figure out exactly how I was going to get into the grain. This is Brazilian, quarter sawn can you imagine how much I paid for a piece this thick? And how long I had to look to find one this wide? She wants a one-piece back, so I can't afford to mess it up. Knowing that jams me up it's been slow going. But this morning I got into it pretty easily. So I kept going I guess it just swept me along. What time is it?"

"Seven-ten."

"You're kidding," she said, flexing her fingers. "Can't believe I've been working for almost two hours." Flexing again.

I said, "Sore?"

"No, I feel great. Been doing these hand exercises to ward off the cramps and it's really working."

She touched the file again.

I said, "You're on a roll, kiddo. Don't stop now.

I kissed the top of her head. She took hold of my wrist with one hand, used the other to push the goggles up on her brow. Her eyes really were bloodshot. Poor goggle fit or tears?

Alex, placed a finger over her lips and kissed her left cheek.

Remnants of the perfume, now familiar, tickled my nose. Mixed with wood dust and sweat a cocktail that brought back too many memories.

I freed my wrist. She grabbed it, pressed it to her cheek. Our pulses merged.

"Alex," she said, looking up at me, blinking hard. "I didn't set it up to happen this way please believe me. What I said about friendship was true.

"There's nothing to apologize for."

"Somehow I feel there is."

I said nothing.

"Alex, what's going to happen?"

"I don't know."

She lowered my hand, pulled away, and faced the workbench.

"What about her?" she said. "The teacher."

The teacher I'd told her Linda was a school principal.

Demotion in service of the ego.

I said, "She's in Texas. Indefinitely sick father."

"Oh. Sorry to hear that. Anything serious?"

"Heart problems. He's not doing too well."

She turned, faced me, blinked hard again. Memories of her own father's sludged arteries? Or maybe it was the dust.

"Alex," she said, "I don't want to I know I have no right to ask this, but what's your... understanding with her?"

I moved to the foot of the bench, leaned on it with both hands, and stared up at the corrugations on the steel ceiling.

"There is no understanding," I said. "We're friends."

"Would this hurt her?"

"I don't imagine it would make her whoop for joy, but I'm not planning on submitting a written report."

The anger in my voice was strong enough to make her clutch the bench top.

I said, "Listen, I'm sorry. This is just a lot to deal with and I'm feeling... jammed up, myselfo Not because of her maybe that's part of it. But most of it is us. Being together, all of a sudden. The way it was last night... Shit, how long's it been? Two years?"

"Twenty-five months," she said. "But who's counting." She put her head on my chest, touched my ear, touched my neck.

"It could have been twenty-five hours," I said. "Or twenty-five years.

She inhaled deeply. "We fit," she said. "I forgot how well."

She came to me, reached up and held my shoulders. "Alex, what we had it's like a tattoo. You've got to cut deeply to remove it."

"I was thinking in terms of fishhooks. Yanking them out."

She flinched and touched her arm.

I said, "Choose your analogy. Either way it's major pain."

We stared at each other, tried to temper the silence with smiles, and failed.

She said, "There could be something again, Alex-why shouldn't there be?"

Answers flooded my head, a babel of replies, contradictory jabber.

Before I could pick a reason, she said, "Let's at least think about it.

What can we lose by thinking about it?"

I said, "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't not think about it. You own too much of me."

Her eyes got wet. "I'll take what I can get.

I said, "Happy carving," and turned to leave.

She called out my name.

I stopped and looked back. She had her hands on her hips and her face was contorted in that little-girl scrunch that women never seem to outgrow. Prelude to tears-probably carried on the X chromosome.

Before the valves opened full-force she yanked down her goggles, picked up her file, turned her back on me, and began to scrape.

I left hearing the same rasp-rasp samba that had greeted me upon waking. Felt no desire to dance.

