wife was too kind. And I gave in."

"Was she your first subject after Ursula?"

"Our first patient. Unfortunately. And, as I'd predicted, she did very poorly. Which says absolutely nothing about the technique."

He gave a sharp look over at his wife. I thought I saw a finger tense.

"I'd call suicide a very poor response," I said.

"Suicide?" His smile was slow, almost lazy. He shook his head.

"Bear this in mind: The cow was incapable of doing anything for herself."

Strangled sounds from Ursula.

Gabney said, "I'm sorry, dear I never told you, did I?"

"Harvard believed it was suicide," I said. "Somehow, the med school found out what kind of research you were doing and asked you to leave."

"Somehow," he said, the smile gone. "The cow was a scribbler tear-stained "love' notes never sent, stuffed in a desk drawer.

Disgusting stuff."

Walking over to his wife again, he stroked her cheek. Kissed a shaved spot on her head. Her eyes were clenched tight; she made no effort to turn away.

"Love notes to you, darling," he said. "Mushy, incoherent, hardly evidence. But I had enemies in the department and they pounced. I could have fought it. But Harvard had nothing more to offer me-it's really not what it's cracked up to be. It was clearly time for a move."

"California," I said. "San Labrador. Your wife's suggestion, wasn't it? Go west for clinical opportunities."

Opportunities arising out of Ursula's supervision of Eileen Wagner.

Closed-door sessions that turned into therapy, as supervision often does.

Eileen talking about her past. Her needs. The sexual conflicts that had caused her to switch from pediatrics to psychiatry.

Recounting her experiences, years before, with a beguiling, wealthy agoraphobic. A ravaged princess ensconced in a peachcolored castle, crippled by fear that had eventually spread to her daughter-a little girl so remarkable she'd called for help, herself.

An eleven-year-old conversation came back to me.

Eileen in sensible shoes and a mannish blouse, shifting her Gladstone bag from hand to hand.

She's really beautiful. Despite the scars... Sweet. In a vulnerable way.

Sounds like you learned a lot from a brief visit.

The color rising in Eileen's cheeks. One tries.

Her embarrassment a puzzle. So clear, now.

More than a brief visit had taken place.

A lot more than medical consultation.

Melissa had sensed something out of the ordinary, without fully understanding: She's my mother's friend.... She likes my mother.

Jacob Dutchy had known, too-made a point of portraying Gina's avoidance of me as a generic fear of doctors.

I'd questioned it: She met with Dr: Wagner: Yes. That was a surprise.

She doesn't cope well with surprises.

Are you saying she had some sort ofadverse reaction just to meeting with Dr: Wagner?

Let's just say it was difficult for her: Would it be easier for her to deal with afemak therapist?

No! Absolutely not! it's not that at all.

Gina and Eileen.

The stirring-the inclinations that each had fought for so long.

Cravings Gina had dealt with by marrying a physically grotesque man who played the role of father. The second time around choosing a bisexual man an old friend with a secret of his own, whom she could turn to for companionship and mutual tolerance and the outward appearance of married bliss.

Separate bedrooms.

Eileen... coping with the self-loathing she'd felt after Sussex Knoll by abandoning her practice, leaving town, and traveling the world as a care-giver, unpressured to defend herselo Devoting herself to saving lives as she waged war with her pain.

Losing too many battles and choosing another strategy-one so many other bright, troubled people have taken: the study of The Mind.

Child psychiatry. Because let's get back to the root of it all.

Harvard. Because let's learn from the best.

Harvard and a blue-collar lover. An electrician with no patience for soul-baring.

Then, rotation on Ursula's service. The mischief gods must have been chortling heartily.

Rap sessions.

Confessions.

Pain and passion and confusion-someone who'd listen to all the things Sally Etheridge never wanted to hear about.

Ursula heard. And was changed herself.

Burying it by playing doctor.

A behavioral nightmare becomes real. The mischief gods beside themselves with glee.

"Treatment failure. Of the worst kind.

Bye-bye, Boston.

Time for a move.

California, in search of the princess.

In search of the idea of the princess. Wealthy phobics Ursula knew she could help.

Playing doctor.

Fee for service. Big fees.

All is well.

Then, the child calls. Again "Opportunities," Gabney was saying.

"Yes, that's basically the way she put it. A business decision. I preferred Florida-less expensive; the air's a hell of a lot better.

But she pushed for California, and not knowing what she was really after, I relented. It's when I relent that things go wrong.

He looked over at Gina, his face befouled with rage-the flailing, mind-searing fury of a man blocked from possessing what he craved.

Because of another woman.

The ultimate insult to the feeble thing known as Maleness.

Suddenly, I was certain Joel McCloskey had been insulted, too.

Thrown over by another woman.

Dirty joke.

Bad joke. Burrowing through his dope-softened brain like a spirochete.

Rejection festering. The hatred of homosexuals Dealing with it by demolishing Gina's beauty blotting out criminal womanhood.

Too cowardly to do it himselo Cowardly about exposing his motives as well, for fear of what that would say about him.

Had Gina ever understood why she'd suffered?

Gabney emitted a low, angry sound. Staring at Gina. Then at his wife.

"I've never been deceptive with her, but she chose to change the rules-both of them did."

"When did you first suspect?"

