oks?"

"I don't know-I never checked... but one thing I'm sure of: It didn't look this way.

"When's the last time you saw it look any different?"

The hand in his hair clawed and gathered a clump. "Just before I saw her drive away-when would that be? Maybe five weeks. Or six, I don't know. It was at night. I brought her some mail, and she was sitting with her feet up on the chest. So the chest was there-that's for sure.

Five or six weeks ago."

"Any idea what was in the chest?"

"No. For all I know it was empty-but why would anyone take an empty trunk, right? So it probably wasn't. And if she packed out, why would she leave her clothes and her dishes and stuff?"

"Good thinking, Richard."

"Very weird."

We entered the room. He stood back and I began circling. Then I saw something on the floor next to the mattress. Fleck of foam.

Couple more. Bending down, I ran my hand along the side of the mattress. More foam fell out. My fingers searched and I found the wound: straight as a seam, surgically neat, barely noticeable even from up close.

"What?" said Skidmore.

"It's been slit open.

"Oh, man." He moved his head from side to side, flapping his hair.

He stayed in place while I got down on my knees, spread the lips of the slit, and peered inside. Nothing. I looked around the rest of the room. Nothing.

"What?" said Skidmore.

"Is the mattress yours or hers?"

"Hers. What's going on?"

"Looks like someone's been curious. Or maybe she was hiding something inside. Did she have a TV or stereo?"

"Just a radio. That's gone, too! But this isn't about burglary, is it?"

"Hard to tell."

"But you suspect nasty, don't you? That's why you came here in the first place, isn't it?"

"I don't know enough to suspect anything, Richard. Is there something you know about her that makes you think nasty?"

"No," he said in a loud, tight voice. "She was a lonely dyke who kept to herself-I don't know what else you expect me to tell you!"

"Nothing, Richard," I said. "You've been a big help. I appreciate the time."

"Yeah. Sure. Now can I close up? Gotta go call a locksmith, put on a new bolt."

We left the garage. Once outside, he pointed to the driveway and said, "That'll take you out."

I thanked him again and wished him luck on his private-eye essay.

He said, "Cancel that one," and went inside the house.

The first pay phone I found was at a mall on Santa Monica Boulevard.

The shopping center was brand-new empty storefronts, the lot freshly tarred. But the booth had a lived-in smell. Gum clots and cigarette butts littered the floor. The directory had been ripped off its chain.

I called Boston Information and asked for the number of the GALA Banner: There was no listing for the paper, but the Gay and Lesbian Alliance had one that I dialed.

A man answered, "GALA." I heard voices in the background.

"I'd like to speak to someone on the Banner, please."

"Advertising or editorial?"

"Editorial. Someone who knows Kathy- Kate Moriarty."

"Kate doesn't work here anymore.

"I know that. She's living in L.A which is where I'm calling from."

Pause. "What's this about?"

"I'm an acquaintance of Kate's and she's been missing for over a month.

Her family's concerned, so am I, and I thought someone in Boston might be able to help us out.

"She's not here, if that's what you mean.

"I'd really like to talk to someone on the staff who knows her."

Another pause. "I'd better take your name and number."

I gave him both and said, "That's an answering service. I'm a clinical psychologist-you can check me out in an American Psychological Association directory. You can also call Professor Seth Fiacre over at Boston U."s psych department. I'd appreciate hearing back as quickly as possible."

"Well," he said, "it may not be that quick. You'll need to talk to the Banner's editor. That's Bridget McWilliams and she's out of the city for the rest of the day."

"Where can she be reached?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Please try to contact her. Tell her Kate's safety may be at stake."

When he didn't respond to that, I said, "Mention Eileen Wagner's name, too.

"Wagner," he said, and I heard the sound of scrawling. "As in the composer- No, guess that would be Vahgner."

"Guess so."

I'd forgotten about Seth Fiacre's move to Boston until his name had popped into my head as a reference. The social psychologist had left UCLA for the East last year, when an endowed chair in Group Process had been thrown at him. Seth's specialty was mind control and cults, and the Forbes 400 father of a sixteen-year-old girl rescued from a neo-Hindu apocalyptic sect living in subterranean bunkers in New Mexico had consulted Seth on deprogramming. Shortly after, the money for the chair had come available.

Back to Boston Information. I got the number for B.U."s psych department and dialed it, was informed by the receptionist that Professor Fiacre's office was at the Applied Social Science Center. A receptionist there took my name and put me on hold. Seth's voice came on a moment later.

"Alex, long time."

"Hi, Seth. How's Boston?"

"Boston is wonderful, a real city. Hadn't been back for any length of time since graduation kind of a nice homecoming. How about yourself?

Do any teaching like you were thinking of?"

"Not yet.

"It's hard to return," he said. "Once you get out in the real world."

"Whatever that means.

He laughed. "I forgot I was speaking to a clinician. What've you been up to?"

"Doing some consulting, trying to put out a monograph."

"Sounds admirably well-rounded. So, what can I do for you?

Another bunch of true believers to check out? My pleasure. Last time I gave you data I got two abstracts and a paper in JPSP out ofit."

"The Touch," I said, remembering.

"They put the touch on lots of suckers. So who're the loony tunes this time?"

"No cults," I said. "What I'm looking for is some information on a colleague. Former faculty at your alma mater.

"The H place? Who?"

"Leo Gabney. And wife."

"Dr. Prolific? Yeah, I seem to have heard he was living out there."

"Know anything about him?"

"Not personally. But we're not exactly paddling the backwaters, are we? I remember having to immerse myself in everything he'd written for my Advanced Learning Theory course. The guy was a factory. I used to curse him for turning out so much data, but most of it was pretty solid. He must be-what? Sixty-five, seventy? Little old for mischief Why're you checking him out?"

"He's a little younger than that sixty or so. And a long way from the glue factory. He and his wife have a clinic in San Labrador specializing in phobia therapy. For the rich." I quoted him the Gabneys' fee schedule.

"How depressing," he said. "Here I was, thinking this endowment was serious money, and you've gone and made me feel poor again." He repeated the numbers out loud, then said, "Oh, well What do you want to know about them, and why?"

"They've been treating the mother of one of my patients, and some strange things have come up nothing I can get into, Seth.

Sorry, but you understand."

"Sure. You're interested in his libidinal history, and related matters, when he was back at H."

"That," I said, "and any financial indiscretions."

"Ah... that can of worms. Now I'm intrigued."

"If you could find out why the two of them left Boston and what kinds of work they were doing during the year or so before they left, I'd really appreciate It.

"Do what I can, though people around here don't like to talk about money-because they lust after it so much. Also, those folks at That Place Uptown don't always condescend to talk to the rest of us."

"Even alumni?"

"Even alumni who stray too far south of Cambridge. But I'll churn the chowder, see what bobs to the surface. What's the wife's name?"

"Ursula Cunningham. She hyphenates it now, with Gabney.

She's a Ph.D. -M.D. Gabney was her adviser in grad school and sent her on to med school. Her faculty appointment was at the med school, Department of Psychiatry. His may have been, too, as a matter of fact."

"You just raised the hurdle a little higher, Alex. The med school's an entity unto itself Only one I know there is my kid's pediatrician, and he's only clinical faculty."

"Anything you can learn would be helpful, Seth."

"We're talking ASAP of course."

"The quicker the better."

