Beyond the Shadow of Night(79)

“All right,” Michael said, pulling himself back onto his feet. “How long will it take?”

“I guess that depends on the outcome,” Schneider said.



Meanwhile, two hundred miles away on the other side of Lake Erie, Asher Kogan was at home in Detroit, beginning his well-rehearsed morning routine. He listened to the radio while he made his breakfast of hot oatmeal with a pat of butter, followed by a handful of blueberries. Then he prepared potatoes for his potato soup lunch—just one serving—and then grabbed his reading glasses, put on his hat and coat, and left the house.

He pulled the door to and locked the padlock, which fixed the chain, which kept the door bound to the doorframe of his shack of a house. As if there were anything worth stealing.

Asher had been living much like this for the last fifteen of his seventy-four years. The five years before that he didn’t like to even think about, let alone talk about. Now his life was the way he liked it: simple, unadorned, uncomplicated. Like oatmeal.

He started walking.

As usual on a Monday morning, he headed for the local library to read the weekend newspapers. It was much cheaper that way.

His route took him along the shadier edge of the local park, where the homeless hung out, their lives’ possessions covered by a tarp. He scuttled past the area as briskly as his worn-out knees allowed.

Soon he was at the library.

He liked it there. It was quiet, peaceful, and warm. He’d made a few friends there, but for conversation they would visit a nearby coffee shop. He’d tried them all and knew the cheapest ones. It was always him and one other friend. Only the one at a time, because any more than that was just too many people to talk to and too much to take in.

Today it was Arnie, who just like Asher had worked for Ford at Dearborn, although they’d never met at that sprawling town of a factory that had sucked in all and any labor it could get after the war—and spent the next few decades spitting it out.

They talked about old times, when Henry Ford’s blue oval was more like a national flag, then Asher went back to the library to read some more.

At midday, he left and headed for the Marist Center soup kitchen—known locally as the Catholic Club. Like most days, he did a shift there, serving the homeless and cleaning up afterward. The Catholic Club had kept him alive for those five years he never talked about, so he liked to return the favor. Then he headed home, hurrying past that part of the local park again. Back behind his padlock, he switched the radio on and started heating up his potato soup.



Later that same day, at Zone One Police Station, Pittsburgh, Schneider switched off the tape recorder and said, “You’re free to go, Mr. Peterson.”

“Is that it?” Michael replied.

“For now. We’ll be in touch.”

“But I’ve told you everything. You’ve got my goddamn life story here.”

Schneider just coughed, and looked at Gomez.

“I mean, are you gonna charge me or not?”

“Uh . . . It doesn’t quite work that way—not with charges of this kind. We have to discuss the interview tapes with our specialists.”

“So when do I get to hear what they say?”

“I can’t tell you that, sir.”

“And when do I get my passport back?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that either.”

Michael let out a long sigh. “Well, can you tell me who made these allegations?”

“Sorry. No.”

“You’re very helpful. Has anyone ever told you that?”

They all stood up.

“I’ll just see you out, Mr. Peterson.”

“Your kindness is stifling.”

“And remember to come here in person and let us know if you intend to stay away from your home overnight for any reason.”

“How ’bout I give you a call whenever I go to the can?”

“No, sir. Only if you—”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You gonna let me out now or what?”

One signature and two security doors later, he heard, “You’re free to go now, sir.”

“And you’re free to go to hell,” he muttered, but only after he’d turned and taken a few steps toward the door.

Outside it was starting to darken, so the flash made him yelp and lift his hands up as if to defend himself.

“Hey! What the hell . . .”

Another flash made him squeeze his eyes shut. His reactions weren’t what they used to be.

By the time he’d gathered his senses together, the man and his camera were fifty yards away. All Michael could do was send some profanities in his direction.



The next Monday, Asher started his usual routine. Oatmeal followed by a handful of blueberries for breakfast. Prepare lunch—potato soup for one. Then out into the big bad world and a slow walk to the library, speeding up for the park section.

At the library, he headed straight for the newspapers and put his reading glasses on.

He always read through the previous day’s New York Times—at least, he read through the national news, international news, health, food, weather, and arts. But sports, showbiz tittle-tattle, fashion, and the rest? Ah, who cared? He used to read the technology and science sections to keep up with progress, but didn’t any longer because—