"Shortly after that one's treatment began. It was nothing specific just nuances. Subtle variations that a man who knew less or cared less-might never have noticed. Spending more time with her than all the other patients. Extra sessions that weren't necessary from a clinical point of view. Changing the subject and showing odd resistance when I challenged her. And abandoning the ranch-she used to come up here regularly. Despite the allergies. Took antihistamines and tolerated the pollens in order to spend peaceful weekends with me.

All of that stopped as soon as she came into our lives." He smiled.

"This is the first time she's been up here since then.

All those stupid excuses for staying in the city that she thought I didn't see through...1 knew damn well what was going on. Wanted hard data to preclude any more lies. So I made a few modifications to our office intercom and began listening in. Heard them" -the round face trembled "making their plans."

"Plans for what?"

"To leave." He pressed his free hand over his face, as if ironing out grief. "Together."

Giant steps Melissa, sensing the truth. Feeling edged out by Ursula's possessiveness Gabney said, "This is how low it sank: My wife accepted a piece of art from her-an extremely valuable etching. Now if that's not an inexcusable breach of ethics, I don't know what the hell is.

Don't you agree?"

I nodded.

"Money changed hands as well," he said. "To her; money means nothing because she's a spoiled bitch, never been deprived of anything. But it was bound to corrupt my wife she came from a poor family. Despite everything she's accomplished, pretty things still impress her. She's like a child that way. The bitch understood that."

Pointing at Gina: "She gave her money on a regular basis enormous sums.

A secret bank account! They called it their little nest egg.

Giggling like stupid schoolgirls. Giggling and plotting to abandon their responsibilities and go gallivanting off to live like whores on some tropical island. On top of the perversity, what a disgusting waste! My wife has a brilliant future. The bitch seduced her and attempted to lay everything to waste I had to intervene.

The bitch would have destroyed her."

He pressed a button on the remote. Gina flopped. Ursula watched and made whimpering noises.

Gabney said, "Shut up, darling, or I'll grill her synapses right now, and to hell with the goddam treatment plan."

Tears ran down Ursula's cheeks. She was silent and still.

"If this upsets you, darling, blame yourself."

His finger finally lifted. "If I were a selfish man, I would have simply killed her," he said to me. "But I wanted to give her worthless, spoiled life some meaning. So I decided to... apprentice her. As a stimulus, as you've so profoundly pointed out."

"in vivo conditioning," I said. "Home movies."

"Science in the real world."

"So you abducted her."

"No, no," he said. "She came willingly."

"Patient to doctor."

"Exactly." He gave a wide, satisfied smile. "I phoned her in the morning, informing her of a scheduling change. Instead of group therapy, she'd be having a one-on-one session with me. Her beloved Dr. Ursula was ill, and I was filling in. I told her we'd make special progress today surprise her beloved Dr. Ursula with outstanding progress. I instructed her to drive her car out of the gates of her estate and pick me up two blocks away at a precise time. I specified the Rolls-Royce-told her something about consistency of stimuli.

Because, of course, it has tinted windows. She arrived right on the dot. I had her slide over to the passenger side, and I got behind the wheel.

She asked me where we were going. I didn't answer. That elicited visible symptoms of anxiety she wasn't even close to being ready for that kind of ambiguity. She repeated her question. Once again, I said nothing and continued to drive. She began to get twitchy and to breathe rapidly-prodromal signs. When I sped onto the freeway she burst into a full-blown anxiety attack. I handed her an inhaler that I'd doctored to contain chloral hydrate and instructed her to take a nice deep breath. She did, and passed out immediately. Which was elegant. I was driving at fifty-five miles per hour, didn't want her thrashing around and creating a hazard. Unconscious, she made a lovely traveling companion. I drove to the dam, where my Land Rover was waiting. Transferred her into the Rover and pushed that ostentatious hunk of junk into the water."

"Pretty strenuous work for one man.

"What you mean to say is strenuous for a man of my age. But I'm in excellent shape. Clean living. Creative fulfillment."

"The car didn't sink," I said. "It caught on a flange."

He said nothing, didn't move.

"Poor planning for someone as precise as you. And with the Land Rover up there, how'd you get back to San Labrador?"

"Ah," he said, "the man is capable of rudimentary reasoning.

Yes, you're correct, I did have help. A Mexican fellow, used to work for me up here at the ranch. When we had more horses. When my wife used to ride."

To Ursula: "Remember Cleofais, darling?"

Ursula shut her eyes tight. Water leaked out from under the lids.

Gabney said, "This Cleofais what a name, eh?-was a big, husky fellow.

Not much in the way of brains, no common sense-he was essentially a two-footed beast of burden. I was getting close to firing him only a few horses left, no sense wasting money but the transfer of Mrs. Ramp offered him one last chance to be useful. He dropped me off in Pasadena, then took the Rover up to the dam and waited. He was the one who pushed the Rolls-Royce in. But he miscalculated, hit that flange or whatever."

"Easy mistake to make."

"Not if he'd been careful."

"Why do I feel," I said, "that he won't be making any more mistakes in the future?"

"Why, indeed." Exaggerated look of innocence.

Ursula moaned.

Gabney said, "Oh, stop. Spare me the dramatics. You never liked him you were always calling him a stupid wetback, always after me to get rid of him. So now you have your way.

Ursula shook her head weakly and sagged in her chair.

I said, "Where'd you take Mrs. Ramp after the Rolls was disposed of?"

"On a scenic drive. Through Angeles Crest Forest along the backroads.