"Except in matters of wine, cheese, and carnal pleasure. Okay, I'll see what I can do. And think about paying a visit some day, Alex.

You can take me out to Legal Seafoods for untrammeled lobster gluttony."

My last call was to Milo. I expected a machine but Rick answered with a "Dr. Silverman" that sounded rushed.

"It's Alex again, Rick."

"On my way out, Alex call from the E.R bus accident, they're short-staffed. Milo's out in Pasadena. Spent the morning on the phone and left about an hour ago."

"Thanks, Rick. Bye."

"Alex? I just wanted to thank you for getting him the job-he was pretty low. The idleness. I tried to talk him into doing something but I wasn't making much headway until you got him the referral. So thanks."

"It wasn't charity, Rick. He was the best man for the job."

"I know that and you know that. The trick was convincing him."

Afternoon traffic slowed the drive to San Labrador. I spent the time thinking about connections between Massachusetts and California.

The gates at Sussex Knoll were closed. I talked to Madeleine over the talk box and was let in. Neither Milo's Fiat nor Rick's Porsche was in front of the house. A cherry-red Jaguar XJS convertible was.

A woman opened the Chaucer doors before I got to them. Five three, mid-forties, a few extra pounds that rounded her nicely. Her face, in contrast, was lean and triangular under a cap of black curls.

Her eyes were the same color, large and round and heavily lashed. She had on a soft pink dress that would have gone well at a Renoir picnic.

Bracelets jangled as she extended her arm.

"Dr. Delaware? I'm Susan LaFamiglia."

We shook hands. Hers was small and soft, until she turned on the grip.

She wore lots of makeup and had applied it well. Rings graced half of her fingers. A strand of black pearls rested on her bosom. If it was real, it was worth more than the Jag.

"It's good to meet you, she said. "I'd like to talk to you about our mutual client-not right now, because I'm in the middle of talking to her, trying to unravel her finances. How about in a couple of days?"

"Sure. As long as Melissa consents.

"She already has. I've got a release form inside.. I'm sorry, did you come to have a session with her?"

"No," I said. "Just to see how she's doing."

"She seems to be doing okay-considering. I was surprised at how knowledgeable she is about money, for someone her age. But obviously I don't know her very well."

"She's a complex young lady," I said. "Has a detective named Sturgis been by?"

"Milo? He was here before, just went over to the stepfather's restaurant. The police came here to question Melissa about this McCloskey character's death. I told them she hadn't been informed of it yet, and that under no circumstances would I allow them to talk to her. Milo suggested they talk to the stepfather there was a bit of pawing and snorting, but they agreed."

Her smile said success had been no surprise.

The Tankard's lot was so full of cars that it appeared open for business: Ramp's Mercedes, Noel's Toyota, the brown Chevy Monte Carlo, Milo's Fiat, and a dark blue Buick sedan that I'd also seen before.

Milo's hired surveillance was nowhere in sight. Either not on the job or damned good.

As I got out of the Seville, I saw someone exit the rear of the building and run across the lot.

Bethel Drucker in a white blouse and dark shorts and flat sandals.

Blond hair loose and flying, chest bouncing. A moment later she was behind the wheel of the brown Chevy, revving noisily, backing out of her space in a squealing fishtail, then speeding down the driveway toward the boulevard. Without stopping, she hooked a sharp tight and roared away. I tried to catch a glimpse of her face behind glass but caught only a boomerang flash of hot white sunlight.

Just as the sound of her engine faded, the Tankard's front door opened and Noel stepped out, looking confused and scared.

"Your mom went that way," I said, and he swung his eyes toward me convulsively.

I walked over to him. "What happened?"

"I don't know," he said. "The cops came by to talk to Don. I was in the kitchen, doing some reading. Mom went out and served them coffee, and then when she got back she looked really upset. I asked her what the matter was but she didn't answer and then I saw her leave."

"Any idea what the cops said to Don?"

"No. Like I said, I was in the kitchen. I wanted to ask her what the matter was but she just left without saying anything." He looked down the boulevard. "It's not like her.

He lowered his head, forlorn. Dark and handsome and forlorn...

James Deanish. My scalp prickled.

I said, "No idea where she might have gone?"

"It could be anywhere. She likes to drive being cooped up in here all day. But she usually tells me where she's going and when she's coming back."

"She's probably under stress," I said. "What with the restaurant being closed. The uncertainty."

"She's scared," he said. "The Tankard's been her life. I told her even if worse comes to worse and Don doesn't reopen, she can easily get a job at another place, but she said it would never be the same, because..." Shading his eyes with one hand, he scanned the boulevard some more.

"Because what, Noel?"

"Huh?" He gave a startled look.

"Your mom said it would never be the same because.

"Whatever," he said angrily.

"Noel-" "It's not important. I've gotta go.

Reaching into his jeans, he pulled out a ring of keys, ran to the Celica, and drove off.

I was still preoccupied as I walked up to the Tankard's front door.

The NO BRUNCH sign had been replaced with one that said CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Inside, the lights had been turned up to cheapening brightness, exposing every raw spot in the wood paneling, every snarl and stain on the carpet.

Milo sat on a stool by the bar, holding a coffee cup. Don Ramp was in one of the booths along the right wall, a bottle of Wild Turkey, a glass, and a cup that matched Milo's within arm's reach. Two other coffees sat near the outer edge of the table. Ramp had on the same white shirt he'd worn at the dam. He looked as if he'd just returned from a guided tour to hell, traveling stand-by.

ChiefChickering and Officer Skopek stood over him. Chickering was smoking a cigar. Skopek looked as if he would have liked one, too.

When the chief saw me, he turned and frowned. Skopek did likewise.

Milo sipped coffee. Ramp didn't do anything.

AlL' sour.

It looked like a chapter meeting of the Big Man's Club gone I said, "Hi, Chief."

"Doctor." Chickering moved his wrist and a pellet of ash dropped into a tray near Ramp's bottle. The bourbon was two-thirds gone.

I went to the bar and sat down next to Milo. He raised his eyebrows and gave a small smile.

Chickering turned back to Ramp. "Okay, Don, guess that'll do it."

If Ramp responded I didn't see it.

Chickering picked up one of the coffee cups near the edge and took a long swallow. Licking his lips, he came over to the bar. Skopek followed but remained several feet behind.

Chickering said, "Doing some routine questioning for my good friends over in Los Angeles, Doctor. About what happened to the late Mr. McCloskey. Anything you want to add to the current pool of ignorance?"

"Nothing, Chief."

"Okay," he said, then took another swig of coffee. When he finished, the cup was empty. He held it out without looking back, and Skopek took it and placed it on Ramp's table. "Far as I'm concerned, Doctor, it's just deserts. But I'm following up as a courtesy to L.A. So now I've asked you and that's it."

I nodded.

He said, "How's everything else going? With little Melissa?"

"Fine, Chieo" "Good." Pause. Smoke rings. "Any idea who's going to be running the household?"

"I couldn't say, Chieo" "Well," he said, "we were just over there and a lawyer was talking to the girl-lady lawyer. West side firm. Don't know how much experience she's got with this side of town."

I shrugged.

"Glenn Anger's a good man," he said. "Grew up here. Known him for years.

I said nothing.

"Well," he said again. "Got to be going never a dull moment. To Ramp: "Take care of yourself, Don. Call if you need anything. Lots of people rooting for you lots of people want to sniff T-bone and New York prime and EM. on the grill again."

