t cracked.

Melissa made sucking sounds around her thumb.

Madeleine looked at her, then back at me. "You stay, monsieur?"

"For a while."

"I am here, monsieur."

"Good. We'll take shifts."

She didn't respond.

Not sure if there'd been a language problem, I said, "We'll take turns.

Make sure she's not alone."

She didn't acknowledge that, either. Just stood there, eyes like granite.

I said, "Is there anything you want to tell me, Madeleine?"

"Non, monsieur."

"Then feel free to rest.

"No tired, monsieur.

We sat together on opposite sides of the couch where Melissa dozed.

Madeleine got up a few times to fuss with the blanket, even though Melissa had barely moved. Neither of us talked. Every so often, Madeleine cracked a knuckle. She was working on the tenth one when the doorbell chimed. Hurrying to the entry with as much grace as her bulk would allow, she opened the door and let in Milo.

"Monsieur Sturgis." Once more eager for news.

"Hello, Madeleine." He shook his head, gave her hand a quick pat.

Looking past her, he said, "How's our girl?"

"Sleeping."

He came into the room and stood over Melissa. Her thumb was still in her mouth. Some hair strands had come loose, veiling her face.

He made a move, as if to brush them away, stopped himself, and whispered, "How long's she been out?"

"Since I got her in the car," I said.

"That okay?"

The two of us shifted several feet away. Madeleine moved in, close to Melissa.

"Given the circumstances-," I said.

Madeleine said, "I will stay with her, Monsieur Sturgis."

"Sure," said Milo. "Dr. Delaware and I will be in the downstairs study."

She gave a small nod.

As Milo and I walked to the windowless room, I said, "You seem to have made a friend."

"Old Maddy? Not exactly a giggle a moment but she's loyal and makes a great pot of coffee. She's originally from Marseilles. I was there twenty years ago. Stopover on my way home from Saigon."

Papers covered with Milo's handwriting obscured the blotter on the small white desk. Another set of notes and a cellular phone lay atop a fruitwood writing table. The phone's antenna was extended.

Milo pushed it closed.

"This was Melissa's work station," he said, pointing to the table. "We set up Info Command Central in here. She's a smart kid.

Industrious. We were on the horn all day-none of it led anywhere, but she didn't let it get to her. I've seen rookie detectives who didn't handle frustration nearly as well."

"She was motivated."

"Yeah." He went behind the desk and sat down.

"How'd you find out about the car?" I said.

"We took a sandwich break at seven. She was joking about ditching Harvard and becoming a private eye first time I'd seen her smile. I figured at the least I was keeping her mind off it. While we were eating I made a routine check with Baldwin Park CHP Been doing it once per shift so as not to be seen as a giant pain in the ass.

Didn't really expect it to lead anywhere. But the gal at the desk said, Oh yeah, that one just turned up, and told me the details.

Melissa must have seen the look on my face and dropped her food. So I had to tell her. She insisted on coming with me."

"Better than waiting around."

"Guess so. He got up, walked back to the writing table, and toed a dark spot on the cream border of the Aubusson carpet. "Here's where it dropped. Her tuna and mayo, nice little grease spot."

He faced the Goya portrait and rubbed his eyes. "Before it happened, she was telling me some of the things she'd been through-how you helped her. Kid's lived a lot in eighteen years. I was too rough on her, wasn't I? Too damn judgmental."

"Occupational hazard," I said. "But you obviously did something right she trusts you.

"I really didn't think it was going to turn out nasty." He turned and faced me. For the first time I noticed that he needed a shave and his hair looked oily. "What a fucking mess."

"Who found the car?"

"Park ranger on routine patrol. He noticed the service gate was open, went over to close it, and decided to check. The areas at the bottom are used by the dam people for taking water samples. They like to keep John Q. Public out-no peeing in the drinking water.

The lock on this one was missing. But apparently that's not too weird.

Sometimes the dam people forget to lock up. It's kind of a running joke between them and the rangers-he almost didn't bother to go down and check."

"No one saw the car from the dam?"

He shook his head. "It's a good couple of miles from the dam to that part of the reservoir, and the dam people generally keep their eyes glued on dials and gauges."

Milo sat back down again, looked at the papers on the desk, flipped them absently.

"What do you think happened?" I said.

"Why she drove out there in the first place and why down that road?

Who knows? Chickering made a big deal about her phobiahe's convinced she got lost and started to panic and was looking for a place to get hold of herself The others bought it. Make sense to you?"

"Maybe. If she felt a need to practice her breathing and take her medicine she would have wanted privacy. But how'd the car get into the water?"

"Looks like an accident," he said. "She parked close to the shore-the tire marks put it at eighteen inches away. The gearshift was set to neutral. For that particular model, Reverse is the parking gear, once the engine's off. She wasn't exactly an experienced driver and the prevailing wisdom was that she lost control and it rolled in.

Apparently these old Rolls have servo drum brakes that take a few seconds to engage. If the hand brake's not set, they can roll a bit even after the engine's off and you really have to stomp on the main brake to stop them."

"Why didn't it roll all the way in?"

"There're these steel flanges extending several feet out from the wall of the dam. Like steps, for maintenance. The rear wheels got lodged between a couple of them. Really tight. Sheriff's investigators said it would take a winch tow."

"Was the driver's door open when the ranger found it?"

"Yes. First thing he did was take a look if anyone was trapped.

But it was empty. Water was up to the seats. The doors may have flipped open accidentally they're put on backwards, attached to the center post, so gravity would have pulled them back. Or maybe she was trying to get out.

"What's the prevailing wisdom on whether she succeeded?"

He stopped, looked at his papers again. Gathered a handful, crumpled it, and left it balled on the desk. "Most popular theory is that she either hit her head trying to get out or passed out due to anxiety and fell in. The reservoir's deep even with the drought, over a hundred and twenty-five feet. And there are no gradations like a swimming pool-it just drops straight off. She would have sunk in seconds.

Melissa says she wasn't a strong swimmer. Hadn't gone in the pool for years.

"Melissa said she didn't like water," I said. "So what was she doing out there in the first place?"

"Who the hell knows? Maybe it was all part of her do-it-yourself therapy. Confronting what scared her-that make sense to you?"

"It doesn't feel right," I said. "Do you remember your comment after the car was spotted? We were looking at the map looking at the 210-and you thought it was unlikely she'd gone north "cause north was Angeles Crest and you didn't see her as the type to rough it?"

"So what are you saying?"

"I don't know," I said. "But this whole tragic accident bit is based upon the assumption that she was alone. What if someone drove her there and dumped her? Weighed the body down to make sure it sank, then tried to push the car in to make it look like an accident but was prevented by the flanges?"

"Where'd this other person go?"

"Into the great beyond-the forest is huge. You once told me it's a prime dumping ground for bodies."

"Didn't know you listened so carefully."

"All the time."

He crumpled some more papers and ran his hand over his face.

"Alex, all these years on the job, you don't have to talk me into seeing the worst in people. But so far nothing screams out foul play.

Give me a who and a why."

"Who do you usually suspect first when a rich woman dies?"

"The husband. But this one doesn't profit, so what's his motive?"