The precise route was Highway 39 to Mount Waterman, Highway 2 to Mountain High, 138 to Palmdale, 14 to Saugus, 126 to Santa Paula, then straight down to the 101 and onward to the ranch. Circuitous but pretty.

"Nothing like that in Florida," I said.

"Nothing at all."

"Why the dam?" I said.

"It's a rural spot, comparatively close to the clinic, yet remoteno one goes up there. I know, because I'd been there several times. To sell off horses my wife no longer wanted to ride."

"That's all?"

"What else should there be?"

"Well," I said, "I'd be willing to wager you studied your wife's clinical notes and knew Mrs. Ramp didn't like water."

He smiled.

I said, "I understand about the tinted windows providing cover.

But wasn't it risky using a car that conspicuous? Someone might have noticed."

"And if they had, what would they have seen? A car that would have been traced to her-just as it was. The assumption would have been made that a mentally ill woman drove up there and either had an accident or committed suicide. Which is exactly what happened."

"True," I said, trying to look thoughtful.

"Everything was considered, Delaware. If Cleofais had reported being spotted, we would have moved on to another spot. I'd earmarked several. Even the unlikely chance of being stopped by a policeman didn't worry me. I would have explained that I was a psychotherapist with a patient who'd had an anxiety attack and passed out, and shown my credentials to back it up. The facts would have backed me up. And when she regained consciousness, she would have backed me up, because that's all she would have remembered.

Isn't that elegant?"

"Yes," I said, causing him to look at me sharply. "Even traveling the back roads, you had plenty of time to set her up here, wait for your wife to call and report she hadn't shown up for group therapy, then fake concern, drive back to Pasadena and make your appearance at the clinic.

"Where," he said, "I had the not altogether salutary experience of meeting you.

"And trying to find out how much I knew about Mrs. Ramp."

"Why else would I bother to talk to you? And for a moment you did have me concerned something you said, about her having plans to make a new life. Then I realized you were just jawing, knew nothing of any importance."

"When did your wife find out what you'd done?"

"When she woke up to find herself in that chair."

Remembering Ursula's hurried exit from the clinic, I said, "What'd you tell her to get her up here?"

"I phoned her, pretending to be ill, and begged her to come up and take care of me. Good wife that she is, she responded promptly."

I said, "How will you explain her absence to her patients?"

"Bad flu. I'll take over their care, don't expect any complaints."

"Two patients gone from the group, now the therapist given the kind of anxiety you're dealing with, it may not be so simple to reassure them."

"Two? Ah." Knowing smile. "Bonny Miss Kathleen, our intrepid girl reporter? How did you come across that?"

Not knowing if Kathy Moriarty was alive or dead, I said nothing.

"Well," he said, smiling wider, "if you think your evasiveness is going to help her, forget it. Bonny Miss Kathleen won't be reporting anything anymore nasty little bull-dagger. The arrogance, thinking something as complex as agoraphobia could be faked in my presence.

Trying to bluster her way out when I caught her, with threats and accusations. She sat right in that chair." Pointing to Ursula's.

"Helped me refine the technique."

"Where is she now?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"In the cold, cold ground, next to Cleofais. Probably the first time she's been that intimate with a man."

I looked over at Ursula. Her eyes were wide and frozen.

"So everything's tied up," I said. "Elegant."

"Don't mock me."

"Mocking you isn't my intention. On the contrary, I had the greatest respect for your work. Read all your publications shockavoidance and escape paradigms, controlled frustration, schedules of fear-induced learning. This is just..." I shrugged.

He stared at me for a long time.

"You wouldn't," he finally said, "be trying to bullshit me?"

"No," I said. "But if I am, big deal. What can I do to you?"

"True," he said, flexing his fingers. "Fifteen seconds to deep-fry, you couldn't bear being a party to that. And I've got other toys you haven't even seen yet.

"I'm sure you have. Just as I'm sure you've convinced yourself it's okay to use them. On scientific grounds. Destroy the person to save her."

"No one's being destroyed."

"What about Gina?"

"She wasn't much to begin with-look at the way she lived.

Insular, selfish, corrupt-of no use to anyone. By using her, I've justified her."

"I didn't know she needed justifying."

"Then know it, idiot. Life's transactional, not some fluffy, theological fantasy. The world's getting sucked dry. Resources are finite.

Only the useful will survive."

"Who determines what's useful?"

"Those who control the stimuli."

"One thing you might consider," I said, "is that despite all this high-minded theorizing, you may not be aware of your true motivations."

The corners of his mouth turned up. "Are you applying to be my analyst?"

I shook my head. "No way. Don't have the stomach for it."

His lips snapped down.

I said, "Women. The way they've let you down. The custody battle with your first wife, the way her drinking caused the fire that killed your son. The first time we met you mentioned a second wifebefore Ursula.

I didn't get a sense of what she was like, but something tells me she wasn't worthy either."

"A nonentity," he said. "Nothing there."

"Is she still alive?"

He smiled. "Unfortunate accident. She wasn't quite the swimmer she fancied herself to be."

"Water," I said. "You've used it twice. Freudian theory would say it has something to do with the womb."

"Freudian theory is horse shit."

"It could be right on the mark this time, Professor. Maybe this whole thing has nothing to do with science or love or any of that other horse shit you've been spreading, and everything to do with the fact that you hate women-really despise them and need to control them.

