IT was twenty-three minutes after eleven when Eric Trent closed the textbook he was reading with a sharp, disgusted snap and said, “I’ve been reading the same page for the last half hour, and it still doesn’t make sense. Let’s go get a beer.”
Doan had been lying on his back on the Chesterfield with his hands folded across his chest. He sat up instantly and started hunting around for his shoes.
“Now you’re talking,” he said enthusiastically.
Carstairs was sprawled all over the floor in front of the door. He sat up, too.
“Trent and I are going to the library and get some books,” Doan told him. Carstairs watched him.
“Don’t look so damned skeptical!” Doan shouted. “I can read. And dogs aren’t allowed in the library, so just relax and lie down again. You’re staying here.”
Carstairs stood