"Maybe he does profit. Despite what Anger and the lawyer said, prenuptials can be challenged. With an estate this size, even if he ended up with one or two percent it would be significant. And insurance policies can be taken out without lawyers and accountants-or the insured-knowing. Also, he's got another secret." I told him what I'd learned at Malibu.

He pushed the chair back to the bookshelves, stretched without appearing to achieve comfort. "Old macho Don. Living in a big old walk-in closet."

I said, "It could explain why he was so hostile when he first met you.

He knew who you were from TV, was worried you might possibly know about him."

"Why would I?"

"Common contacts in the gay community?"

"Yeah, that's me," he said. "Mr. Activist. Direct line to the gay community."

"He'd have no way of knowing unless he himself was involved in the gay community. Given the fact that he serves food to San Labrador folk, I think that's unlikely. Or maybe it wasn't rational. Maybe it was just a gut response your being there threatened him. Reminded him of his secret.

"Threatened," he said. "You know, it occurred to me, too that he knew something about me. I thought he was just being a homophobe fascist, came this close to saying fuck you and walking. Then he just seemed to forget about it, so I did, too."

"Once he could see you were focusing on Gina and not him, he figured his secret was safe."

He gave a sour smile. "Didn't take long to bust his secret. "Now that I think back, it was probably on his mind from the beginning. He was the first one to mention the beach house. Called over there himselo Twice. Figuring that would take care of it. He had no way of knowing I'd go out there. Even after I did, it was a fluke I found out. If Nyquist hadn't overdone it with those two girls and if I hadn't run into them later, I wouldn't have suspected a thing."

"What's this Nyquist like, besides being an overacter?"

"Blond, good-looking, pumps iron, surfs. The girls said he has guys in and out all the time. Claims to be training them."

"Golden hustler," he said. "What a cliche'."

"That's exactly what I thought," I said. "Back when I suspected Gina of fooling around with him.

That raised his eyebrows. "When was this?"

"Right at the beginning, but I didn't put it into focus till yesterday.

The first time I was here, Gina and I were downstairs, looking for Melissa, after their blowup. Ramp and Nyquist came in from playing tennis. Then Ramp left to shower, and Nyquist hung around for no apparent reason. Kind of casually snotty. He asked Gina for something to drink and somehow made it sound lascivious.

Nothing explicit it was the way he said it. She must have heard it, too, because she put him in his place right away. He didn't like it but he kept his mouth shut. The whole interchange took less than a minute-I forgot about it until I saw Nyquist play stud with the beach bunnies. Then the girls told me about him and Ramp and I realized it was just a front."

"Maybe it wasn't."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe Todd's a creative fellow."

"Playing both ends?"

He smiled. "It's been known to happen."

I'd been standing since we'd entered the room. Realized it and sat down in an armchair.

"Money and jealousy and passion," I said. "A whole slew of classic motives for the price of one. Remember how Melissa said Gina told her she prized kindness and tolerance in a man? Maybe what she liked about Ramp was that he was tolerant of more than her phobia.

Maybe she was referring to his acceptance of her fooling around with Nyquist an&or some other sexual explorations. But what if that tolerance wasn't mutual? Infidelity's one thing-crossing sexual preference lines is another. If Gina found out she was sharing Todd with Ramp, it could have blown her mind."

"Even if she and Nyquist had nothing going, learning Ramp was gay or bisexual could have blown her mind," said Milo.

"Whatever the specifics, she learned something that led her to decide she'd had enough. Time to make her escape, psychologically and physically. Take a giant step through an open door."

"Big change for Ramp if she boots him out."

I nodded. "No more mansion, no more beach house, no more tennis court-people do get accustomed to a certain standard. And if her reason for divorcing him ever got out, he'd lose a lot more than luxuries. He'd be finished in San Labrador."

"Outing him," he said softly.

"What?"

"Dragging him out of the closet whether he wanted it or not. It's something angry people do, and hell hath no fury."

"True," I said, "but the only thing is, I haven't picked up any exceptional hostility between Gina and Ramp. Neither has Melissa, and you can bet she'd be looking for it."

"Yeah," said Milo, "but both of them used to act, right? They'd be good at faking marital bliss. Isn't that the San Labrador way?

Heavy starch on the upper lip?"

"True. So where do we go with it?"

"Go?" he said. "If you're asking, could I convince Chickering or the Sheriffs to investigate Ramp on the basis of his having a secret sex life, you know the answer to that. Should I do a little research on him and Golden Boy? What could it hurt?"

"Another day at the beach?" I said.

"Remind me to bring my boogie board."

"Did you get over to see McCloskey again?"

"This afternoon. He was sleeping when I got there. The priest didn't want me to bother him, but I snuck up the back way, went to his room.

He didn't even look surprised to see me-resigned, the way old cons get.

"Learn anything?"

He shook his head. "Just the same old religious crap. I tried all my cop tricks. Nothing fazed him. I'm starting to think the guy's a genuine head case." He tapped his cranium. I Nada aqui."

"But that doesn't preclude his hiring someone to get her."

He didn't answer, looked preoccupied.

"What is it?"

"You got me going-on Ramp. It would be nice to know how much Gina actually knew about his sexuality. Think she discussed it with those therapists?"

"Quite possibly, but I don't see them breaking confidentiality."

"Are dead people entitled to confidentiality?"

"Ethically, they are. I'm not sure about the legal end of it. If foul play was suspected they could probably be forced to open their records eventually. But without that, I don't see them being too forthcoming.

Any publicity can only hurt them."

"Yeah," he said. "Patient in the lake doesn't shout Nobel Prize for medicine.

My mind drifted to black water and stayed there. A hundred plus feet of muck. "If she is at the bottom of the reservoir, what's the chance of finding the body?"

"Not terrific. Like the diver said, visibility's lousy, the area's huge you can't drain it the way you could a lake. And a hundred and twenty-five's getting close to maximum scuba depth before you need to get into deep-sea equipment. We're talking major expense, major time commitment, with little chance of success. The Sheriff's guys weren't jumping to fill out the requisition forms."

"Sheriff's got sole jurisdiction?"

"Uh-huh. Chickering was happy to punt. The prevailing wisdom was to let nature take its course."

"Meaning?"

"Wait for her to float."

I thought of a gas-filled, suppurating lump rising to the surface of the dam. Wondered what comfort I'd be able to dredge up for Melissa if and when that happened.

Wondered what I'd tell her when she woke up "Despite the prevailing wisdom," I said, "do you think there's any chance she escaped from the car and made it back to shore?"

He gave me a puzzled look. "Abandoning your murder/mayhem scenario?"

"Exploring alternatives."

"If that's the case, why didn't she just wait by the side of the road until someone came by? It's not well-traveled, but eventually she would have been found."

"She might have been in shock, disoriented-maybe she even suffered a head injury, wandered off, and lost consciousness."

"No blood traces were found."

"Closed head injury. You don't need blood for a concussion."

"Wandered off somewhere," he said. "If you're searching for a happy ending, that ain't it. Not if the copters don't find her damned soon.

We're talking fifty-plus hours of exposure. If I had a choice of which way to die, I'd opt for the lake."

He stood again. Paced.

"Can you handle more ugly?" he said.

I spread my arms, thrust my chest forward. "Hit me."

"There are at least two other scenarios we haven't considered.