It implies something nasty in your own childhood-neglect or abuse or whatever. I guess what I'm saying is that I'd sure like to know what your mother was like."

His mouth opened, and he jammed his hand down on the button.

Machine screams. A higher frequency than before His voice above the whine shouting but barely audible: "Fifteen seconds."

I threw myself at him. He backed away, kicking and punching, throwing the black remote at me and hitting me in the nose. Fingers white on the gray module. The stench of burning flesh and hair clogged the room.

I tore at his hands, hit him in the belly, and he gasped and doubled.

But his grip was like steel.

I had to break his wrist before he let go.

I put the remote in my pocket, kept my eye on him. He was stretched out on the floor, holding his wrist, crying.

The women didn't stop jerking for a long, long time.

I unplugged the machines, ripped off the electrical cords, and used them to bind his arms and legs. When I was certain he was immobilized, I went to the women.

I locked Gabney in the barn, took Gina and Ursula into the house, put blankets over them, got Ursula to drink some apple juice that I found in the refrigerator. Organic. Like everything in the wellstocked fridge. Survival books on a kitchen shelf. Rifle and shotgun in a rack over the table. Swiss Army knife, case full of hypodermic needles and drug spansules. The professor had been preparing for the long haul.

I phoned 911, then put in an emergency call to Susan LaFamiglia. She got over the horror remarkably fast, turned efficient, took down crucial details, and told me she'd handle the rest.

It took half an hour for the paramedics to arrive, accompanied by four cars of Santa Barbara County sheriffs from the Solvang substation.

During the wait I found Gabney's records-no great feat of detection.

He'd left half a dozen notebooks on the dining room table. A couple of pages were all I could bear to read.

I spent the next couple of hours talking to grim-faced people in uniforms. Susan LaFamiglia arrived with a young man wearing an olive-green Hugo Boss suit and retro tie, had a few words with the cops, and got me out of there. Mr. Fashion turned out to be one of her associates-I never learned his name. He drove the Seville back to L.A. and Susan took me home in her Jaguar. She didn't ask me any questions and I fell asleep, happy to be a passenger.

I missed my ten o'clock appointment the next morning with Melissa but not for lack of trying. I was up at six, watching baby koi the size of threadworms wiggle their way around the pond. By nine-thirty I was at Sussex Knoll. The gates were open, but no one answered the door.

I spotted one of the Hernandez sons who was thinning ivy near the outer wall of the estate and asked him where Gina was. Some hospital in Santa Barbara, he said. No, he didn't know which one.

I believed him but tried the door again anyway.

As I drove away he gave me a sad look-or maybe it was pity, for my lack of trust.

I'd just nosed out onto the street when I saw the brown Chevy approaching from the south. Traveling so slowly it seemed to be standing still. I backed up and waited, and when it pulled up in the driveway, I was ready, at the driver's window, greeting a frightenedlooking Bethel Drucker.

"Sorry," she said, and put the car into reverse.

"No," I said. "Please. No one's here but I'd like to talk to you.

"Nothing to talk about."

"Then why are you here?"

"Don't know," she said. She had on a plain brown dress, costume jewelry, very little makeup. Her figure refused to be suppressed. I took no pleasure in looking at it. It would be a while before looking would be fun again. "I really don't know," she repeated. Her hand remained on the gearshift lever.

"You came to pay your respects," I said. "That's very kind of you.

She looked at me as if I'd spoken in tongues. I walked around the front of the car and got in beside her.

She started to protest, then, with an ease that bespoke a lifetime of acquiescence, her features assumed a resigned look.

"What?" she said.

"Do you know what happened?"

Nod. "Noel told me."

"Where is Noel?"

"Drove up there this morning. To be with them."

The unspoken words: as usual.

I said, "He's a great kid-you've done a wonderful job."

Her face quavered. "He's so damn smart, sometimes I think he's not mine. Lucky for me, I remember the pain-pushing him out.

You wouldn't think to look at him but he was a big one. Nine pounds.

Twenty-three inches. They told me he was gonna play football. No one knew how smart he was gonna be."

"Is he going to Harvard?"

"He doesn't tell me everything he's gonna do. Now, if you'll scuse me, I've got to be going. The place needs cleaning."

"The Tankard?"

"Only place I've got for the time being."

"Is Don planning to open it in the near future?"

Shrug. "He doesn't tell me his plans either. I just wanna clean it.

Before the dirt builds up."

"Okay," I said. "Can I just ask you one thing-something personal?"

Her eyes filled.

"Just a question, Bethel."

"Sure-what's the difference, anyway? Talking, dancing, posing for pictures-everyone gets what they want from me."

"Didn't know you were a model," I lied.

"Oh, yeah, sure. Ha! Sure, I was this big famous fashion model. With these." Running her hands over her bust and laughing again. "Yeah, I was pretty fancy, just like Gina. We were two of a kind. Only the ones who looked at me weren't ladies buying clothes."

"Did Joel take those pictures?"

Pause. Her hands were small and white around the steering wheel. A cheap cameo ring encircled the ring finger.

"Him. Others. What of it? I was in lots of pictures. I was a picture star: Even when I was pregnant and out to here some people are sick that way, like to see pregnant women."

"Something for everyone," I said.

She turned sharply but her tone was resigned. "You're mocking "No," I said wearily. "No, I'm not."

She studied me, touched her bosom again.

"You saw me, she said. "Driving off yesterday. And now you want to know why."