He winked at Ramp. Ramp didn't move.

After Chickering and Skopek had left, I said, "EM.?"

"Filet mignon," said Milo. "We had a nice little chat about beef just before you got here. The Chief's a connoisseur. Buys those packaged steaks from Omaha."

I looked over at Ramp, who still hadn't budged. "He join in the discussion?" I said, very softly.

Milo placed his coffee cup on the bar. The broken St. Pauli Girl mirror had been removed. Bare plaster in its place.

"No," he said. "He hasn't done much of anything except suck bourbon."

"What about Nyquist?"

"Not a word-not that anyone's looking."

"Why'd LAPD send Chickering around?"

"So they can avoid ruffling San Labrador feathers and still say they did the job."

"Chickering have anything new to say about McCloskey?"

He shook his head.

"How did Ramp react to hearing about it?"

"Stared at Chickering, then took a big gulp of Turkey."

"No surprise at McCloskey being dead?"

"Maybe a glimmer it's hard to tell. He's not registering much of anything. Not exactly your stalwart coper.

"Unless it's an act.

Milo shrugged, picked up the coffee cup, looked at it, put it down.

"Don," he called across the room, "anything I can do for you?"

Nothing from the booth, then a long, slow shake of Ramp's head.

"So," said Milo, switching back to a soft tone, "have a chance to go to West Hollywood?"

"Yup-let's talk outside."

The two of us went out to the parking lot.

I said, "Is your surveillance guy anywhere around?"

"Trade, he said, smiling. Then: "At this moment, no, but it wouldn't make a difference, believe me."

I told him what I'd learned about Kathy Moriarty and Eileen Wagner.

"Okay," he said, "your Gabney theory's looking better. They probably scammed in Boston, got found out, and came west to scam some more.

"It goes beyond that," I said. "Eileen Wagner was the one who referred me to Gina. A few years later, she's dead in Boston, the Gabneys leave Boston, and shortly after, they're' treating Gina."

"Anything in Moriarty's clipping implying Wagner's death wasn't suicide?"

I handed him the scrap.

He read and said, "Doesn't sound as if anyone was going to look into it. And if it developed into something fishy, wouldn't Moriarty have kept those clippings in her book?"

"Guess so, I said. "But there's got to be some kind of connection-something Moriarty thought she had. Wagner was studying psych at Harvard when the Gabneys were still there. She probably came into some kind of contact with them. Kathy Moriarty had an interest in all three of them. And all three knew Gina."

"When you met Wagner did anything about her strike you as odd?"

"No," I said. "Not that I analyzed her-it was a ten-minute conversation eleven years ago.

"So you have no reason to question her ethics?"

"None at all. Why?"

"Just wondering," he said. "If she was ethical, she wouldn't have talked to anyone about Gina specifically, would she? Even to another doctor."

"That's true."

"So how could the Gabneys have known about Gina from her?"

"Maybe they didn't. Specifically. But after learning the Gabneys specialized in treating phobics, maybe Wagner talked about Gina's case in general terms. Medical conference-that wouldn't have been unethical."

"Rich phobic," said Milo.

"Living like a princess in a castle," I said. "Wagner used those words. She'd been impressed by Gina's wealth. She could have talked about it to one or both of the Gabneys. And when the time came for the Gabneys to seek greener pastures, they remembered what she'd said and headed for San Labrador. And hooked up with Gina because Melissa called."

"Coincidence?"

"It's a real small town, Milo. But I still don't see why Kathy Moriarty had the clipping of Wagner's suicide in her scrapbook."

"Maybe Wagner was one of Moriarty's sources. About the Gabneys' scam.

"And maybe Wagner died because of that."

"Whoa, that's a big leap," he said. "But tell you what, when I get back, we can pursue it. Get Suzy to pursue it-what a gal. If the Gabneys have been bleeding Gina's estate, she'd be the one to find out.

The Cassatt could be a good place to start. If it wasn't legally transferred, she'll be on them like a hound on hemoglobin."

"When you get back from where?" I said.

"Sacramento. Suzy's assigned me a trip up there. Seems Attorney Douse has been in some kind of trouble with the Bar recently but they won't talk about it over the phone, and even in person they're demanding proper documentation of need-to-know. I'm booked out of Burbank at six-ten. She's gonna have the papers faxed to me up there tomorrow morning. I'm scheduled to speak to some bankers at one, do my thing at the Bar at three-thirty. After that, she assures me there'll be other items on the agenda."

"Tight schedule."

"The lady doesn't suffer slackers lightly. Anything else?"

"Yes," I said. "Was Bethel listening when Chickering told Ramp about McCloskey?"

"She was in the room, pouring coffee. Why?"

I told him about the waitress's hurried departure. "It's possible it was just sensory overload, Milo. I spoke to Noel a moment later and he said she's been under stress, worried about her job. Maybe hearing about another death was just too much to handle. But I think she was reacting specifically to the fact that it was McCloskey who was dead.

Because I think McCloskey was Noel's father."

The look of surprise on his face was gratifying. I felt like a kid who'd finally bested Daddy at chess.

"Talk about your leaps," he said. "Where does that come from?"

"My quivering antennae. I finally figured it out. It had nothing to do with Noel's behavior it's the way he looks. I saw it just a few minutes ago. He was upset about his mother, lowered his face, and gave this defeated look that was a carbon copy of the expression on McCloskey's face in his arrest photo. The resemblance, once you notice it, is really striking. Noel's short, dark, handsome-almost pretty.

McCloskey used to have that same type of good looks."

"Used to," said Milo.

"Exactly. Someone who hadn't known him in the old days would never have spotted it."

"The old days," he said, and walked back inside the restaurant.

"C'mon, Don." Milo propped a finger under Ramp's chin.

Ramp gazed back with cloudy eyes.

"Okay," said Milo, "I've been there, Don. So I know getting the words out is like passing a kidney stone. Don't talk-just blink. Once for yes, twice for no. Is Noel Drucker McCloskey's kid or not?"

Nothing. Then dry lips formed the word yes, and a sibilant whisper followed.

"Does Noel know?" I said.

Ramp shook his head and lowered it to the table. Boils had broken out on the back of his neck and he smelled like the bear cage at the zoo.

Milo said, "Noel and Joel. Bethel have a flair for light verse or something?"

Ramp looked up. His facial skin had the texture and color of old custard, and his mustache was clogged with skin flakes.

He said, "Noel because. she couldn't." Shaking his head and starting to droop again.

Milo propped him up. "She couldn't what, Don?"

Ramp stared at him, wet-eyed. "She can't... She knewJoel. the way the word looked... so Noel... three letters the same remember."

He eyed the bourbon bottle, sighed, closed his eyes.

I said, "She couldn't read? She named him Noel because it looked like Joel and she wanted something she could visualize?"

Nod.

"Is she still illiterate?"

Faint nod. "Tried to... She couldn t.

"How'd she manage to do her job?" I said. "Taking orders, totaling the check?"

Unintelligible sounds from Ramp.

Milo said, "C'mon, dammit, stop blubbering."

Ramp lifted his head slightly. "Memory. She knew everything... the whole menu... by heart. When there's. a special... she.

.. we rehearse it."

"And filling out the check?" said Milo.

"I..." Look of exhaustion.