One: She got to shore, waited by the road, and someone did pick her up.

Someone nasty.

"Psycho motorist?"

"It's an alternative, Alex. Good-looking woman in a wet dress, helpless. It would appeal to a certain... appetite. Lord knows we see it often enough-women stranded on the freeway, Good Samaritans turning out not to be."

I said, "That is ugly. No one deserves to suffer that much."

"Since when has deserving had anything to do with it?"

"What's Two?"

"Suicide. Gautier-the sheriff brought it up. Right after you and Melissa left, Chickering started explaining to everyone that you were her shrink, got into this little monologue about Gina's problems-bad genetics. About San Labrador having lots of eccentrics. He may guard the rich folk's palaces, but he doesn't have much affection for them.

Anyway, Gautier said, given all that, why not suicide? Apparently they've had other people jump in the reservoir.

Chickering loved it."

"What did Ramp have to say about that?"

"Ramp wasn't there Chickering wouldn't have mouthed off in front of him. He didn't even realize I was listening."

"Where was Ramp?"

"Up on the highway. He started to look queasy-the paramedics took him to the ambulance for an EKG."

"He okay?"

"EKG-wise he is. But he looked pretty shitty. When I left he was still getting tea and sympathy."

"Acting?"

He shrugged.

"Chickering's psychological insights notwithstanding," I said, "I don't see suicide. When I talked to her there was no evidence of depression not even a hint of it. On the contrary, she was optimistic. She had twenty years of pain and misery to contemplate doing away with herself.

Why would she do it just at the point where she was looking forward to some freedom?"

"Freedom can be scary."

"Just a couple of days ago, you had her getting high on freedom-driving to Vegas to whoop it up."

"Things change," he said. Then: "You always have a way of complicating my life."

"What better basis for friendship?"

We went to check on Melissa. She was lying on her side, face to the sofa back, the blanket twisted around her in a tight cocoon.

Madeleine sat at the foot of the sofa, only a small portion of her substantial buttocks making contact with the cushion. Crocheting something pink and formless and concentrating on her hands. She glanced up as we entered.

I said, "Has she been up at all?"

"Non, monsieur.

Milo said, "Has Mr. Ramp come home yet?"

"Non, monsieur." Her fingers stilled.

I said, "Why don't we put her to bed."

"Oui, monsieur."

I lifted Melissa, carried her up the stairs to her room, Madeleine and Milo behind me. Madeleine turned on the light, dimmed it, and drew back the covers of the four-poster. She spent a long time tucking Melissa in, then pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat.

Reaching into a dressing-gown pocket, she drew out her crocheting and placed it in her lap. Sitting motionless, careful not to rock.

Melissa shifted position under the covers, moved again so that she was on her back. Her mouth was open and her breathing was slow and steady.

Milo watched the rise and fall of the comforter for a moment, then said, "I'm gonna get going. How about you?"

Remembering a small child's night terrors, I said, "I'll stay for a while."

Milo nodded.

"I stay also," said Madeleine. She engaged her yarn, looped it around her needle, and began dipping and tilting.

"Good," I told her. "I'll be downstairs. Call me if she wakes up.

"Oui, monsieur."

I sat in one of the overstuffed chairs and thought about things that kept me awake. The final time I checked my watch, it was just after 1:00 A.M. I fell asleep, still sitting, and awoke stiff and cottonmouthed, my arms tattooed.

Dazed and confused, I jerked upright. The tattooing shifted kaleidoscopically.

Luminous blue and red and emerald and amber splotches.

Sunlight sieved through lace curtains and daubed by stained glass.

Sunday.

I felt sacrilegious. As if I'd dozed off in a church.

Seven-twenty.

Silent house.

Overnight, a stale smell had settled in. Or maybe it had been there all along.

I rubbed my eyes and tried to clear my head. Stood, with some pain, straightened my clothes, ran my hand over my stubbled face, and stretched until it was obvious that the ache wasn't ready to depart.

In a guest bathroom near the entry hall, I splashed water on my face, massaged my scalp, and headed upstairs.

Melissa was still asleep, hair spread on her pillow, too perfectly arranged to be accidental.

It reminded me of a Victorian funeral photo. Angelic children in lace-edged coffins.

I worked my way past that, smiled at Madeleine.

The pink thing was still formless but had stretched to a couple of feet. I wondered if she'd slept at all. Her feet were bare, bigger than mine. A pair of corduroy slippers was arranged neatly on the floor next to the rocker. Next to them was a telephone that she'd removed from Melissa's nightstand.

I said, "Bonjour:" She looked up, clear-eyed and grim, began working her needle faster.

"Monsieur." She reached down and replaced the phone.

"Did Mr. Ramp come home?"

Glance at Melissa. Shake of the head. The movement made the chair creak.

Melissa opened her eyes.

Madeleine shot me an accusing look.

I approached the bed.

Madeleine began rocking. The chair complained louder.

Melissa looked up at me.

I smiled down at her, hoping it didn't look ghoulish.

She widened her eyes. Moved her lips, seemed to be struggling.

"Hi,"Isaid.

"I-what-" Her eyes darted, unable to settle. Panic crossed her face.

She pushed her head forward, fell back. Closed her eyes and opened them again.

I sat down and took her hand. Soft and hot. Felt her forehead.

Warm, but not feverish.

Madeleine rocked faster.

Melissa was squeezing my fingers. "I- Wha- Mama."

"They're still looking for her, Melissa."

"Mama." Tears. She closed her eyes.

Madeleine was there with a tissue for her and a look of reproach for me.

A moment later Melissa was sleeping again.

I waited around until her slumber deepened, got what I needed from Madeleine, and went downstairs. Lupe and Rebecca were downstairs, vacuuming and scrubbing. When I passed, they averted their eyes.

I left the house, stepping out into sooty light that grayed the forest shielding the mansion. As I opened the door to the Seville, a white Saab Turbo came roaring up the drive. It came to a short stop, the engine quieted, and both Gabneys got out, Ursula from the driver's side.

She had on a snugly tailored gray sharkskin suit over a white blouse and less makeup than she'd worn at the clinic. It made her look tired but younger. Every hair in place, but her coiffure lacked luster.

Her husband had exchanged cowboy duds for a brown-and-tan houndstooth jacket, beige slacks, chocolate suede wingtips, white shirt, and green tie.

She waited until he took her arm. The difference in their heights seemed almost comical but their expressions killed the joke. They walked toward me, matching each other step for step, looking like pallbearers.

"Dr. Delaware," said Leo Gabney. "We've been calling the police department regularly, just received the terrible news from Chief Chickering." His free hand wiped his high brow. "Terrible."

His wife bit her lip. He patted her arm.

"How's Melissa?" she said, very softly.

Surprised by the question, I said, "Sleeping."

"Oh?"

"It seems to be her major defense right now."

"Not uncommon," said Leo. "Protective withdrawal. I'm sure you're aware of how important it is to monitor, because sometimes it's a prelude to prolonged depression.

I said, "I'll be keeping an eye on her."

Ursula said, "Has she been given anything? To make her sleep?"

"Not to my knowledge," I said.

"Good," she said. "It's best that she not be tranquilized. In order to..." She bit her lip again. "God, I'm so sorry. I reallyThis is just.

