Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. Cathy and Larry were working late, and Mike and Shari had begun jobs themselves, Mike delivering pizza and Shari working at Victoria’s Secret. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images.
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