"You take care of it," I said. "You take care of her. Just like the old days back at the studio. What was she, a country girl, came out west to be a star?"

"Appalachia," he said. "Hill billy."

"Poor girl from the sticks," I said. "You knew she'd never make it in pictures, especially not being able to read lines. Did you help her keep it secret for a while?"

Nod. "Joel.

"Joel blew her cover?"

He nodded. Belched and let his head loll. "Pictures for him."

"He caused her to lose her contract at the studio and then hired her as a model?"

Nod.

Milo said, "How'd she get a driver's license?"

"Written tests memorized all of them."

"Must have taken a long time."

Ramp nodded and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He lowered his head to the table again. This time Milo let him remain there.

"Have she and McCloskey maintained contact all these years?" I said.

Ramp's head shot up with surprising speed. "No she hated it not what she wanted."

"What wasn't?"

"The baby. Noel..." Wince. "Loved him, but.

"But what, Don?"

Beseeching look.

"What, Don?"

"Rape."

"McCloskey got her pregnant by raping her?"

Nod. "All the time."

"All the time what, Don?" said Milo.

"Rape."

"He raped her all the time?"

Nod.

"Why didn't you protect her from that?" said Milo.

Ramp began to sob. The tears landed in his mustache and beaded in the greasy hairs.

He tried to say something, choked.

Milo put his finger under Ramp's chin. Used a napkin to dab the weeping man's face.

"What, Don?" he said gently.

"Everyone, said Ramp, tears flowing.

"Everyone raped her?"

Sob. Gulp. "Had her.. She's not Struggling to lift his hand, he tapped his head.

"She's not bright," said Milo. "Everyone took advantage of her."

Nod." Tears.

"Everyone, Don?"

Ramp's head lolled and dipped. His eyes closed. Saliva trickled down one side of his mouth.

Milo said, "Okay, Don," and lowered Ramp's face to the table once more.

I followed Milo back to the bar. The two of us sat and watched Ramp for a while. He began to snore.

"The studio wild bunch," I said. "The dumb, illiterate girl everyone passed around."

"How'd you know?"

"From the way Noel acted just before. We were talking about his mother. He mentioned she said that working anywhere else wouldn't be the same, started to elaborate, and stopped. When I pressed him on it, he got mad and left. That struck me as unusual.

He's a kid who controls his emotions needs to be in control. Typical for someone growing up with a druggie or alkie parent. So I knew whatever it was that made him blow up had to be important. Then when Ramp started talking, it all fit."

"Illiterate," said Milo. "Living that way, all these years, never knowing when someone was going to blow her cover. Ramp taking care of her and the kid out of guilt."

"Or compassion, or both. Guess he is a genuine soft guy."

"Yeah," he said again, glancing over at Ramp and shaking his head.

I said, "It explains Bethel's willingness to wait tables while Ramp and Gina lived like royalty. She was used to being the doormat.

Failed at acting and got into heavy dope and God knows what else.

Topped it off by getting pregnant by the guy everyone hated. Posed for pictures that probably weren't high fashion. The way she's built isn't exactly suited to Vogue. It adds up to subterranean self-esteem, Milo.

She probably figures what Ramp gave her is more than she deserves.

And now she's in danger of losing even that."

He ran his hand over his face.

"What?" Isaid.

"If McCloskey exposed Bethel, then raped her, why would she freak out when she found out he was dead?"

"Maybe it was still a loss to her. Maybe she harbored some small bit of good feeling toward him. For giving her Noel."

Milo spun on the stool. Ramp snored louder.

"Or," said Milo, "what if it was more than some little bit of good feeling? What if she and McCloskey have been in contact with each other? Misery loving company. A common enemy.

I said, "Gina?"

"They both could've hated her. McCloskey for whatever reason he had in the first place, Bethel out of jealousy-the haves against the have-nots. What if she wasn't quite so happy playing the underdog?

And what if there was another ingredient sweetening the relationship money? Blackmail."

"Over what?"

AlL "Who knows? But Gina was a member of the wild group."

"You said you didn't uncover any dirt on her."

"So she was better than the others at keeping it quiet making her secret worth even more. Weren't you the one who told me secrets were coin of the realm out here? So what if McCloskey and Bethel took that literally? If McCloskey had been Bethel's partner in something nasty, it would make sense for her to bolt after hearing he was dead."

"Joel and Bethel, Noel and Melissa," I said. "Too goddam ugly.

I hope you're wrong.

"I know," he said. "I keep coming up with them. But we didn't write the movie-we're just reviewing it."

He continued to look pained.

I said, "What if Noel ran down McCloskey? He's the first one I thought of when I heard a car had been the weapon. Cars are his thing he has access to all of Gina's. Think we should open all those garages, see if any of the classics have front-end damage?"

"Waste of time," he said. "He wouldn't have used one of those.

Too conspicuous."

"No one in Azusa saw Gina's Rolls drive up to the dam."

"Not true. We don't know that. Sheriff filed it as an accident no one ever did a door-to-door."

"Okay," I said. "So Noel used some kind of utility vehicle. They used to have one-back when I was treating Melissa. Old Caddy"62

Fleetwood.

She called it a Cadillac Knockabout. They've probably got one like that today can't use a Duesenberg to pick up the groceries. It's stashed somewhere on those seven acres, or in one of those garages. Or maybe McCloskey was run down with stolen wheels-Noel could know how to hot-wire."

"From too-good-to-be-true to juvenile delinquent?"

"Like you said, things change."

He swung toward the bar.

"Oedipus wrecks," he said. "The all-American kid runs over his old man. How much therapy will it take to patch that one up?"

I didn't answer.

Across the room, Ramp snorted and gasped for air. His head lifted, sank, rolled to the side.

Milo said, "Be a good idea to get him lucid, see what else we can squeeze out of him. Also be a good idea to wait around and see if old Bethel comes back."

He looked at his watch. "Got to be getting over to the airport.

You feel like sticking around? I'll check in with you when I'm settled-let's say before nine."

"What about your surveillance guy? Can't he take over here?"

"Nope. He doesn't come out into the open. Part of the deal."

"Antisocial?"

"Something like that."

"All right," I said. "I was planning to play with the phone for a while check out a few more Boston things. What do I do if Bethel comes back?"

"Keep her here. Try to get whatever you can out of her."

"Using what technique?"

He came around from behind the bar, hitched his trousers, buttoned his jacket, and slapped me on the back.

"Your charm, your Ph.D bald-faced lies-whichever feels best." wr AlL Ramp slipped into a deep sleep. I cleared the bottle, glass, and cup from the table, put them in the bar sink, and dimmed the lights until they were no longer cruel. A phone-in to my service yielded no messages from Boston, just a few business calls that I handled for half an hour.

At four-thirty the phone rang: someone wanting to know when the Tankard would be open again. I said as soon as possible and hung up feeling like a bureaucrat. Over the next hour I disappointed lots of people wanting to make dinner reservations.

At five-thirty I felt cold and adjusted the air-conditioning thermostat. Pulling a cloth off one of the other tables, I draped it over Ramp's shoulders. He continued to doze. The great escape. More in common with Melissa than either of them would ever know. t five-forty, I went into the restaurant's kitchen and fixed myself a roast beef sandwich and cole slaw. The coffee urn was cold, so I settled for a Coke. Bringing all of it back to the bar, I ate and watched Ramp continue to sleep, then phoned the house he'd once called home.