I began to talk, but she cut me off with a shake of her hand.

"Maybe to you it's dumb, getting upset over someone like himthat's the way I felt about it, too. Real dumb. But I'm used to that.

Being dumb. So what's the difference, anyway? Maybe to you it was real real dumb retarded-because you think he was pure trashNo, wait a second. Let me finish. He was pure shit, no kindness in him.

Everything made him mad and crazy-he had to have his way all the time.

Some of it was prob'ly the dope. He shot way too much speed. But some of it was just the way he was mad'. Mean. So I understand your thinking I'm dumb. But he gave me something and no one ever gave me nothing-not at that point of my life, anyway.

Since then, Don came through, and I'd cry for him if something happened to him a hell of a lot more than I cried for... the other one. But at that point in my life, the other one was the first one who gave me anything. Even if he didn't mean to. Even if he did it because he couldn't have what he really wanted, and he took it out on me.

That didn't matter you understand? It turned out good anyway you just said so yourselfo Only damn good thing in my life. So yeah, I cried a little for him. Found myself a nice little spot and had a big boohoo.

Then I remembered what pure trash he was and I stopped crying. And now you don't see me crying no more. That answer your question?"

I shook my head. "I wasn't judging you, Bethel. I don't think your being upset was wrong.

"Well, aren't you the smart one. So what's your question then?"

"Does Noel know who his father was?"

Long silence.

"If he doesn't, you gonna tell him?" she said.

"No."

"Not even to protect the little missy?"

"From what?"

"Hitching up with a bad seed."

"There's nothing bad about Noel."

She started crying, said, "So much for New Year's resolutions."

I handed her a handkerchie?, she blew noisily and said, "Thank you, sir." A moment later: "I wouldn't trade places with that little girl for nothin'. With any of them."

"Neither would I, Bethel. And I'm not asking about Noel in order to protect her."

"What, then?"

"Call it curiosity. Something else I need to figure out."

"You're a real curious fellow, aren't you? Poking around in other people's business."

"Forget it," I said. "Sorry for poking."

"Maybe he needs protecting from her: huh?"

"Why do you say that?"

"All this." Looking through the windshield at the big peachcolored house. "This kind of thing can eat you up. Noel's head is on real good, but you never know.... Do you really think the two of them.

"Who knows?" I said. "They're young, have a lot of changes ahead of them."

"Because I'm really not comfortable with that. You'd think I'd be the one who'd want it, but I don't. This isn't real-it isn't the way real people were made to live. He's my baby, I pushed him out with a lot of pain, and I don't want to see him eaten up by all this."

"I know what you mean," I said. "I hope Melissa gets away from it , too'' "Yeah. I guess it's not been any jar a'honey for her, either."

"No, it hasn't."

"Yeah," she said, starting to touch her bust, but dropping her hand.

I pushed the passenger door open. "Good luck, and thanks for your time."

"No," she said. "He doesn't know. He thinks I don't know, either. I told him it was a one-night stand, no way to ever find out. He truly believes that. I used to. do things. I told him a story that didn't make me look real good, because I had to. I had to do what I thought was right."

"Of course you did," I said, and took her hand. "And it was right-the proof is in the pudding."

"That's true."

"Bethel, I really meant what I said about Noel. And the credit you get for it."

She squeezed my hand and let go.

"You sound for real. I'll try to believe that."

Milo came by my house at four. I was working on my monograph and led him into the study.

"Lots of dirt on Douse," he said, shaking his briefcase and putting it on my desk. "Not that it matters much."

"It might," I said. "In terms of recovering anything he's already looted from the estate.

"Yeah," he said, "let's hear it for private investigation. How you doing?"

"Fine.

"Really?"

"Really. How about yourself?"

"Still on the job-Attorney LaFamiglia likes my style."

"A woman with taste."

"You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. There are baby fish down in the pond, they're surviving and growing, and I'm in a great mood."

"Baby fish?"

"Wanna see?"

"Sure."

We went down to the Japanese garden. It took a while for him to AL see the hatchlings, but finally he did. And smiled. "Yeah. Cute.

What do you feed them?"

"Ground-up fish food."

"They don't get eaten?"

"Some do. The fast ones survive."

"Aha."

He sat down on a rock and exposed his face to the sun. "Nyquist showed up late last night at the restaurant. Talked to Don for a few minutes, then split. Looks like farewell. The van was packed up for long-term travel."

"You get that from your guy?"

"Every detail. Along with your departure, down to the second.

He's a demon for particulars. If I'd been smart I'd have told him to tail you."

"Would he have been able to help?"

He smiled. "Probably not. We're talking arthritis and emphysema. But he's got damn good handwriting."

He looked at the paper in my typewriter. "What's that?"

"My paper on the Hale School."

"Everything back to normal, huh? When do you see Melissa?"

"As in therapy?"

"As in."

"Soon as possible after she gets back to L.A. I called up there an hour ago. She didn't want to leave her mother's side. The doctor I spoke to said it should be about a week before Gina can be moved.

Then there'll be extended care."

"Jesus," he said. "Melissa's sure going to need it seeing you.

Maybe everyone involved in this should go into therapy."

"I did you a real favor, huh?"

"Actually you did. When I write my memoirs this one'll get a chapter of its own. Attorney LaFamiglia said she'd be my agent if I ever do it."

"Attorney LaFamiglia would probably make a good agent."

