"
Alan said, "I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine. Would you like
one?"
Krishna grinned hard and mirthless. "Sure, neighbor, that sounds
lovely."
Alan went inside and took out two glasses, got a bottle of something
cheap and serviceable from Niagara wine country out of the fridge,
worked the corkscrew, all on automatic. His hands shook a little, so he
held them under the cold tap. Stuck to the wall over his work surface
was a magnetic bar, and stuck to it was a set of very sharp chef's
knives that were each forged from a single piece of steel. He reached
for one and felt its comfort in his hand, seductive and glinting.
It was approximately the same size as the one he'd used on Davey, a
knife that he'd held again and again, reached for in the night and
carried to breakfast for months. He was once robbed at knifepoint,
taking the deposit to the bank after Christmas rush, thousands of
dollars in cash in a brown paper sack in his bag, and the mugger -- a
soft-spoken, middle-aged man in a good suit -- knew exactly what he was
carrying and where, must have been casing him for days.
The soft-spoken man had had a knife about this size, and when Alan had
seen it pointed at him, it had been like an old friend, one whose orbit
had escaped his gravity years before, so long ago that he'd forgotten
about their tender camaraderie.
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