Madeleine answered. I asked if Susan LaFamiglia was still there.

"Oui. One momen'."

A second later the attorney came on. "Hello, Dr. Delaware.

What's up?"

"How's Melissa?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"How's she doing right now?"

"I got her to eat, so I suppose that's a good sign. What can you tell me about her psychological status?"

"In terms of what?"

"Mental stability. These kinds of cases can get nasty. Do you see her as someone who can deal with court without cracking up?"

"It's not a matter of cracking up," I said. "It's the cumulative stress level. Her moods tend to go up and down. She alternates between fatigue and withdrawal, and bursts of anger. She's not stabilized yet. I'd watch her for a while, wouldn't get right into litigation until I was sure she'd settled down."

"Up and down," she said. "Kind of a manic-depressive thing?"

"No, there's nothing psychotic about it. It's actually pretty logical, considering the emotional roller coaster she's been on."

"How long do you think it'll take for her to settle down?"

"It's hard to say. You can work with her on strategy-the intellectual part of it. But avoid anything confrontational for the time being."

"Confrontational is mostly what I've seen from her. That surprised me.

What with her mother being dead only a few days I expected more grief."

"That may relate to something she learned in therapy years ago.

Channeling anxiety to anger in order to feel more in control."

"I see," she said. "So you're giving her a clean bill of health?"

"As I said, I wouldn't want to see her go through any major upheaval right now, but in the long run I expect her to do okay. And she's certainly not psychotic."

"Okay. Good. Would you be willing to say that in court?

Because the case may end up hinging on mental competence.

"Even if the other side has engaged in illegal activities?"

"If that turns out to be the case, we'll be in luck. And I'm looking into that angle, as I'm sure Milo told you. Jim Douse just went through a very expensive divorce and I know for a fact that he v, bought too many junk bonds for his personal portfolio. There's talk of some funny business up at the State Bar, but it may turn out to be nothing more than dirt thrown around by his ex-wife's attorneys. So I've got to cover all bases, assume Douse and the banker acted like saints. Even if they didn't, with the way books can be juggled, major skullduggery can be hard to uncover. I deal with movie studios all the time-their accountants specialize in that. This case is sure to get nasty, because it's a sizable estate. It could drag on for years. I need to know my client's solid."

"Solid enough," I said. "For someone her age. But that doesn't mean invulnerable."

"Solid's good enough, Doctor. Ah, she's coming back now. Do you want to speak to her?"

"Sure."

A beat, then: "Hi, Dr. Delaware."

"Hi. How're things going?"

"Fine... Actually, I thought maybe you and I could talk?"

"Sure. When?"

"Um... I'm working with Susan now and I'm getting kind of tired.

How about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow it is. Ten in the morning okay?"

"Sure. Thanks, Dr. Delaware. And I'm sorry if I've been. difficult."

"You haven't been, Melissa."

"I'm just- I wasn't thinking about... Mother. I guess I was denying it-I don't know-doing all that sleeping. Now, I keep thinking about her. Can't stop. Never seeing her again-her face. knowing she never will.. again."

Tears. Long silence.

"I'm here, Melissa."

"Things will never be the same," she said. Then she hung up.

Six-twenty, still no sign of Bethel or Noel. I phoned my service and was told Professor "Sam Ficker" had called and left a Boston number.

I phoned it and got a young child on the line.

"Hello?"

"Professor Fiacre, please."

"My daddy's not home."

"Do you know where he is?"

An adult female voice broke in: "Fiacre residence. Who's calling?"

"This is Dr. Alex Delaware returning Professor Fiacre's call."

"This is the babysitter, Doctor. Seth said you might be calling.

Here's the number where you can reach him.

She read off the number and I copied it down. Thanking her, I gave her the Tankard's number for callback, hung up, and dialed the one she'd given me.

A male voice said, "Legal Seafoods, Kendall Square."

"I'm trying to reach Professor Fiacre. He's having dinner there."

"Spell that, please."

I did.

"Hold on."

A minute passed. Three more. Ramp appeared to be rousing.

Sitting up with great effort, he wiped his face with a grimy sleeve, blinked, looked around, and stared at me.

No apparent recognition. Closing his eyes, he drew the tablecloth around his shoulders and settled back down.

Seth came on the phone. "Alex?"

"Hi, Seth. Sorry to bother you at dinner."

"Perfect timing-we're between courses. I couldn't get much on the Gabneys, other than that their leaving wasn't totally voluntary. So they may have been up to something unsavory but I sure couldn't find out what it was."

"Were they asked to leave Harvard?"

"Not officially. Nothing procedural as far as I can tell-the people I spoke to really didn't want to get into details. What I gathered was that it was a mutual thing. They gave up tenure and split, and whoever knew something didn't belabor it. As to what that something is, I don't know."

"Anything on the types of patients they were treating?"

"Phobics. That's about it. Sorry."

"I appreciate your trying."

"I did run a search through Psych Abstracts and Medline to try to find out what kind of work they were doing. As it turns out, not much. She never published anything. Until four years ago, Leo was still cranking the stuff out. Then all of a sudden, it stopped. No more experiments, no clinical studies, just a couple of essays very soft stuff. The kind of resume-filler he'd never have gotten published if he wasn't Leo Gabney."

"Essays on what?"

"Philosophical issues free will, the importance of taking personal responsibility. Spirited attacks on determinism how any behavior can be changed, given the proper identification of congruent stimuli and reinforcers. Et cetera, et cetera."

"Doesn't sound too controversial."

"No," he said. "Maybe it's old age."

"What is?"

"Getting philosophical and abandoning real science. I've seen other guys go through it when they hit menopause. Gotta tell my students if I ever start doing it, take me out and shoot me."

We traded pleasantries for a few more minutes, then said goodbye. When the line was clear, I called the GALA Banner A recording informed me that the paper's office was closed. No beep for messages.

I dialed Boston Information and tried to get a home number for the editor, Bridget McWilliams. A B. L. McWilliams was listed on Cedar in Roxbury, but the voice that answered there was male, sleepy, tinged with a Caribbean accent, and certain he had no relation named Bridget.

By six-forty, I'd been alone in the restaurant for over two hours and had grown to hate the place. I found some writing paper behind the bar, along with a portable radio. KKGO was no longer playing jazz, so I made do with soft rock. I kept thinking about missed connections.

Seven o'clock. Scratch marks on paper. Still no sign of Bethel or Noel. I decided to stick around until Milo reached Sacramento, then call him and beg off the assignment. Go home, attend to my fish eggs, maybe even call Robin... I phoned my exchange again, left a message for Milo in case I was out when he called.

The operator recorded it dutifully, then said, "There's one for you, if you want it, Doctor."

"From whom?"

"Someone named Sally Etheridge."

"Did she say what it was about?"

"Just her name and number. It's long distance another sixone-seven area code. What is that, Boston?"

"Yes," I said. "Give me the number. Please."

"Important, huh?"

"Maybe."

A human being answered, "Uh-huh." Female. Music in the background. I switched off my radio. The music on the other end took shape: rhythm and blues, lots of horns. James Brown, maybe.

"Ms. Etheridge?"

"Speaking."

"Dr. Alex Delaware calling from Los Angeles."

Silence. "I was wondering if you'd call back." Hoarse and husky, Southie accent.

