leg. Something about his expression must have told a story; she asked, “Are you hurt?”
“I killed a man, Noriko.”
She nodded, sympathy briefly evident in her eyes. “And it feels bad.”
“No, that’s just it. It doesn’t feel at all. I keep waiting for it to hit.” He shrugged. “Isn’t it supposed to?”
“If you hadn’t shot him, he would have shot all three of us. I don’t think Alastair could see him from his corner. It was the right thing. We owe you our lives, Harris.”
He frowned. “I don’t get you.”
“The man with the Klapper.”
“No, the man on the sidewalk—oh.” Harris sagged. “You mean I got the guy in the window, too. I shot two men to death tonight.” He took a deep breath and waited. Maybe now something would happen to him, some blast of guilt like a lightning bolt from the hand of Zeus.
Nothing did.
Doc called, “Noriko? Tell me what you think of this.”
She gave Harris an apologetic look and headed Doc’s way. The investigation wasn’t waiting for the lightning bolt of Zeus.
An unaccustomed weight in his coat pocket reminded him that he was still carrying the dead man’s gun. He pulled it out to look at it.
It was strange. It was as long as a sawed-off shotgun, but with a single barrel and a large cylinder like a revolver’s. It had a swing-out cylinder like his small revolver. He pressed the catch for it and popped the cylinder out. It held four shotgun shells. He closed the weapon.
There was a loop of white cord tied to the front of the gun, just under the