Fear Nothing by Dean Koontz

say.”
        “Neither do I, really.”
        “No, there never is anything to say, is there?”
        “Not that matters.”
        “You going to be okay?”
        To my surprise, I couldn't speak. My terrible loss seemed suddenly to be a surgeon's needle that stitched shut my throat and sewed my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
        Curiously, immediately after Dad's death, I'd been able to answer this same question from Dr. Cleveland without hesitation.
        I felt closer to Manuel than to the physician. Friendship thaws the nerves, making it possible for pain to be felt.
        “You come over some evening when I'm off duty,” Manuel said. “We'll drink some beer, eat some tamales, watch a couple of Jackie Chan movies.”
        In spite of baseball and country music, we have much in common, Manuel Ramirez and I. He works the graveyard shift, from midnight until eight in the morning, sometimes doubling on the swing shift when, as on this March evening, there is a personnel shortage. He likes the night as I do, but he also works it by necessity. Because the graveyard shift is less desirable than daytime duty, the pay is higher. More important, he is able to spend afternoons and evenings with his son, Toby, whom he cherishes. Sixteen years ago, Manuel's wife, Carmelita, died minutes after bringing Toby into the world. The boy is gentle, charming-and a victim of Down's syndrome. Manuel's mother moved into his house immediately after Carmelita's death and still helps to look after Toby. Manuel Ramirez knows about limitations. He feels the hand of fate every day of his life, in an age when most people no longer believe in purpose or destiny. We have much in common, Manuel Ramirez and I.
        “Beer and Jackie Chan sound great,” I agreed. “But who makes the tamales-you or your mother?”
        “Oh, not mi madre , I promise.”
        Manuel is an exceptional cook, and his mother thinks that she is an exceptional cook. A comparison of their cooking provides a fearsomely illuminating example of the difference between a good deed and a good intention.
        A car passed in the street behind me, and when I looked down, I saw my shadow pull at my unmoving feet, stretching from my left side around to my right, growing not merely longer but blacker on the concrete sidewalk, straining to tear loose of me and flee-but then snapping back to the left when the car passed.
        “Manuel, there's something you can do for me, something more than tamales.”
        “You name it, Chris.”
        After a long hesitation, I said, “It involves my dad… his body.”
        Manuel matched my hesitation. His thoughtful silence was the equivalent of a cat's ears pricking with interest.
        He heard more in my words than they appeared to convey. His tone was different when he spoke this time, still the voice of a friend but also the harder voice of a cop. “What's happened, Chris?
        “It's pretty weird.”
        “Weird?” he said, savoring the word as though it were an unexpected taste.
        “I'd really rather not talk about it on the phone. If I come over to the station, can you meet me in the parking lot?”
        I couldn't expect the police to switch off all their office lights and take my statement by the glow of candles.
        Manuel said, “We're talking something criminal?”
        “Deeply. And weird.”
        “Chief Stevenson's been working late today. He's still here but not for much longer you think maybe I should ask him to wait',”
        “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, Stevenson should hear this.”
        “Can you be here in ten minutes?”
        “See you then.”
        I racked the telephone handset, snatched my cap off the light cage, turned to the street, and shielded my eyes with one hand as two more cars drove past. One was a late-model Saturn. The other was a Chevy pickup.
        No white van. No hearse. No black Hummer.
        I didn't actually fear