Driving toward Gale Winter’s home, I knew that I wasn’t going to work on anything else but Jim’s death until I found out who’d killed him. Our friendship would have been enough reason, but it was also clear that I’d have to learn who had murdered Jim before I’d know who was trying to kill me. And if I didn’t learn fast, the next time they tried, they might get me. I thought of a thin, hollow needle…
Somewhere in the pages of Jim’s manuscript, or in what I knew of that book, or maybe in those conversations we’d had, there must be an answer I thought; somewhere in what I knew of Jim. And the party.
I thought back over the two years I’d known Jim letting my mind brush the high points.
There was the night when he’d first told me about having been a Communist. It had been winter then, rainin