She shook her head, folded her lips inward, and looked at the sky.

"What can you say at a time like this?"

"Horrible," said her husband. "You can say it's damned horrible and feel the pain while resigning yourself to the inadequacy of language."

He patted some more. She gazed past him, at the big house's peach facade. Her eyes seemed unfocused.

He said, "Horrible," again, a professor trying to foment discussion.

Then, "Who can account for the way things work out?"

When neither his wife nor I responded, he said, "Chickering suggested suicide-playing amateur psychologist. Pure nonsense, and I told him so. She never displayed an iota of depression, masked or overt. On the contrary, she was a robust woman, considering what she'd been through."

He stopped again, meaningfully. Somewhere, from the trees, a mockingbird imitated a jay. Gabney gave an exasperated look and turned to his wife. She was somewhere else.

I said, "Did she ever mention anything in therapy that would explain why she drove up to that reservoir?"

"Nothing," said Leo. "Not a thing. Driving off by herself in the first place was total improvisation. That's the hell of it-had she adhered to the treatment plan, none of this would have happened.

She'd never been anything but compliant before."

Ursula continued to say nothing. She'd loosened her arm from her husband's grip without my noticing.

I said, "Was there any unusual stress she was undergoingapart from the agoraphobia?"

"No, nothing," said Gabney. "Her stress level was lower than ever before. She was progressing beautifully."

I turned to Ursula. She continued looking at the house but shook her head.

"No," she said. "Nothing."

"Why this line of inquiry, Dr. Delaware?" said Gabney. "Surely you don't believe it was suicide." Pushing his face closer to mine. One of his eyes was a paler blue than the other. Both were clear and unwavering. Less combative than curious.

"Just trying to make some sense of it."

He placed a hand on my shoulder. "I understand. That's only natural.

But I'm afraid the sad sense of it boils down to the fact that she overestimated her progress and deviated from the treatment plan.

The sense of it is that we'll never make any sense of it."

He sighed, wiped his brow again, though it was dry. "Who knows better than we therapists that human beings persist in their annoying habit of being unpredictable? Those of us who can't deal with that should study physics, I suppose."

His wife's head made a sharp quarter-turn.

"Not that I'm blaming her, of course," he said. "She was a sweet, well-meaning woman. Suffered more than anyone should. It's just one of those unfortunate... things." Shrug. "After enough years in practice, one learns to accommodate to tragedy. One definitely learns."

He reached for Ursula's arm. She allowed him to touch her for a moment, then moved away and walked quickly up the limestone steps. Her high heels clattered and her long legs seemed too decorative for top speed. She looked sexy and awkward at the same time. At the front door she placed her palms flat upon the Chaucer carving and stood there, as if the wood had healing powers.

"She's soft," said Gabney, very quietly. "Too caring."

"Didn't know that was a fault."

He smiled. "Give yourself a few more years." Then: "So, are you taking responsibility for the emotional well-being of this family?"

"Just Melissa."

He nodded. "She's certainly vulnerable. Please don't hesitate to consult with us if there's anything we can do."

"Would it be possible to review Mrs. Ramp's chart?"

"Her chart? I suppose so, but why?"

"Same answer as before, I guess. Trying to make sense out of it."

Professorial smile. "Her chart won't help you with that. There's nothing... juicy in it. Which is to say we avoid the typical anecdotal pitfalls-compulsively detailed descriptions of the patient's every twitch and blink, those lovely Oedipal recollections and dream sequences movie writers are so fond 0o My research has shown that that kind of thing has little to do with therapeutic outcome. Typically, the doctor scrawls in order to feel he's being useful, never bothers to actually go back and read any of it, and when he does, none of it's useful. So we've developed a method of record-keeping that's highly objective. Behavior-based symptomology. Objectively defined goals."

"What about records of the group sessions?"

"We don't keep those. Because we don't conceptualize the groups as therapy I unstructured group sessions have very little direct treatment value. Two patients presenting identical symptoms may have arrived at their pathology along totally different pathways.

Each has developed a unique pattern of faulty learning. Once the patient has changed, it may be appropriate for him to talk to others who've experienced progress. If for no other reason than as a social reinforcer."

"Socializing as a reward for doing well?"

"Exactly. But we keep the discussion on a positive track. Don't take notes or do anything else to make it seem too clinical."

Remembering what Ursula said about Gina's planning to talk about Melissa in group, I said, "Do you discourage their talking about their problems?"

"I'd prefer to see it as reinforcing positivity."

"Guess you'll be facing a challenge now. Helping the others deal with what happened to Gina."

Keeping his eyes on me, he reached into his pocket and brought out a packet of chewing gum. Unwrapping two pieces, he stuck them together and got to work on them.

"If you want to read her chart," he said, "I'd be happy to make you a copy.

"I'd appreciate that."

"Where shall I send it?"

"Your wife has my address."

"Ah." Glancing at Ursula again. She'd moved away from the door, was coming slowly down the steps.

"So," he said, "the daughter's sleeping?"

I nodded.

"How's the husband doing?"

"He hasn't come home yet. Any psychological insights on him?"

He moved his head to one side, shifting into the sunlight, and his white hair became a nimbus. "Seems a pleasant enough fellow.

Somewhat on the passive side. They haven't been married long, so he's a Johnny-come-lately, in terms of the pathology."

"Was he involved in the treatment?"

"As involved as he could be. He followed through on the little that was expected of him. Excuse me.

Turning his back on me, he walked briskly toward the steps and took his wife's hand as she descended. Tried to put his arm around her shoulder but was too short to pull it off. Grasping her waist instead, he ushered her toward the Saab. Holding the passenger door open for her, he helped her in. His turn to drive. Then he walked over to me and offered his soft hand.

We shook.

"We came to help," he said, "but it doesn't seem as if there's much for us to do right at this moment. Please let us know if that changes.

And good luck to the child. She'll certainly need it."

Madeleine's directions were precise. I found the Tankard without any trouble.

Southwestern stretch of Cathcart Boulevard, just below the San Labrador city limits. Same mix of pricey shops and service establishments, lots of self-conscious mission architecture. The pistachio trees ended at the Pasadena border and were replaced by jacarandas in full bloom. The median was beautifully littered with purple blossoms.

I parked, spotting other non-Labradoran features: a cocktail lounge at the end of the block. Two liquor stores-one billing itself as a wine merchant, the other a PURVEYOR OF FINE SPIRITS. Window banners announcing premium French and California varietals on special.

The Tankard and Blade was a modest-looking establishment.

Two stories, maybe a thousand square feet, set on a quarter-acre lot that was mostly parking space. Coarse-troweled white stucco, brown crossbeams, leaded windows, and mock-thatch roofing. A chain blocked the lot. Ramp's Mercedes was on the other side, parked toward the rear, confirming my powers of deduction. (Where the hell was the deerstalker hat and calabash?) A couple of other cars sat farther back: twenty-year-old brown Chevrolet Monte Carlo with a white vinyl top peeling at the seams, and a red Toyota Celica.

The front door was panes of bubbly colored glass set into distressed oak. A hand-printed cardboard sign hanging from the knob said SUNDAY BRUNCH CANCELED. THANK YOU.

?KI VA It t I t I ) I " I knocked, got no answer. Pretended I had a right to intrude and rapped until my knuckles grew sore.

