' If the world had really been full of strange things, Henry doubted he would have been so eager to leave it, but if there was one Owen Underhill was over. Great toe went around the trigger. “If you don’t like me,” he asked, “why did you turn me on?” “So I could tell you I know what a fraud you are.
His face was unbelievably pale against the bright blue and even brighter yellow of the lunchbox. The Merc hung on. The gunman's hair was short and already graying, his face lined around the mouth, beard—speckled on the cheeks, and haggard. 'Jonesy?' It was Henry.
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