“You can’t separate the two! Mind and body are like flame and candle. But as for Quentin’s competence . . . his body may be falling apart, but his mind’s still a straight razor. That’s the tragedy. He’s like that physicist with Lou Gehrig’s disease. But don’t lie awake tonight thinking he couldn’t handle this job if he wanted to. Compared to Shadrach Johnson, Quentin’s got X-ray vision.”

“Superman, huh?”

“I’d never say that to his face, though.” She laughs softly, but underneath the laughter I hear her strangling tears.

Glancing down to where Tim waits in the shadows of Washington Street, I realize time is passing quickly. Serenity must be back at my house by now . . .

“I should probably get going, Doris.”

“Wait.” She takes another drag, then turns her face and blows out the smoke. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, it’s scared me so deep.”

Fresh fear makes my face feel cold. “Doris, for God’s sake—”

“Remember when I said Quentin and Tom are like two wounded old lions who’ve crawled into a thicket together?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m afraid they’ve made a bargain with each other.”

“What kind of bargain?”

“Like the one Tom made with Viola.”

Horror prickles the hair on my neck. “Doris—”

Her eyes go wide with confessional urgency. “I’m afraid Quentin has agreed to throw the trial if Tom will pay him back by helping Quentin pass without any pain.”

At first I don’t grasp what she’s suggesting. But then I get it. On its face, the idea seems crazy . . . and yet a strange sense of déjà vu has started a thrumming in my chest. “Doris . . . that’s impossible. If Dad were convicted of killing Viola, he’d never be free to fulfill his half of the bargain.”

She counters this argument with eerie certainty. “Tom could make it happen, if he wanted to. He knows a lot of people. Doctors, druggists . . . nurses. People who’d do anything he asked.”

“Do you really think Quentin’s that depressed?”

“Oh, yes.” At last the tears come, wet streaks glinting in the streetlight’s spill. “I try, Penn. I do everything I can to keep his spirits up. But Quentin’s sin is pride. He’d be the first to tell you that. The problem is simple: He can’t do what he used to do. You know what I’m talking about. Survival means more than that to most men, I guess. But Quentin’s an all-or-nothing kind of man. And he can’t abide pity. He won’t.”

I take Doris in my arms and pull her tight against me. “Stop thinking about it. Just shut your mind off.”

“I wish I had a shot of morphine myself. Enough to knock me out for twenty-four hours. Just to catch my breath.”

“What if I take you dancing instead?”