Finally the door opened and an irritated-looking woman stood there, keys in hand.

Mid-forties, five five, 135. Figure in the hourglass mode, made ostentatious by what she had on: Empire I waisted, bodice-topped, puffed long-sleeve maxi-dress with a square neckline low enough to display a swelling hand's-breadth of freckled cleavage. Above the waist the dress was white cotton; below, wine-and-brown paisley print.

Platinum hair drawn back and tied with a wine-colored ribbon. A black velvet choker centered with an imitation coral cameo encircled her neck.

Someone's idea of Ye Olde Serving Wench.

Her features were good: high cheekbones, firm square chin, full crimson-glossed lips, small uptilted nose, wide brown eyes framed by too-dark, too-thick, too-long lashes. Hoops the size of drink coasters hung from her ears.

Protected by barroom light or booze-softened consciousness, she would have been a knockout. Morning assaulted her beauty, pouncing upon overly pancaked skin, worry seams, a loosening around the jowls, pouches of despair tugging her mouth into a frown.

She was regarding me as if I were the taxman.

"I'd like to see Mr. Ramp."

She back-rapped the sign with crimson nails. "Can't you read?"

She flinched as if asserting herself hurt.

"I'm Dr. Delaware-Melissa's doctor."

"Oh The worry lines deepened. "Hold on a second-just wait here."

The door closed and locked. A few minutes later she opened it.

"Sorry, it's just... You should have met Bethel." Shooting her hand forward. Before I could take it, she added, "Noel's mom."

"Good to meet you, Mrs. Drucker."

Her expression said she wasn't used to being called Mrs. She dropped my hand, looked up and down the boulevard. "C'mon in."

Closing the door behind me and locking it with a hard twist.

The restaurant's lights were ofo The leaded windows were frosted and thinly spaced and a dishwater-colored haze struggled through them. My pupils labored to adjust. When they stopped aching, I saw a single long room lined with tuft-and-nailhead redleather booths and floored with honey-brown carpet patterned in mock peg-and-groove. The tables were spread with white linen and set with pewter drink plates, blocky green glass goblets, and stoutlooking flatware. The walls were vertical pine planks stained the color of roast beef. Bracketed shelves just below the ceiling line housed a collection of mugs and steins easily a hundred of them, many of them featuring pink-cheeked Anglo-Saxon visages with dead porcelain eyes. Suits of armor that looked like studio props stood in strategic locations around the restaurant. Maces and broadswords hung on the walls, along with still life's favoring dead birds and rabbits.

An open door at the rear offered a glimpse of stainless-steel kitchen.

To its left was a horseshoe-shaped, leather-topped bar backed with a St. Pauli's Girl mirror. A stainless-steel serving cart sat at the epicenter of thefaux-wood carpet, bare except for a rotisserie spit and a carving set hefty enough to handle bison surgery.

Ramp was at the bar, facing the mirror, brow resting in one hand, one arm dangling. Near his elbow was a glass and a bottle of Wild Turkey.

Clatter came from the kitchen, then silence.

Unhealthy silence. Like most places designed for social intercourse, the restaurant was deathly without it.

I approached the bar. Bethel Drucker stayed with me. When we got there, she said, "Can I get you something, sir?" As if brunch had been restored.

"No, thanks."

She went over to Ramp's right side, leaned low, tried to catch his eye.

He didn't budge. The ice in his glass floated in an inch of bourbon.

The bar top smelled of soap and booze.

Bethel said, "How "bout some more water?"

He said, "Okay."

She took the glass, went behind the bar, filled it from a plastic Evian bottle, and put it in front of him.

He said, "Thanks," but didn't touch it.

She looked at him for a moment, then went into the kitchen.

When we were alone, he said, "No problem finding me, huh?"

Talking so low I had to move closer. I took the stool next to him. He didn't move.

I said, "When you didn't come home, I wondered. It was an educated guess."

"Got no home. Not anymore.

I said nothing. The St. Pauli girl grinned with Aryan joy.

"I'm a guest now," he said. "Unwanted guest. Welcome mat worn clear the hell through... How's Melissa?"

"Sleeping."

"Yeah, she does that a lot. When she's upset. Every time I used to try to talk to her she'd doze off."

No resentment in his voice. Just resignation. "Lots to be upset about. I wouldn't trade what she's been through for twenty billion.

She got dealt a lousy hand.... If she'd've let me.

He stopped, touched his water glass, made no attempt to lift it.

"Well, she's got one less thing to be upset about," he said.

"What's that?"

"Yours truly. No more evil stepdad. She once rented that from the video store-The Stepfather Watched it over and over Downstairs in the den. Never watched anything else down there-doesn't even like movies.

I sat down to watch it with her. Wanting to relate. Made popcorn for two. She fell asleep." He heaved his shoulders. "I'm gone, hit the dusty trail."

"From San Labrador or just from the house?"

Shrug.

"When did you decide to leave?" I said.

"Bout ten minutes ago. Or maybe it was right from the beginning, I don't know What the hell's the diff?"

Neither of us talked for a while. The mirror shot back our reflections, sullied by dishwater light. Our faces were barely discernible, distorted by the imperfections in the silvered glass and the painted face of the grinning fraulein. I made out just enough to know that he looked awful. I didn't look much better.

He said, "I just can't see why the hell she'd do it."

"Do what?"

"Drive up there-break her appointment at the clinic. She never broke rules."

"Never?"

He turned and faced me. Unshaven, pouch-eyed. Instant old man; the mirror had been kind. "She once told me that when she was a kid in school, she used to get straight As. Not because she especially liked to study, but because she was afraid of the teachers getting mad at her. Afraid of not doing well. She was straitlaced as they comeeven back when we were at the studio and things got pretty loose, she never relaxed her standards."

I wondered how that kind of morality would fare after coming up against Todd Nyquist. I said, "Chickering's pushing a suicide theory."

"Chickering's a goddam ass. The only thing he's got any talent for is keeping things quiet. Which is what they pay him for."

"What kinds of things?"

He closed his eyes, shook his head, faced the mirror again.

"What do you think? People making asses of themselves. They come in here and get plastered, want to drive home and get all pissed-off and abusive when I tell Noel not to release their keys. I call Chickering.

Even though this is Pasadena, he comes right down and escorts them home-he or one of his troopers, but they do it with their own cars, so no one will see anything out of the ordinary. Nothing gets written up and the ass's car gets delivered to his driveway. If it's somebody local. Same with nice old ladies caught shoplifting, or kids smoking dope."

"What about outsiders?"

"They get put in jail." Grim smile. "We've got great crime statistics." He ran a finger across his lips. "That's why we've got no local paper-thank God for that now. I used to think it was a real pain in the ass from an advertising point of view, but thank God for it now."

He put both hands over his face.

Bethel came out from the kitchen carrying a plate of steak and eggs.

She put it down in front of him, then quickly went back in.

After a long time he looked up. "So. How'd you enjoy the beach?"

When I didn't reply, he said, "I told you she wouldn't be out there.

Why the hell'd you bother?"

"Detective Sturgis asked me to check."

YAlVAIt t I t I "Good old Detective Sturgis. W I sure wasted each other's time, didn't we? You usually do what he asks?"

