Logically, the observatory made more sense, especially given the article. He could even stretch the argument to suggest that “fisherman” was code for Pisces, a constellation, as well as an astrological sign. That could mean “Dr. Todd” was going to Arizona to see the constellation Pisces from the observatory. It didn’t seem like something worth dying for, if the accident were not in fact an accident. Besides, according to Dallas’ Internet browsing, Pisces would not be visible in Arizona until November. Seeing as it was only April, with Todd’s meeting seemingly just hours away, the stargazing scenario fell short. Without any notation in the diary of a plane reservation or a ticket voucher, there was even less to support this notion.
       He focused again on the lion god theory. As he read the notes, he corrected himself: Aker was a double-lion god, a pair of lions sitting backto- back … a pair of lions! The university’s museum had a huge pair of antique bronze lions sitting in front of it. Could it be that simple? Was the dead man meeting the fisherman at the museum?
       All right, Dallas thought, if that was the answer then tomorrow he’d be at the museum for the meeting. He looked at his watch. Tomorrow … no, today; it was well past midnight. Saturday had already arrived. Where had the night gone? The sun would be coming up soon. Still, he had to admit this was the most exciting thing to happen to him in years. The last exciting thing sent him into professional exile.
       He slowly sipped his coffee and gave an accounting of himself … to himself. It was a bad habit of his, especially late at night when he was tired and alone with his thoughts. He couldn’t help it. He’d done it for years. It was almost obsessive, measuring his life against his own expectations. Not surprisingly he always came up short; a fact that he was always quick to bring to his own attention.
       Forty years old, he chastised himself; what had he accomplished? Nothing! He felt empty and small. Surrounded by fossilized trophies of decades’ worth of work—careful, meticulous effort aimed at discovering some greater truth, but a truth that had eluded him. The relentless pressure of middle age had begun taking its toll. Mortality stared him eagerly in the eyes. Dallas darkly pondered his own accomplishments; measuring himself against the yardstick of eternity, and not surprisingly coming up short.
       Dallas ran his left hand through his ample salt-and-pepper hair, slid his hand down his forehead, over his eyelids and hawkish nose. He was tired, too tired to have this inner debate one more time.
       He put his coffee cup on the table and rose to his feet; they tingled from lack of movement. It was only then he realized how long he been working. He stumbled into the bedroom and fell diagonally on the bed.
       He slept fitfully, dreaming over and over about the moment the car hit the old man. It was like a slow-motion instant replay from a football game. The dream seemed to take in more and more of the details of what had happened around him during those tragic moments. Each time it played, more of the puzzle’s pieces fell into place, with some new detail remembered. Or was it imagined?
       When he awoke, Dallas had an even more vivid recollection of the event than when it happened, but he couldn’t be sure how much of what he now remembered was fact, and how much was fiction. Something about the mystery car kept pulling at him, a shard of memory that haunted him.
       Sitting in his kitchen, he played the scene over and over in his mind, all the details … the old man crossing the road, the fast approaching headlights, the terrible crash, the squealing of tires, and that terrible sound of the body as it hit the pavement. Something was still missing. He couldn’t say what; not yet.
       At the appointed time, he headed out to test his hypothesis that Todd was meeting someone at the museum. Except for carrying the briefcase, the walk was pleasant enough until Dallas began to worry that someone might recognize the case and want its contents. As he neared his destination he took a slight detour to his bank and went straight for his safety deposit box. He worked quickly, removing all of the briefcase’s contents and locking them away. Now if anyone approached, he had some measure of protection. They needed him alive to get what they wanted, if, he reminded himself, they even bothered to ask.
       Leaving the bank, he glanced up and down the tree-lined street. It was a beautiful early spring day with a blue sky dotted with cotton-ball clouds and a slight breeze that reminded him winter had not completely surrendered its grip. The empty case hung from his left arm.
       Reaching the museum, Dallas sat on a nearby bench in the shadow of one of the building’s massive bronze lions. He opened the case and stared at the empty interior, examining every seam, every snap, wondering if he’d missed anything. He was so immersed he failed to notice a young woman exit a black SUV parked on the road that ran beside the building.
       She moved with lynx-like silence, sitting down on the bench directly opposite him. She was conservatively dressed with short, neatly cropped blonde hair. Her large, dark sunglasses covered the upper half of her face, giving her the ability to view the object of her attention with total anonymity. At this moment, her attention was focused entirely on Dallas.
       Fifteen minutes past the appointed meeting time, he was having doubts about his museum lion theory. He took note of only one man who had been waiting as long as himself: a large, wiry, black man with closely cropped silver hair loitering in a line of trees on the other side of the museum’s massive plaza. Dallas judged the distance between them to be about two hundred feet or so. The man leaned idly against one of the trees, his fingers rolling a freshly lit cigarette back and forth, its blue smoke drifting upward through the tree’s bare branches.
       While the man was at too great a distance to make out his features, Dallas read from the man’s body language complete indifference to his surroundings, seemingly lost in his own world. Dallas suddenly felt very foolish. Perhaps the police were really police, perhaps the old man was hallucinating, and perhaps the last twelve hours had been a total waste.

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