Nick drove to the nearest police station. He waited for half an hour, then a tried young policeman took him into a small room. Nick told his story, and the policeman wrote it down.
"So what are you going to do?" asked Nick.
"Nothing," said the policeman.
"Mr Lortz," the policeman said triedly. "How many people are there in this town with guns?"
"I don't know," said Nick. "But..."
"You didn't see the gunman. Was it a man, a boy, a woman? Colour of eyes? Long hair, short hair? You don't know, because you didn't see anybody. Maybe it was an old girlfriend. Maybe somebody desn't like your travel books, Mr Lortz."
"But what about the man with white hair in Winstler?" siad Nick. "The girl, Meg Hutson, called me Mr Hollywood in the cafe, and this man heard her. And now I get a letter to Mr Hollywood on my car. Who is this Mr Hollywood?"
"We all want answered to our questions, Mr Lortz," the policeman said, "but we don't always get them."
Questions. But no answers.
Nick walked out of the police station and drove to his hotel. He was angry, and afraid.
"How did the man with white hair find me in Vancouver?" he thought. "Did he follow me from Whistler? Is he following me now? Maybe he's staying at my hotel, too. In the next room. With his gun."