… go home," I said.

Buddy grunted, didn't even look up from whatever paperwork consumed him. "Get outta here. Call me when you're ready to work and I might put you back on the schedule."

It didn't matter anymore. The thought of being unemployed faded into the background when I hit the street, and the cacophonic lives of everyone I passed were revealed to me. I was crazy with the strain to control my face; to keep from giving away my astonishment at every person I saw. I knew what I had to do.

That night was cool, a breeze blew over the city chasing off the heavy sag of grime in the air. I knew where he would be and he was there. It was as if he had been waiting. Yes. He had been.

I felt him feeling my presence again. It was almost a greeting, this sensation, a nod of an invisible head, an inaudible whisper, 'Ahhh, couldn't stay away, eh?'. But I wasn't scared anymore. I followed, wondering when it had happened, when this deal had been struck between us, somewhere beyond the realm of words, where only glances were needed to seal the contract.

Where were we headed this time? These were deserted streets, outskirts of the city, too remote for even the derelicts to roam. And still he walked. I trailed obediently at a discreet distance. How far?

Then from across a dark expanse of undeveloped property, distant arena lights came into view and there came the roar of motors, disturbing the air like distant thunder. So that was it tonight? The racetrack.

We arrived. He paid and entered. I waited, then I paid and followed. I sat a few rows behind him. The stock cars raced by, wrecked blurs of bright colors and smoke. A tinny voice raised above all the screeching and whining of engines, called names and numbers and advertised crap to eat and drink and the sponsors of cars, and then an entire section of the front row lit up in the light of such intricacy I forgot everything else. I moaned audibly and then steeled my face in case I had drawn any ones attention. This was what he had to show me. This would explain all.

It was beautiful. They were all there. Bathed in the pearl light of their shared destiny, the threads of their lives perfectly intertwined to bring them here in this last moment. Together. They didn't even know they knew one and other. And I was there to witness.

No. It was more then that. I was there to learn. I was there to understand.

The Walker nodded his head ever so slightly and I watched as the florescent green GTO slid, skidded, bounced against a beaten red Mustang and then flew, actually flew, over the embankment, ripping the fencing away like cotton candy. Ripped metal sliced through the screaming group before their terror had a chance to set in, before they had a chance to realize that this was it; their last moment. The splash of colors was amazing. I was in instant tears for the beauty of the display. The fear, the hope, the dreams, the very history of the dying lit up before me, a divine light, and I was lost in it. Everything inside me spilt out. All the anxiety and confusion of the last week left me in a rush of tears and joy. I steeled my face and turned to leave.

Nobody noticed me. The ensuing flurry of activity made me invisible. When I stopped to look behind me, he was already gone. I had been so wrong. I had to let him know that I understood now, that had been wrong about him. I left quickly. He couldn't have gotten far.

The sky was new. The stars that were visible through the city haze were a billion distant eyes, watching me. The lights of the city were a million candles lit for my march home. I was something new, reborn under a huge faceless monstrosity of concrete and steel. The huge empty buildings of the industrial area had taken on some new dimension. I was transfixed as I passed them. Everything was reborn to my eyes. How could I have missed this before? Maybe it was the way I missed everything, like everybody. The way they all missed him.

How could he have lived like this? Seeing all this? Knowing all that he knew? How had he stayed sane? Had he?

And suddenly there he was, in front of me, at an intersection, his back to me. In this new light of vision he looked thin, vulnerable. He knew I was there; knew of the rapture that had seized me and knew also that of my new understanding.

Something passed between us. Even at this distance it was like an electric shock up my spine. A thought too immense to cognize, that settled into the body instead, waiting for the time when I was ready to see.

Then he lit up. It was Christmas, explosions, a fire of some eternal origin, his body a small dot within. For the first and only time, he turned and looked at me. His eyes displayed a longing of such intensity that I would have wept had I not been steeled against it. To anyone who passed we were two completely unrelated individuals, walking on the same stretch of sidewalk on a lonely dark night. That was if anyone noticed us at all.

But to me he was a magnificent display of some divine pattern, a luminous schematic of fate. I understood now. As much as I could, I understood my task. Our deal had been written on the very fabric of reality.

I let him go. 'Yes. Yes. You're right, old man, it's time. Good-bye.' This was only a gesture. A casual tweak of my chin as if an itch had annoyed me. He turned. Simply and unceremoniously, he walked into the intersection… against the light. The driver of the speeding truck never had a chance to even hit the brakes. The witnessing was the most beautiful I had seen and would ever see.

I remember that time clearly as I sit in the quiet house that nobody ever seems to notice. It was his home before. I guess it still is, after a fashion; for what have I become after all?

Crude matters like food, rent, have not concerned me since I am taken in to this awful responsibility. The money is there. The food is there. Some agency above logic's crude restraints ordains this so. I ask no questions anymore.

It's been that long, eh? So long that nothing seems amazing anymore? I walk among the unconscious multitude, endlessly. None notice me. I slide through the gauntlet of curious gazes unscathed, untouched by the willowy fingers of scrutiny. I have not just witnessed as I had once assumed, but I have played such a part in the passage of fate that, should I express this, it would drive anyone mad to hear. I give them permission to go. They never know their own weariness, but I see it as simply one would see the warp of shelves in an old bookcase, or the gradual fraying of old coils, losing grip on the huge segments of the life they support. In parts of their being they don't even know exist, they are relieved.

I am overcome by the beauty of it.

Or, I was.

I grow tired now. I have been tired for some time.

I saw Buddy a while ago. I can't recall just how long ago, the days blur from one to another. He didn't recognize me, didn't even see me as he hurried off to whatever business he had to attend. But his face, withered with time, reminded me of those days. I thought of the life I once had. It wasn't that bad was it? Simple, yes; uneventful perhaps; blessedly uneventful. Some would have called me a ‘weirdo’ perhaps, but I had been happy in my own way.

Now I just want to rest for a while, maybe, or at least walk in the daylight without the secret screams of agony and loneliness coming upon me from every direction. And there is a chance for me; a young man, not so different than myself, a loner who watches the world pass him by as if he is not a member of the weary procession. He is strange to others. Yes, he is like myself so long ago.

I think he has noticed me. He might even think he knows me, knows my secret duty. Perhaps tomorrow I will see him again. Then I will be sure he follows.

Maybe we can come to an understanding.

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