32A leather sole slapped the stones to my right. I grabbed the Uzi and twisted around to face the north transept. In the shadow beneath the arch stood a man dressed in black. Pale palms rose like ghostly beacons into the air above his head. “Don’t shoot.”
A plea. In English, with an American accent. He sounded familiar. The gun barrel wavered. That well-known voice—it belonged to someone who couldn’t be here. I steadied the Uzi, centering the barrel on his chest. “Lie face-down on the floor.”
“Casey,” he said, “are you all right?”
Dizziness washed over me. On Saturday, Andy had asked me that same question. In that same worried tone. Was I hallucinating? I shook my head, trying to clear it. I squinted at the figure before me. “Andy?”
“Yes, yes. It’s me, Andy.”
I lowered the rifle. “Why