He smiled. "Balls-in-the-grinder time for Douse and Anger.

Almost feel sorry for them. So, you eat recently? If not, I'm up for something solid."

"Had a big breakfast," I said. "But there is something I could go for."

A "What's that?"

I told him.

He said, "Christ alive, don't you ever get enough?"

"I need to know. For everyone's sake. If you don't want to pursue it, I'll grope along by myself."

He said, "Jesus," then: "Okay, run everything by me again the details."

I did.

"That's it? A phone on the floor? That's all you've got?"

"The timing's right."

"Okay," he said, "it should be easy enough to get hold of the records.

The question is whether or not it was a toll call."

"San Labrador to Santa Monica is," I said. "I already checked the bill."

"Mr. Detective," he said. "Mr. Private Eye."

The place didn't look like what it was. Victorian house in a workingclass section of Santa Monica. Two stories, big front porch with swings and rockers. Yellow clapboard sides with white and baby-blue trim. Lots of cars on the street. Several more in the driveway. Better landscaping and maintenance than the other houses on the block.

"My, my," I said, pointing to a car in the driveway. Black Cadillac Fleetwood, "62.

Milo parked the Porsche.

We got out and inspected the big car's front bumper. Deeply dented and freshly primered.

"Yeah, looks right," said Milo.

We walked up the porch and through the front door. A bell over the lintel tinkled.

The entry hall was filled with houseplants. Sweet-smelling. Too sweet-concealing something.

A dark, pretty woman in her early twenties came out. White blouse, red maxiskirt, Eurasian, clear complexion. "Can I help you?"

Milo told her who we wanted to see.

"Are you family?"

"Acquaintances."

"Old-time acquaintances," I said. "Like Madeleine de Couer."

"Madeleine," she said, with fondness. "She's here every two weeks, so devoted. And such a good cook-we all love her butter cookies. Let's see what time it is six-ten. He may be sleeping. He sleeps a lot, especially lately."

"Getting worse?" I said.

"Physically or spiritually?"

"Physically, for starters.

"We've seen some deterioration, but it comes and goes. One day he's walking fine; the next, he can't move. It's hard seeing him that way-knowing what's in store. It's such an ugly disease, especially for someone like him, used to being active though I guess they all are.

I'd never even heard of what he's got-it's even rarer than Lou Gehrig's. I had to bone up, and there really isn't much in the medical books."

"How about spiritually?"

She smiled. "You know how he is-but actually he's been real good to have around. He cooks for the others, tells them stories.

Prods them when he thinks they're getting lazy. He even orders the staff around, but no one minds-he's such a dear. When he... when he can't do those things anymore it's going to be a real loss."

Sighing.

"Anyway, why don't we see if he's awake?"

We followed her up to the second floor, passing bedrooms, each containing two or three hospital beds. Old men and women occupied the beds, watching television, reading, sleeping, eating orally or intravenously. Young people in street clothes attended to them. The place was very quiet.

The room she stopped at was at the rear. Smaller than the rest. A single bed. Punch caricatures on the wall, along with an oil painting of a young, beautiful woman with an unscarred face. A.D. initialed in the lower right corner.

Nothing out of place. Bay rum aroma fighting to assert itself through the sweetness.

A man sat on the edge of the bed, trying to insert a cuff link through French cuffs. Starched white cuffs. Navy tie. Blue serge trousers.

All of it much too large; he seemed to be drowning in his clothes. A pair of mirror-black bluchers were lined up at the foot of the bed.

Three identical pairs of shoes edged a wood-grain dresser that had been shined far more than its cheap construction merited.

Next to the shoes was a four-legged metal walker.

A His hair was slicked and right-parted and bone-white. All the plumpness was gone from his face, and his cheeks hung loosely in bulldog jowls. His skin was the color of a plastic skeleton. The cuff links were small squares of onyx.

"People to see you," said the young woman cheerfully.

The man struggled with the cuff link, finally inserted it, then turned and faced us.

A look of surprise passed over his face, then great calm. As if he'd experienced the worst-possible scenario and survived.

He worked hard at producing a smile for the girl, worked harder at getting the words out: "Come in." Voice as fragile as antique crockery.

"Anything I can get you, Mr. D.?" asked the woman.

The man shook his head no. More effort.

She left. Milo and I stepped in. I closed the door.

"Hello, Mr. Dutchy," I said.

Curt nod.

"Do you remember me? Alex Delaware? Nine years ago?"

Eyes fluttering, he struggled to enunciate: "Doc... tor."

"This is a friend of mine, Mr. Milo Sturgis. Mr. Sturgis, Mr. Jacob Dutchy. A good friend of Melissa and her mother."

"Sit." Motioning toward a chair. The only other furniture was a walnut drum table of much better vintage than the dresser. Leather top, covered partially by a doily. Tea service atop the doily.

Pattern identical to one I'd seen in a small gray sitting room.

"Tea?"

"No, thanks."

"You," he said to Milo, taking a long time to get it out. "Look like.

A police. Man."

"He is one," I said. "On leave. But he's not here in any official capacity."

"I see." Dutchy folded his hands on his lap and sat there.

Suddenly, I regretted coming and wore it all over my face.

Gentleman that he was, he said, "Don't wor-Ree. Talk."

"No need to talk about it," I said. "Consider this a friendly visit."

Half-smile on bloodless, razor slash lips "Talk Any " Then: "How?"