"What can I do for you?"

"I'm not the one asking."

"Did Bridget McWilliams give you my number?"

"Bingo," she said.

"Are you a reporter on the Banner?"

"Oh, yeah, right. I interview circuit breakers. I'm an electrician, mister."

"But you do know Kathy Kate Moriarty?"

"These questions are coming awfully fast," she said. Talking slowly-deliberate slowness. Small laugh at the end of the sentence.

I thought I detected an alcohol slur. But maybe being with Ramp all this time had biased my perceptions.

"Kate's been gone for over a month," I said. "Her family-" "Yeah, yeah, I know that tune. Got it from Bridge. Tell the family not to get bent out of shape. Kate disappears a lot-that's her thing."

"This time it may not be routine.

"Think so?"

"I do."

"Well," she said, "you're entitled."

"If you're not worried, why'd you bother to call?"

Pause. "Good question...1 don't even know you. So why don't we cut our losses and make bye-bye "Hold on," I said. "Please."

"A polite one, huh?" Laugh. "Okay, you got a minute."

"I'm a psychologist. The message I left for Bridget explained how I could be-" "Yeah, yeah, I got all that, too. So you're a shrink. So excuse me if that's not real comforting."

"You've had bad experiences with shrinks?"

Silence. "I like myself just fine."

I said, "Eileen Wagner. That's why you called."

Long silence. For a moment I thought she'd left the line.

Then: "You knew Eileen?"

"I met her when she was a pediatrician out here. She referred a patient to me, but when I tried to get in touch with her to talk about it, she never got back to me. Guess she'd left town by then. Went overseas.

"Guess so.

"Were she and Kate friends?"

Laughter. "No."

"But Kate was interested in Eileen's death I found a clipping she'd put in her scrapbook. Boston Globe, no byline. Was Kate freelancing for the Globe at that time?"

"I don't know," she said harshly. "Why the hell should I care what the hell she was doing and who the hell she was working for?"

Definite booze slur.

More silence.

I said, "I'm sorry if this is upsetting you."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

That caught me off guard, and before I found my answer, she said, "You don't know me from Eve why the hell should you care how I feel?"

"Okay," I said. "It's not compassion for you specifically. It's force of habit. I like making people happy maybe it's partly an ego trip. I went to school to be a yea-sayer."

"Yea-sayer. Yeah, I like that. Yea, yea, yea you and the Beatles.

John, Paul, Whatsisname, and Ringo. And Shrink. Psyching the crowd.

.. I wanna hold your gland."

Brittle laughter. In the background, James Brown was begging for something. Love or mercy.

I said, "Eileen was also a yea-sayer. I'm not surprised she went into psychiatry."

Four more beats of Brown.

"Ms. Etheridge?"

Nothing.

"Sally?"

"Yeah, I'm here. God knows why."

"Tell me about Eileen."

Eight bars. I held my tongue.

Finally she said, "I've got nothing to tell. It was a waste. A fucking waste.

"Why'd she do it, Sally?"

"Why do you think? "Cause she didn't wanna be what she was after all the.

"All the what?"

"The fucking time! The hours and hours of bullshit-rapping.

With shrinks, counselors, whatever. I thought we'd put that fucking shit behind us. I fucking thought she was happy. I fucking thought she was fucking convinced she was okay the way God in Her infinite mercy made her. God damn her!"

"Maybe someone told her the opposite. Maybe someone tried to change her."

Ten bars of Brown. The song title popped into my head: "Baby, Please Don't Go."

She said, "Maybe. I don't fucking know."

"Kate Moriarty thought so, Sally. She found out something about Eileen's therapists, didn't she? That's what brought her all the way out to California.

"I don't know," she repeated. "I don't know. All she ever did was ask questions. She never talked much about what she was doing, thought I was obligated to talk to her because she was gay.

"How'd she get in contact with you?"

"GALA. I did all the wiring on their goddam offices.

Opened my mouth and told her about... Eileen. She lit up like a Christmas tree. All of a sudden we were sisters in arms. But she never talked, only asked. She had all these rules-what she could talk about, what she couldn't...1 thought we were But she Oh, fuck this!

Fuck this whole thing. It's been too fucking long and I'm not putting myself through it again, so fucking forget it and fuck you!"

Dead air. No music.

I waited a moment, called back. Busy signal. Tried five minutes later, same result.

I sat there putting it together. Seeing things in another light.

Another context that caused everything to make sense.

Time to ring another number.

Different area code.

This one was listed. Surname and first initial only. I copied, dialed, waited five rings until someone picked up and said, "Hello."

I hung up without returning the greeting. No air blowing through the vents, but the room felt even colder. After draping a second cloth around Ramp's shoulders, I left.

Five minutes of studying the Thomas Guide. A hundred and twenty minutes on Freeway 101 north, following through.

Twilight arrived midway through the drive. By the time I reached Santa Barbara the sky was black. I picked up the 154 near Goleta, found the San Marcos pass with little difficulty, and drove through the mountains all the way to Lake Cachuma.

Locating what I was looking for was more of a challenge. This was ranch country, no street signs or lamps or Chamber of Commerce puffery.

I overshot the first time, didn't realize it until I hit the town of Ballard. Reversing direction, I cruised slowly. Despite straining eyes and a heavy foot on the brake, I passed it going the other way, too. But my headlights trapped a wooden sign just long enough for the image to register as I rolled by.

INCENTIVE RANCH I cut the lights, backed up, and stuck my head out the car window.

Cooler up here. A breeze that smelled of dust and dry grass. The sign was handmade, nailhead letters in pine, swinging gently over a square wooden gate. The gate was low and squat. Horizontal planks in a wooden frame. Maybe five feet high, connected to tongueand-groove fencing that blocked the entry.

Leaving the engine running, I got out of the Seville and walked to the gate. It yielded a bit when I pushed, but remained shut. After a couple of false starts I found a toehold between two of the planks, hoisted myself up, and ran my hand over the inner side of the gate.

Metal latch. Big padlock. The view beyond, barely starlit. Below, a narrow dirt road, passing between what looked to be tall trees.

Mountains in the background, sharp and black as a witch's cap.

Returning to the car, I edged out and drove a hundred yards or so until I found a spot where the shoulder was shaded by trees.

Shrubs, really. Scrawny, wind-whipped things that appeared to grow out of the mountainside and hung suspended over the asphalt. Not concealment but maybe just enough camouflage to shield the car from casual discovery.

I parked, locked, walked back to the gate on foot, recovered my toehold, and was over in a wink.

The road was lumpy and pebble-strewn. I lost my footing several times in the darkness and landed on my palms. As I got closer to the tall trees, I picked up a piny scent. My face began to tingle and itch.

Unseen bugs feasting on my flesh.

The trees were packed close together but few in number.

Within moments I was in unprotected space. Flat space lit gray by a feeble quarter moon. I stopped, listened. Heard the blood sloshing in my ears. Gradually, details asserted themselves.

A stadium-size plot of dirt, planted, in no discernible pattern, with half a dozen trees. Low-voltage spots at some of the trunk bases.

My nose went to work again. Citrus perfume so strong my mouth tasted summer-vacation lemonade. Unimpressed, the bugs stayed with red meat.

I took a cautious step. Ten more, then twenty. Fuzzy white rectangles appeared through the leaves of one of the trees. I walked around the citrus boughs. The rectangles became windows. I knew there had to be a wall behind them and my mind drew one before my eyes actually saw it.