"He doesn't usually ask."

"Though it wasn't exactly dirty work, right? Drive to the beach, catch some sun, check up on the client."

"It's a beautiful spot," I said. "Get down there much?"

He tensed his jaw. Touched his whiskey glass. Finally said, "Used to.

Few times a month. Never could get Gina to go with me."

He turned and looked at me again. Stared.

I held his gaze.

"Nothing like the sun at the beach," he said. "Gotta keep the old tan going. Perfect host and all that-got a certain goddam standard to uphold, right?"

He lifted the glass, sipped.

I said, "The last couple of days haven't been a day at the beach for you."

"Yeah." Hollow laugh. "First I thought it was nothing-Gina'd lost her way, would come right back. Then when she didn't show up by Thursday night, I started thinking maybe she had taken a drivewanting to be free, like Sturgis said. Once I put that in my mind, I couldn't get it out. Couldn't stop wondering if it was something I did-drove myself nuts wondering. So what does it turn out to be?

Goddam stupid accident, Jesus H... I should have known it wasn't us. We were getting along great, even though it was so. so He made a tortured sound, picked up the glass, and heaved it at the mirror. The fraulein's face cracked; blades of glass tumbled out and shattered on the gooseneck spigot of the bar sink, leaving a trapezoid of white plaster. The rest of the mirror remained bolted to the wall.

No one came out of the kitchen.

He said, "Skoal. A-goddam-sant6. Bottoms goddam up." Turning to me: "What are you here for anyway? See what a secret fag looks like?"

"Touching base. Trying to make some sense of what happened, myself.

So I can help Melissa."

"Made any so far? Sense?"

"Not yet.

"You one, too?"

"What?"

"Fag. Gay-whatever they're calling it nowadays. Like him.

Sturgis. And me and.

"No."

"Bully for you... Good old Melissa. What was she like as a little kid?"

I told him, emphasizing the positive, careful not to break confidentiality.

"Yeah," he said again. "That's what I figured. I would have likedAh, to hell with it."

He got up with remarkable speed. Went to the kitchen door and called out, "Noel!"

The Drucker boy came out, wearing his red busboy's jacket over a T-shirt and jeans and holding a dish towel.

"You can go now," said Ramp. "The doctor here says she's sleeping. If you want to wait till she wakes up, that's fine. I've got nothing for you to do here. Just do one thing first: Pack me a suitcase-clothes, stufo just throw it in. Use the big blue case in my closet. Bring it back here-doesn't matter what time. I'll be here."

"Yes, sir," said Noel, looking uneasy.

"Sir;" said Ramp, turning to me. "Hear that? Respectful youth.

This boy will go far. Watch out, Harvard."

Noel winced.

Ramp said, "Tell your mom it's safe to come out. I'm not going to eat any of this. Gonna take a nap, myself."

The boy went back into the kitchen.

Ramp watched him. "Everything's going to change," he said.

"Everything."

Just as I was pulling away from the curb, Noel came out of the restaurant. He spotted me and jogged over to the Seville. He'd removed his red jacket, wore a small backpack over his T-shirt. The shirt said GREENPEACE. He mouthed, "Excuse me."

I opened the passenger window.

He said, "Excuse me," again, and added a "sir."

"What's up, Noel?"

"I was just wondering how Melissa's doing."

"She seems mostly to be sleeping. The full impact may not have hit her yet.

"She's a very..." He frowned.

I waited. He said, "It's hard to phrase it."

I shoved the door open. "C'mon in."

He hesitated for a moment, pulled off the backpack, placed it on the floor, and slid in. He lifted the pack and put it on his lap. His face was hungry and hurting.

"Nice car," he said. "Seventy-eight?"

"Nine."

"The new ones aren't nearly as good. Too much plastic."

"I like it."

He played with the straps on the backpack.

I said, "You were saying something about Melissa. Something that was hard to phrase."

He frowned. One fingernail scraped a strap. "All I meant to say was, she's a very special person. Unique. Just from looking at her you'd assume she was something totally different than what she actually is-I mean, I know this sounds sexist, but most of the really good-looking girls tend to be concerned about superficial things-at least that's the way it is out here."

"Out here in San Labrador?"

He nodded. "At least as far as what I've seen. I don't know, maybe it's California in general. Or the whole world. I've never really lived anywhere else since I was a little kid, so I can't really say.

That's why I wanted to get out of here-try a different environment.

Not all this party-hearty."

"Harvard."

Nod. "I applied to a lot of schools, didn't really expect to get into Harvard. When I did, I decided it was what I wanted, if the financial part could be worked out."

"Was it?"

"Basically. Between what I've saved up, taking a year off to put more away, and some other things, I could have handled it."

"Could have?"

"I don't know." He fidgeted, pulled straps. "I really don't know, now, if going away is the best thing."

I said, "Why's that?"

"I mean, how can I leave when she's going through something like this?

She's... deep. Feels things more strongly than other people.

She's the only girl I've ever met who's really concerned with important things. The first time we ever met, it was unbelievably easy to talk to her."

Pain in his eyes.

"Sorry," he said, reaching for the door handle. "Sorry for bothering you. Actually, I feel kind of dishonest talking to you.

"Why's that?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "The first time Melissa called you-about wanting to come in and see you? I was there. In the room with her."

I mentally replayed the conversation. Melissa excusing herself a couple of times... Oh, darn, hold on... hand over the phone.

"And?" I said.

"I was against it," he said. "Her seeing you. I told her she didn't need a- She could work things out herself. That we could problemsolve it together. She told me to mind my own business, that you were great.

Now here I am, talking to you myself."

"None of that's important, Noel. I'et's get back to where we were-Melissa as a unique person. I agree with you on that. What you're saying is you feel a unique rapport with her. And you're worried about abandoning her in her time of need."

He nodded.

"When are you supposed to leave for Boston?"

"Early August. Classes start September. But they want you to get there earlier, for orientation."

"Got a major in mind?"

"Maybe international relations."

"Diplomacy?"

"Probably not. I think I'd prefer something that has to do with actual policy-making. An administrative staff position at the State Department or Defense. Or a congressional aide. If you study the way the government works, it's really the people behind the scenes who get things done. Sometimes professional diplomats do have impact, but often they're just appointed figureheads." Pause. "Also, I think I'd have a better shot at a behind-the-scenes position."

"Why's that?"

"From everything I've read about the foreign service, where you come from your family, your background, who you know-is more important than what you actually accomplish. Kind of like making the best clubs in high school. I haven't got much of a family. Just Mom and myself" Saying it matter-of-factly, no self-pity.

He said, "It used to bother me people put a lot of premium on lineage out here. Meaning money that's two generations old. But now I realize I've actually been pretty lucky. Mom's really supportive and I've always had everything I needed. When you get down to it, a person doesn't need that much, do they? Also, I got to see what happens to lots of the rich kids-the kind of messes they get themselves into.

That's why I really respect Melissa. She's probably one of the richest girls in San Lab, but she doesn't act like it. The first time I met her she'd come into the Tankard with some other kids for a French Club dinner and I was busing for my mom. The rest of them acted as if I were invisible. Melissa took the time to say please and thank you, and afterward, when the others went out to the parking lot, she hung back and talked to me, told me she'd seen me at the Pasadena-San Labrador track meet-I used to do gymnastics until it took too much time from my studies. Nothing flirty she's not like that. We started talking and there was this instant... rapport. As if we were old friends. She kept coming in and we got to be really good friends. She helped me with lots of things. All I want is to be able to help her. Is it definite about her mom being... ?"