"Just guesswork," I said. "The evening before McCloskey was run down, Madeleine sat by Melissa's bed and used the phone. I saw it, on the floor. She called you here and told you Gina was dead.

Asked you to take care of it. Step into your old role."

"No," he said. "That's. Wrong. Not her... nothing."

"I don't think so, sir," said Milo, and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "These are phone records. Made from Melissa's private line that night, itemized down to the minute. Three within a onehour period to the Pleasant Rest Hospice."

"CircumStantial said Dutchy. "She talks. To me all. The time."

"We saw the car, sir," said Milo. "The Cadillac that's registered to you. Interesting front-end damage. I imagine the police lab would be able to work with that."

Dutchy looked at him, but not with any anxiety-he seemed to be appraising Milo's clothes. Milo had dressed fairly well. For him.

Dutchy was reserving judgment.

"Don't worry, Mr. Dutchy," said Milo. "This is off the record.

Even if it wasn't, you haven't been notified of your rights, so anything you say can't be used against you.

"Madeleine had. Nothing to. Do. With.

"Even if she did, we don't care, sir. Just trying to tie up loose ends."

"She. Didn't."

"Fine," said Milo. "You thought of it all by yourself. You're a one-man crime wave."

Dutchy's smile was astonishingly quick and full. "Billy. The Kid.

What. Else d'you. Want. To know?"

"What'd you use to lure McCloskey out?" said Milo. "His son?"

Dutchy's smile quavered and faded out like a weak radio signal.

DisHonest. But. Only way."

"Did Noel or Melissa call him?"

"No." Trembling. "No. No, no. Swear."

"Take it easy. I believe you."

It took a while for Dutchy's face to stop shaking.

"So who called McCloskey?" said Milo. "It sure wasn't you.

"Friends."

"What did the friends tell him?"

PRIVATE EYES 46') "Son. In troub. El. Help. Pause for breath.

Paternal. Heart.

Strings." Dutchy made an excruciatingly slow tugging motion.

"How'd you know he'd fall for that?"

"Never. Know. Poker."

"You flushed him out with the son story. Then your friends ran him down."

"No." Pointing to his starched shirtfront. "Me."

"You can still drive?"

"Some. Times."

"Uh-huh."

"In. Dee. Five. Hundred." Genuine glee on the pasty face.

Milo said, "You and Parnelli."

Reedy laughter.

"I guess it's stupid to ask why."

Ponderous headshake. "No. Not. At all."

Silence.

Dutchy smiled and managed to get a hand on his shirtfront again.

"Ask."

Milo rolled his eyes.

I said, "Why'd you do it, Mr. Dutchy?"

He stood, tottered, waved off our aid. It took a full five minutes for him to get into an upright position. I know, because I was staring at the second hand of my watch. Another five to make it to the walker and lean on it, triumphant.

Triumph that went beyond the physical.

"Reason," he said. "My job."

"Does that worry you?"

"In a way. I guess what really worries me is not knowing. What she knows-what she understands about what happened. I mean, she says she passed out and woke up in the hospital, but "But what?"

"Maybe she's just protecting me. Or herself-pushing it out of her memory. Repressing it."

"I believe her," I said. "The whole time I saw her she was unconscious. Totally unaware of her surroundings."

"Yes," she said. "Dr. Levine says the same thing....1 like him.

Levine. Makes you feel he has plenty of time. That what you have to say is important."

"I'm glad."

"Thank God she got somebody good." Turning to me, eyes wet.

"I don't know how to thank you."

"You already have."

"But it's not enough-what you did.." Reaching out for my hand, then drawing back.

She looked at the pond. Studied the water.

"I made a decision," she said. "About scheduling. A year here, and then we'll see. Just a semester wouldn't have been enough. So many things to take care of. I called Harvard this morning. From the hospital, before the helicopter arrived. Thanked them for extending the deadline and told them what I'd decided. They said they'll accept me as a transfer if my GPA at UCLAs high enough."

"I'm sure it will be."

"Guess so-if I organize my time properly. Noel left. Came up yesterday to say goodbye."

"How'd that go?"

"He looked a little scared. Which surprised me. I never thought of him as not being in control. It was almost... cute. His mother came with him. She looked really nervous. She's going to miss him a lot."

"So tiny," she said. "Will they survive?"

"These are the survivors," I said. "The key is keeping the grown ones well fed so they won't eat the babies."

"How'd you manage to hatch them?"

"I didn't do anything. It just happened."

"But you must have set it up or something. To make it happen.

"I provided the water.

She smiled.

We were at the edge of the pond. The air was still and the waterfall whispered gently. Her bare legs were tucked under her skirt. Her fingers toyed with the Zen grass. "I like it down here.

Could we talk here every time?"

"Sure."

"So peaceful," she said. Her hands left the grass and began kneading one another.

"How's she doing?" I said.

"All right. I guess. I keep waiting for something to... I don't know... break. For her to start screaming or falling apart. She looks almost too good."

"Are you and Noel planning to stay in touch?"

"We agreed to write. But you know how things are-different places, different experiences. He's been a really good friend."

"Yes, he has."

Small, sad smile.

I said, "What is it?"

"I know he wants more than that. It makes me feel... I don't Maybe he'll meet someone there who will really be right know. for him."

Leaning closer to the water. "The big ones are coming close. Can I feed them?"