A house. Modest size. Single story, low-pitched roof. Three windows lit but nothing visible through them. Curtained.

The basic California ranch setup. Silent. Pastoral.

So peaceful it made me doubt my hunch. But too many things fit together..

I searched for more details.

Saw the vehicle I was looking for.

To the left of the house was stake-and-post fencing. A corral.

Behind that, outbuildings. I headed toward them, heard the whinny and snort of horses, filled my nose with the mealy aroma of old hay and manure.

The horse sounds grew louder. I located the origin: stables, directly behind the corral. Behind that-twenty yards back-a tall building that appeared windowless. Feed barn. Farther back, to the right, a smaller structure.

Light there, too. One rectangle. Single window.

I moved forward. The horses pawed and whickered. Got louder.

Only a few from the sound of it, but what they lacked in numbers they made up in anxiety. I held my breath, continued. Hooves thudded against soft wood; I thought I felt the earth vibrate, but it might have been my legs shaking.

The horses turned up the volume even further, lathering passionately.

I heard a creak and a click from the direction of the smallest building. Pressing myself against the corral, I watched a column of light spread across the dirt as the front door to the building swung open. A screen door whistled and someone stepped out.

The horses kept whinnying. One of them let out a throaty, gaseous rumble.

A deep voice shouted, "Shut up!"

Sudden silence.

The shouter stood there for a moment, then went back inside.

The light column thinned to a thread but didn't vanish. I stayed here, listening to the horses panting. Feeling many-legged things tour my hands and face.

Finally the door shut all the way. I slapped at my cheeks, waited several more minutes before moving forward.

Behind the stable walls the horses were whimpering in frustration. I ran past them, kicking up gravel and cursing my leather shoes.

I stopped at the barn door. Sounds not equine-were coming from the small building. The single window cast a filmy glow on the dust.

Sticking close to the barn siding, I inched my way toward the light.

Step by step. The sounds took on tone and form and species.

Human.

A human duet.

One voice talking, another humming. No. Moaning.

I was at the front wall of the small building now, pressing against rough wood but still unable to shape the sounds into words.

Angry tone in the first voice.

Giving orders.

The second voice resisting.

A curious, high-frequency noise, like that of a TV being switched on.

More moans. Louder.

Someone resisting and suffering because of it.

I ran to the window, crouched below the sill until my knees hurt, slowly raised myself and tried to peer through the shades.

Opaque. All I could discern was the barest abstraction of movement-the light-shift of form through space.

The sounds of torment continued from within.

I got to the door, pulled the screen door open, and winced as it creaked.

The sounds continued.

I groped in the darkness for the handle to the inner door.

Rusted knob, loose on its bearings. Metallic jingle. I quieted it by grasping with both hands. Turned slowly. Pushed.

An inch of spy-space. I looked through it, heart speeding. What I saw spurred it faster.

My hand pulled the door open in.

The room was long and narrow and paneled with fake wormwood the color of cigarette ash. Black linoleum floor. Light from two cheap-looking swag lamps on opposite ends. Dry, smoke-flavored heat from a wall unit.

A pair of chipped white barber chairs were bolted to the center of the floor, set three feet apart, in semirecline.

The first chair was empty. The second contained a woman wearing a hospital gown, tethered at ankles, wrists, waist, and chest by broad leather straps. Patches of hair had been shaved from her head, creating a crude checkerboard. Electrodes were fastened to white scalp-patches and to arms and inner thighs. Wires running from each site merged to a central orange cable that snaked across the floor and ended at a gray metal box, high as a refrigerator, twice as wide. The box was faced with dials and glassed meters. Some of the needles on the meters quivered.

The edge of something stuck out from behind the box. Chromeshiny, wheeled legs.

A second cable connected the box to a device that sat on a gray metal table. Paper drum and mechanical arm. The arm held several mechanical pens. Jagged graph lines peaked and troughed across the drum, which was rotating slowly. Next to the machine were several amber pharmaceutical vials and a white plastic inhalator.

Directly facing the woman was a large-screen television console.

A close-up of a female breast, its nipple apple-sized, was frozen on the screen. The image shifted: close-up of a face. A pubic thatch.

Back to the nipple.

A man stood next to the set, holding a black remote-control device in one hand, a larger gray one in the other. He was chewing gum. His eyes were hot with triumph that turned to alarm when he saw me.

The woman in the chair was Ursula Cunningham-Gabney. Her eyes were raw and swollen and wide with terror, and her mouth was stuffed with a blue bandana.

The man was sixtyish, with bushy white hair and a small, round face.

He wore a black sweatshirt over blue jeans and work boots. His boots were crusted with dried dirt. His eyes widened and blinked.

His wife tried to scream around her gag; what emerged was a thin retch.

He never looked at her.

I moved toward him.

He shook his head and pressed a button on the gray remote. The high-frequency sound I'd heard outside filled the room, shrill as a bird being butchered as the needle on one of the meters jumped.

Ursula's body bucked and pitched against her restraints. She kept quaking as her husband's finger remained on the button. He didn't seem to be noticing her at all, was staring at me and inching backward.

The horror made me dizzy. Clearing my head, I took a step.

Gabney's basso voice said: "Stop, damn you," as he pressed another button. The high noise became a shriek and another needle arced to the right. The room smelled of burnt toast. Ursula growled around her gag and shook as if being throttled. Fingers and toes convulsed at the end of pinioned limbs. Her torso rose totally off the seat-only the strap seemed to prevent her from flying away. The veins in her neck swelled, her jaws were forced open, and the gag flew out of her mouth, followed by a soundless scream. Her body was as rigid as cordwood, skin silvery white except for the lips, which looked bluish.

I fought down nausea and panic. Gabney had danced farther away from me, half-concealed behind the big gray box, finger still on the gray remote.

I moved toward the barber chair.

Gabney stopped pushing long enough to say, "Go ahead. Flesh is an excellent conductor. I'll turn up the voltage and cook both of you.

I stood still. Ursula had sunk like a sack of rocks. Wheezing, whistling sounds came from her open mouth. She moved her head from side to side, throwing off sweat-drizzle, chest heaving, panting gutturally through grotesquely swollen lips. Her legs were the last to relax, parting slightly. The electrode between them was attached to some kind of sanitary napkin.

I snapped my head away, looked for Gabney.

From behind the gray box, his voice said, "Sit down-farther back. Even farther-that's good. And keep your hands in full view.

Exactly."

He emerged, paler than before, one arm resting on the top corner of the chrome-shiny thing. Took a sidelong glance at the giant breast.

Wondering if he had help, I said, "Quite a setup. A lot for one man to handle."

"Don't patronize me, you insolent shit. Everything's manageable, as long as the proper variables are controlled. No, don't scoot forward or I'll have to deliver more aversives."

"You made your point," I said.

His fingers danced above the buttons on the gray remote but didn't touch them.

"Control," I said. "Is that the primary goal?"

"You call yourself a scientist. Isn't it yours?"

Before I could answer he shook his head in disgust. "Define, predict, and control. Otherwise, why bother?"

"How does that reconcile with your ideas about free will?"

He smiled. "My little disquisitions? How conscientious of you to read them. But if you were half as smart as you think you are, you'd see there's plenty of free will in all of this. This is about free will-its restoration." Glancing at the apparatus. "A person shackled by major personality defect can never be free."