"No," I said. "Not definite. But it doesn't look good."

"That's really... terrible." Shaking his head. Scratching the pack. "God, that's terrible. It's going to be so hard for her."

"Did you know Mrs. Ramp well?"

"Not really. I washed her cars every couple of weeks. Once in a while she'd come down and take a look. But to tell the truth, she really didn't care about them. One time I made a comment about how fantastic they were, and she said she guessed so, but to her they were just metal and rubber. Then she apologized right away, said she hadn't meant to demean my work. I thought that was pretty classy.

Overall, she seemed pretty classy. Maybe a little... distant. I thought the way she lived was... Melissa and I used to...1 guess I should have had more sympathy. If Melissa remembers that, she'll probably hate me."

"Melissa will remember your friendship."

He said nothing for several moments. Then: "Actually, it may have gone beyond friendship... at least from my point of view. From hers, I can't really be sure.

Looking at me straight on. Begging for good news.

The most I could offer was a smile.

He picked at a cuticle. Bit it. "Great. Here I am talking about myself when I should be thinking about Melissa. I'd better get over there. Got to pack Mr. Ramp's suitcase. Think he's serious about leaving?"

"You'd probably know that better than I would."

"I don't know a thing," he said quickly.

"He and Melissa don't seem to have the makings of a happy family."

He ignored that, lifted the pack and reached for the door handle.

"Well, better get going."

"Need a ride?" I said.

"No, thanks, got my own car-the Celica over there." Opening the door, he put one foot on the curb, stopped, turned to face me again.

"What I meant to ask you in the first place, is there anything I should be doing-to help her?"

"Be there for her when she needs company," I said. "Listen when she talks but don't feel hurt or worried if she doesn't want to talk. Be patient when she gets really upset-don't cut her off or try to tell her everything's all right when it's not. Something bad happened-you can't change that."

He'd kept his eyes on me and nodded as I spoke. Good powers of concentration, almost eerie. I half expected him to whip out paper and pencil and take notes.

"Also," I said, "I wouldn't make any drastic changes in your own plans.

Once Melissa gets over the initial shock, she's going to have to pull her life together. Putting your life on hold for her could even make her more upset. Even if you don't intend to, you're obligating her to you. Creating a debt. At this stage in Melissa's life, independence is really crucial. Even with what's happened. She doesn't need another burden. May come to resent it."

He said, "I never..." He was bouncing the pack. Looking down at it. The canvas was packed tight. It landed on his knee with a dull sound.

I said, "Books?"

"Textbooks. Some of the material I thought I'd be taking this fall. I wanted to get an early start-the freshman competition's really tough.

I keep carrying them around, but I haven't read a line yet."

Embarrassed smile. "Kind of weenie-ish, I guess."

"Sounds like good planning to me."

"Whatever," he said. "It's just that I feel an obligation to excel if I go."

"Obligation to whom?"

"My mother. Don-Mr. Ramp. He's putting up any tuition shortfall for the first two years-those are the other funds I mentioned. If I ace freshman and sophomore, I should qualify for some kind of scholarship."

"He obviously thinks a lot of you."

"Well," he said dismissively, "I guess it makes him feel good that we're making progress Mom and me. He gave her a job when she... when things were difficult." Brief flash of pain. Shallow smile to compensate. "Gave us a place to live-the second floor of the Tankard is our home. Not that it was charity Mom's earned it, best waitress anyone could ever want. When he's not there she basically runs the place, even fills in for the chef But he's also about the best boss you could have he bought me the Celica, in addition to my bonus. Got me the job at Melissa's place."

"Melissa doesn't seem to share your feelings about him."

He started to reach for the door, gave a resigned look, and let his arm drop. "She used to like him. When she was just a customer, they'd talk and he'd bring her free Shirley Temples. She's the one who fixed him up with her mom. The trouble started after it got serious. I kept wanting to tell her that he hadn't changed he was exactly the same person but she was just looking at him differently, but.

Weak smile.

"But what?"

"You just don't tell Melissa things like that. She gets an idea in her head and she just won't shake it not that it's a terrible fault. Too many kids are wishy-washy, don't care about ideals. She sticks to her principles, doesn't care about conforming or getting into stuff just because everyone else is. Like with drugs I always knew how bad they were because I... because of all I've read. But someone like Melissa, you'd think she might be... susceptible. Being popular and good-looking and having plenty of money. But she never did. She stood her ground."

"Popular?" I said. "She's never mentioned any friends other than you.

And I haven't seen any come around."

"She's picky. But everyone liked her. She could have been a cheerleader, joined the best service clubs if she'd wanted, but she had other things on her mind."

"Like what?"

"Her studies, mostly."

"What else?"

He hesitated, then said, "Her mom-it was as if being a daughter was her main job in life. She once told me she felt she'd always have to take care of her mom. I tried to convince her that wasn't right but she really got steamed. Told me I didn't know what it was like. I didn't argue with her. All that would've done was get her madder, and I really don't like it when she gets mad."

He walked away before I could respond. I watched him lift the chain to the parking lot, get in the Toyota, and drive off Two hands on the wheel.

This boy will go far: Courteous, reverent, industrious, almost excruciatingly earnest.

In some ways, Melissa's male counterpart-her spiritual sibling. I could understand the rapport.

Did that get in the way of her thinking of him the way he wanted?

A good kid.

Too good to be true?

My talk with him had twanged my therapist's antennae, though I wasn't sure why.

Or maybe I was just filling my head with supposition in order to avoid reality. The topic we'd barely touched upon.

Blue skies, black water.

Something white, floating I started the Seville, pulled forward, coasted across the San Labrador city line.

Melissa was awake, but not talking. She lay on her back, head propped on three pillows, hair braided atop her head, eyelids swollen. Noel sat by her side, in the rocker Madeleine had filled an hour ago.

Holding her hand, looking alternately content and edgy.

Back in her uniform, Madeleine moved through the room like a harbor barge, docking at pieces of furniture, dusting, straightening, opening and closing drawers. On the nightstand was a bowl of oatmeal that had congealed to mortar. The drapes were drawn, warding off the harshness of midday summer light.

I leaned under the canopy and said hello. Melissa acknowledged me with a feeble smile. I squeezed the hand Noel hadn't claimed.

Asked her if there was anything I could do for her.

Head shake. She looked nine years old again.

I stuck around anyway. Madeleine swiped a bit more with her dishrag, then said, "I go downstairs, ma petite choute? Something to eat?"

Melissa shook her head.

Madeleine picked up the bowl of oatmeal and walked halfway to the door.

"Something to eat for you, monsieur doctor?"

The invitation and the "doctor" meant I must have done something right.

I realized I was hungry. But even if I hadn't been, I wouldn't have turned her down.

"Thank you," I said. "Something light would be fine."

"A steak?" she said. "Or some nice lamb chops-I have the double-cuts."

"A small chop would be great.

She nodded, stuffed her dustrag in a pocket, and left.