I handed her the feed cup. She tossed in a handful of pellets, far away from the baby koi, and watched the adult fish bob and gobble.

"There you go, guys," she said. "Stay over there. Jeer, what a bunch of gluttons.... Do you think she'll really ever be okay?

Levine says if we give it enough time, she should be able to function normally, but I don't know."

"What makes you doubt that?"

"Maybe he's just an optimist."

Making that sound like a character flaw.

"From what I've seen of Dr. Levine, he's a realist," I said.

Remembering Gina's face framed by hospital linen. Plastic tubing, the far-off clatter of metal and glass. A thin, pale hand squeezing mine.

A tranquillity that was unnerving.

I said, "Just the fact that she's handling the hospital so well is a good sign, Melissa. Realizing she can be out of the house without falling apart. As bizarre as it seems, the whole thing may end up being therapeutic for her. Which isn't to say there's been no trauma or that it's going to be easy."

"Guess so," she said, barely loud enough to be heard over the waterfall. "There are so many things I still don't understand: Why it happened. Where does that kind of evil come from? What did she do to deserve that? I mean, I know he's a psycho-the things they say he did Shuddering. Kneading. "Susan says he'll be put away forever. Just on the basis of those bodies they found at the ranch.

Which is good. I guess. I couldn't stand the idea of a trial-Mother having to face another... monster. But it just seems inadequate.

There should be more."

"More punishment?"

"Yes. He should suffer." Turning to me again. "You'd have to be there, too, wouldn't you? At a trial."

I nodded.

"So I guess you're glad about there being none."

"It's an experience I could do without."

"Okay. It's for the best. I just don't- What causes someone to-" Shaking her head. Looking up at the sky. Then down again.

Kneading. Harder and faster.

I said, "What are you thinking about?"

"Her: Ursula. Levine told me she was released from the hospital, went back to Boston-to her family. It's weird, thinking of her as having a family, needing someone. I used to see her as all-powerfulsome kind of dragon lady."

Pulling her hands apart. Wiping them on the grass.

"She called Mother last night. Or Mother called her-Mother was on the phone with her just as I arrived. When I heard Mother mention her name I left the room and went down to the cafeteria."

"Does that bother you? Their talking."

"I don't know what she could possibly have to offer Mother, being a victim herself."

"Maybe nothing," I said.

She gave me a sharp look. "What does that mean?"

"Just because they're no longer therapist and patient doesn't mean they have to break all contact."

"What's the point?"

"Friendship."

"Friendship?"

"That bothers you.

"It's not- I don't- Yes, I still resent her. And I also blame her for what happened. Even though she suffered, too. She was Mother's doctor: She should have protected her-but that's not fair, is it?

She's a victim as much as Mother."

"Fair isn't the issue. You have these feelings. They'll need to be dealt with."

"Plenty to be dealt with," she said.

"Plenty of time."

She turned back to the water. "They're so tiny, hard to believe they're able to..." Reaching into the bucket, she scooped up more pellets and threw them in, one by one. Staring at the momentary dimple each impact stamped on the water's surface. Flipping her hair. Biting her lip.

"I dropped by the Tankard last night. To bring Don some of his things from the house. There were a lot of people. He was busy with customers-didn't see me, and I didn't wait around, just dropped thestuffoff Shrug.

"Don't try to do it all at once," I said.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'd like to do. Fix everything and go on from there. Fix him-the monster. It doesn't seem right that he'll get to live out the rest of his life in some clean, comfortable hospital.

That he and Mother are basically in the same situation. I mean, that is absurd, isn't it?"

"He'll stay. She'll leave."

"I hope."

"She will."

"It still doesn't seem fair. There should be something more finite.

Justice-an end. Like what happened to McCloskey. May he rot in hell.

Did Milo find out anything more about who did it? My offer to pay for the defense still stands."

"The police haven't solved it," I said. "It's not likely they will."

"Good," she said. "Why waste time."

She trickled more food into the pond, rubbed her hands together to get rid of the pellet dust. Began kneading again, her body tense.

Rubbing her brow, she let out a long sigh.

I waited.

"I fly up there every day to see her," she said. "And I keep asking myself why is she here, why does she have to go through this? Why should one person who never did anything bad in her life have to go through being victimized by two monsters in one lifetime? If there's a God, why would He set things up that way?"

"Good question," I said. "People have been wrestling with various versions of it since the beginning of time."

She smiled. "That's no answer.

"True."

"I thought you had all the answers.

"Brace yourself for crushing disillusionment, kid."

Her smile widened and warmed. She leaned forward, holding her hair back with one hand, touching the water with the other.

"You saw things," she said. "Up at that... place. Things we haven't talked about."

"There's a lot we haven't talked about. All in-" "I know, I know, due time. I just wish I knew what due time was-could put some kind of number on it."

"That's understandable."

She laughed. "There you go again. Telling me I'm okay."

"That's "cause you are.

"That so?"

"Very definitely."

"Well," she said, "you're the expert."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

After a distinguished career in child psychology, Jonathan Kellerman turned to writing fiction full-time. Today there are more than nine million copies of Kellerman's novels in print: When the Bough Breaks, Blood Test, Over the Edge, Silent Partner; Time Bomb (all Alex Delaware novels), and The Butcher's Theater; a novel of serial killings in Jerusalem. He is also the author of two volumes of psychology and an upcoming children's book. He and his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, have three children.

The End