Ursula groaned.

The sound made his brow crease.

I said, "Where is Gina?"

He ignored me. Said nothing for what seemed like a long time.

Looked at the floor.

Pulled on the chrome thing and brought half of it into view.

Bed on wheels. Pull-up caged sides. Adult-sized crib, the kind they use in nursing homes.

Gina Ramp behind the bars. Lying inert. Eyes closed. Sleeping or unconscious or... I saw her chest move. Saw her checkerboard scalp... cables attached to her, too.

"Listen carefully, idiot," Gabney finally said. "I'm going to go over there and retrieve that bandana. But my hand will remain on the highest-voltage button. If you move, I'll incinerate your precious Gina. Fifteen seconds at this level elicits death. Irreversible brain damage requires much less."

Lightly tapping a button, making the prone body twitch.

I said, "I'm not moving."

Keeping his eye on me, he crouched next to his wife's chair, picked up the gag, stood, wadded it, and inserted it in her mouth.

She coughed and made choking sounds but didn't resist. The seam of her gown read PROPERTY MASS. GENERAL.

"Relax, darling," he said. Using the black remote, he switched off the TV Taking a stance in front of the screen, he gave her a look that I couldn't categorize-domination and contempt, lust and just a bit of affection, which sickened me the most. I looked over at Gina, who still hadn't stirred.

"Don't worry about her;" said Gabney. "She'll be out for a while-chloral hydrate, ye olde Mickey Finn. She responds well to it.

Given her history and weak constitution, I've treated her with kid gloves."

"What a guy."

"Don't interrupt me again," he said louder, pressing a button that made the room scream and caused Gina's body to flop like a cloth doll. No conscious perception of pain was evident on her face, but her lips drew back in a toothy rictus that stretched and puckered the skin on her bad side.

When the noise died, Gabney said, "A bit more of that, and all that lovely plastic surgery will have been for naught."

"Stop," I said.

"Quit whining. This is the last time you'll get a warning.

Understood?"

I nodded.

The burnt-toast smell filled my head.

Gabney stared at me, contemplative.

"This is a problem," he said, and tapped the gray remote.

"What is?"

"Why the hell did you meddle? How did you find out?"

"One thing kind of led to the other."

"Kind of led,'" he said. "Kind of led." Wonderful grammar-who wrote your thesis for you?" Shaking his head. "Kind of led-just a loose chain of events, was it? Knocking around aimlessly, damn near random?"

I looked at the machines.

His face darkened. "Don't judge me don't you damn well dare. This is treatment. You've violated confidentiality."

I said nothing.

"Do you have even the slightest notion of what I'm talking about?"

"Sexual reconditioning," I said. "You're trying to rechannel your wife's sexual orientation."

"Profound," he said. "Just brilliant. You're able to describe what you see. Freshman psych, second part of the first semester.

He stared at me, tapping one boot.

I said, "What am I missing?"

"Missing?" Dry laughter. "Just all of it. The meat, the raison d'jtre, the goddam clinical rationale."

"The rationale is that you're helping her become normal."

"And you don't think that's worthwhile?"

Before I could answer he shook his head and cursed, then tightened the arm holding the shock remote. My eyes snapped reflexively to the gray plastic. I realized I'd broken out into a sweat.

Waiting for the high-frequency shriek and the pain that was sure to follow.

Gabney lowered his hand, smiling. "Empathetic conditioning.

And so rapidly. My, you have a mushy heart-a pity for your patients."

The smile dissolved in a pool of contempt. Well, what you think doesn't matter one goddam iota."

Keeping his eye on me, he inched over toward Ursula. Lifting her gown with the black remote, he exposed her thighs and said, "Flawless."

"Except for the bruises."

"Nothing that won't heal. Sometimes creativity is called for."

"Creativity?" I said. "Interesting way to think of torture."

He stepped directly in front of me, just out of arms' reach.

Fingers tapping the buttons lightly. Setting off high-frequency chirps and staccato movements of both women's bodies.

"Are you being intentionally stupid?" he said.

I shrugged.

"Thrture implies intent to cause harm. I'm delivering aversive stimuli in order to enhance the rate of learning. Aversives are potent little buggers only a mushy-hearted moron would question their PRIVATE EYES 44

I usefulness. This is no more torture than a vaccination is, or emergency surgery.

From around Ursula's gag came the sound a mouse makes when cornered.

I said, "Just speeding up the old learning curve, Prof?"

Gabney studied me, gave the gray remote a couple of quick jabs, and caused both of the women to convulse.

I forced myself to look casual.

He said, "Something amusing?"

"All your talk about treatment, yet you keep using the shocks to vent your anger. Doesn't that break the stimulus-response chain?

And why, if you're retraining Ursula, are you shocking Gina? She's just the stimulus, isn't she?"

He said, "Oh, shut up."

"Sexual reconditioning," I said. "It was tried years ago back in the early seventies-and discredited."

"Primitive crap-methodologically crude. Though it might have developed into something worthwhile if the gay lib agitators hadn't shoved their point of view down everyone's throat-so much for free will."

I shrugged again.

He said, "I don't imagine your mind is capable of opening sufficiently to snare facts, but here are a few, anyway: I love my wife.

She elicits love from me, and for that I'll always be grateful. She's a remarkable human being-first in her family to finish high school. I recognized how special she was the first time I met her. The flame within-she was damn near incandescent. So her... problem didn't deter me. On the contrary, it was a challenge. And she agreed with both my assessment and my treatment plan. What we accomplished together-was totally consensual."

I said, "Fixing her."

"Don't make it sound like something veterinary, you idiot. We worked together to solve her problem. If that's not therapy, I don't know what is. And what emerged from our work together could benefit millions of women. The plan itself was simple-positive reinforcement delivered contingent upon heterosexually induced arousal and punishment administered as a consequence of exposure to homoerotic material. But the application posed a huge challenge adapting the paradigm to female physiology. With a male subject, measurement of arousal is a snap.

Using a penile plesmographic cuff I you record degree of tumescence.

Females are structurally more. secretive. Our initial idea was to develop a sort of minicuff for the clitoris, but it proved impractical. I won't go into details. It was she who came up with the intravaginal moisture probe that she now wears so handsomely. Given proper base-line analyses of secretions, we've been able to correlate bioelectrical changes with perceived sexual arousal. The potential ramifications are fantastic. Compared to what we've done, Masters and Johnson are painting on cave walls."

"Fantastic," I said. "Too bad it didn't work."

"Oh, it worked all right. For years."

"Not for Eileen Wagner."

He stroked Ursula again and turned back to me. "Now, that was a mistake my wife's mistake. Poor patient selection. Wagner was pathetic a cow, a mushy-hearted, bovine do-gooder. Psychology and psychiatry are so full of them."

"If you thought so little of her, why'd you accept her as your fellow at Harvard?"

He shook his head and laughed. "She wasn't myanything. I would have sent her to nursing school. She rotated for a month on my wife's service. Rounds and didactic sessions and clinical supervision. My wife learned of her sexual pathology and tried to help her. The way i'd helped my wife. I was against it from the beginning, felt the cow wasn t suitable for our technique not enough motivation, no willpower.

Her obesity alone should have been enough to disqualify her on that account-she was squalid. But my