Alone with Noel and Melissa, I felt like an unwanted chaperon.

They seemed so comfortable with each other that three was definitely a crowd.

Soon her eyes had closed again. I stepped out into the hallway, found myself drifting past closed doors. Drifting toward the back of the house the rear spiral staircase that Gina Ramp had descended that first day, looking for Melissa. Stairs that ascended as well, tunneling upward through the gloom of the hallway.

I began climbing. At the top was a hundred square feet of bare space marked by cedar double doors.

Old-fashioned iron key in the lock. I turned it, stepped into darkness, groped for a light switch, and flicked. Found myself in an enormous, loftlike room. Over a hundred feet long, at least half that amount in width, with dusty pine-plank floors, cedar walls, unfinished beam ceiling, bare bulbs joined to unshielded electrical conduits that ran the length of the beams. Dormer windows on both ends, shaded with oilcloth.

The right portion of the room was filled: furniture, lamps, steamer trunks and leather suitcases that brought to mind the age of rail travel. Groups of objects assembled with loose but noticeable organization: Here a collection of statuary, there a foundry's worth of bronze sculptures. Inkstands, clocks, stuffed birds, ivory carvings, inlaid boxes. A jumble of staghorns, some of them on mounting boards, others bound together with leather thongs. Rolled rugs, animal skins, elephant-foot ashtrays, glass shades that could have been Tiffany. A standing polar bear, glass-eyed, yellowed, snarling, one paw waving, the other clutching a taxidermic salmon.

The left side was nearly empty. Two levels of vertically slotted storage racks ran along the wall. An easel and artist's flat file sat in the center. Canvases and framed pictures filled the slots. A blank canvas was clamped to the easel-not quite blank; I made out faint pencil lines. The wooden frame had warped; the canvas billowed and puckered.

A pine paint box sat atop the flat file. The latch was rusted but I pried it open using my fingernails. Inside were a dozen or so sable brushes, their shanks paint-stained, their bristles stiffened to uselessness, a rusty palette knife, and paint tubes dried solid.

Lining the bottom of the case were several pieces of paper. I slid them out. Pages cut out of magazines: Life, National Geographic, American Heritage.

Dates from the "5 0s and "60s. Landscapes and seascapes, mostly.

Inspirational images, I supposed. A photo between two of the pages.

Writing on the back. Black ink, a beautiful, flowing hand: ,+Iawh 5, 1971

Restoration?

Color photograph good quality, satin finish.

Two people a man and a woman standing in front of paneled doors. The Chaucer doors. Peach-colored stucco around the wood.

The woman was Gina Dickinson's size and shape. Model-slim figure, except for a hard, high swell of belly. She had on a white silk dress and white shoes that stood out nicely against the dark wood. On her head was a wide-brimmed white straw sun hat. Wisps of blond hair fuzzed her slender neck. The face below the hat was encased in a mummy-wrap of bandages, the eyeholes flat and black as raisins in a snowman.

One of her hands clutched a bouquet of white roses. The other rested on the shoulder of the man.

Tiny man. Coming midway to Gina's shoulder, making him four seven or eight, tops. Sixtyish. Frail. Head too big for his body.

Arms disproportionately long. Stumpy legs. Goatish features under frizzy gray hair.

A man whose ugliness was so beyond aesthetic repair that it seemed almost noble.

He wore a dark three-piece suit that was probably well cut, but tailoring couldn't compensate for Nature's faulty draftsmanship.

I remembered something Anger, the banker, had said: Art was his only extravagance. He would have bought his clothes off the rack if he could.

No portraits in the house The aesthete.

He was posed formally, one hand in his waistcoat, the other around his bride. But his eyes had wandered off to one side. Uneasy.

Knowing that the camera would be cruel even on special days, but that special days cried out for preservation nonetheless.

He'd kept the picture at the bottom of a box.

Like the magazine photos, inspiration?

I took a closer look at the canvas on the easel. The pencil lines assembled themselves as coherent form: two ovals. Faces. Faces on an equal level. Cheek to cheek. Below, what would have been the sketchy beginnings of torsos. Normal size. The one on the right flattummied.

Art as revisionism. Arthur Dickinson's attempt at mastery.

March 5, 1971.

Melissa had been born in June of that year. Arthur Dickinson had missed the unveiling of his most prized work by weeks.

Something else about the picture struck me: older, shorter, homely man.

Taller, younger, beautiful woman.

The Gabneys. The way Leo had tried, unsuccessfully, to embrace his wife's shoulders.

He was of normal height, the disparity less dramatic, but the parallel remained striking.

Maybe it was because the Gabneys had stood in that same spot this morning.

Maybe I wasn't the only one to have noticed it.

Identification between therapist and patient.

Similar taste in men.

Similar taste in interior decorating.

Who'd influenced whom?

Chicken-egg riddles, which had come to me as I sat in Ursula's office, returned with brain-pecking vengeance.

I went over to the vertical rack. Handwritten labels under each slot listed artist, title, descriptive data, dates of execution and purchase.

Hundreds of partitions, but Arthur Dickinson had been an organized man; the collection was alphabetized.

Cassatt, between Casale and Corot.

Eight slots.

Two of them empty.

I read the labels.

Cassatt, I'. Mothu's Kiss, c. 1891. Aquatint with dr I point and soft-grnund. Catal: Breeskin 149, J3V5 X 81s/16 in.

Cassat I , M. Maternal Caress, c. 1891. Aquatint with dry point and soft-gwund. Catal: Breeskin I SO, 14'/2 X 10 1/16 in.

The rest of the six accounted for, framed and glassed. I pulled them out carefully. All black-and-white, no mother and child scenes.

The two best prints gone.

One for the patient's gray room, one for the doctor's.

I recalled the way the Gabneys had behaved this morning.

Leo trying to project sympathy. But making sure to tell me that Chickering's suicide theory was nonsense.

Damage control.

Ursula operating on a whole other level.

Touching the Chaucer doors as if they led to a shrine.

Or a treasure trove.

I thought of Gina's unaccounted "petty cash." Two million Had the gifts gone beyond art?

Therapeutic transference as a pathway to riches?

Dependency and terror could create a cancer of the soul. Those with the cure could name their price.

I thought of gifts I'd been offered. Mostly handmade creations of little children-potholders, popsicle-stick picture frames, drawings, clay sculptures. My office at home was full of them.

In the case of adult offerings, I had a policy of accepting only tokens flowers, candy. A yellow-wrapped basket of fruit. I turned down anything of significant and lasting value. Doing it graciously was sometimes an ordeal.

No one had ever shoved a piece of rare art in my hands. Still, I liked to think I would have turned that down, too.

Not that accepting gifts was indictable; ethically, it lay somewhere in the fuzzy area between felony and bad judgment. And I was certainly no saint, immune to the pleasures of a bargain.

But I'd gone to school to learn how to do a certain job, and most responsible therapists agreed that any sizable gift, in either direction, reduced the chances of doing the job correctly Shaking the therapeutic balance by immutably altering the relationship that forms the core of change.

Apparently the Gabneys disagreed.

Perhaps a treatment that involved house calls and open-ended sessions lent itself to a relaxation of the rules; I thought of how much time I'd spent in this house.

Foraging in the attic.

But m