Knowing I had to fill the day with something impersonal or go mad, I drove to the University Biomedical Library to seek out references for my monograph. I found plenty of stuff that looked promising on the computer screen, but little that turned out to be relevant. By the time noon rolled around I'd generated lots of heat, very little light, and knew it was time to buckle down and wrestle with my own data.

Instead I used a pay phone just outside the library to call in for messages. Nothing from San Labrador, six others, no emergencies. I returned all of them. Then I drove into Westwood Village, paid too much for parking, found a coffee shop masquerading as a restaurant, and read the paper while chewing my way through a rubbery hamburger.

By the time I got home I'd managed to push the day along to 3:00 RM. I checked the pond. A bit more spawn, but the fish still looked subdued.

I wondered if they were all right I'd read somewhere that they could damage themselves in the throes of passion.

The uniforms changed, but the game never did.

I fed them, picked dead leaves out of the garden. Three-twenty.

Light housekeeping took up another half hour.

Bereft of excuses, I went into the library, pulled out my manuscript, and began working. It went well. When I finally looked up, I'd been going for almost two hours.

I thought of Robin. You know how it is the momentum.

The fit.

The impetus of loneliness, propelling us toward each other.

Fishhooks.

Back to work.

The drudgery defense.

I picked up my pen and tried. Kept at it until the words ran out and my chest got tight. It was seven by the time I got up from the desk, and when the phone rang I was grateful.

"Dr. Delaware, this is Joan at your service. I've got a call from a Melissa Dickinson. She says it's an emergency."

"Put her on, please."

Click.

"Dr. Delaware!"

"What is it, Melissa?"

"It's Mother!"

"What about her?"

"She's gone! Oh God, please help me. I don't knowhatodo!"

"Okay, Melissa. Slow down and tell me exactly what happened."

"She's gone! She's gone! I can't find her anywhere not on the grounds or in any of the rooms. I was looking we all were looking and she's not here! Please, Dr. Delaware "How long's she been gone, Melissa?"

"Since two-thirty! She left for the clinic for her three o'clock group, was supposed to be back by five-thirty, and it's.. seven-ohfour and they don't know where she is either. Oh, God!"

"Who's they?"

"The clinic. The Gabneys. That's where she went she had a group meeting... from three to... five. Usually she goes with Don or someone else. Once I took her, but this time Panting.

Gulping for air.

I said, "If you feel you're losing your breath, find a paper bag and breathe into it slowly."

"No... no, I'm okay. Got to tell you... everything."

"I'm listening."

"Yes, yes. Where was I? Oh, God.

"Usually she goes with someone but this time "She was supposed to go with him Don but she decided to go herself! Insisted on it! I told her I didn't think that was But she was stubborn insisted she could handle it, but she couldn't! I knew she couldn't and I was right she couldn't! But I don't want to be right, Dr. Delaware. I don't care about being right or having my way or anything! Oh, God, I just want her back, want her to be okay!"

"She didn't show up at the clinic at all?"

"No! And they didn't call till four to let us know. They should have called right away, shouldn't they?"

"How long a ride is it to the clinic?"

"Twenty minutes. At the most. She gave herself a half hour, which was more than enough. They should have known when she didn't If they'd called right away, we could have looked for her right away. She's been gone for over four hours. Oh, God!"

"Is it possible," I said, "that she changed her mind and went somewhere else instead of the clinic?"

"Where! Where would she go!"

"I don't know, Melissa, but after talking to your mother, I can understand her wanting to... improvise. Break free of her routine.

It's not that uncommon in patients who conquer their fears sometimes they get a little reckless."

"No!" she said. "She wouldn't do that, not without calling. She knows how much it would worry me. Even Don's concerned, and nothing gets to him. He called the police and they went out looking for her but they haven't found her or the Dawn "She was driving her Rolls-Royce?"

"Yes "Then she shouldn't be too hard to spot, even in San Labrador."

"Then why hasn't anyone seen it? How could nobody have seen her, Dr. Delaware!"

I thought of the empty streets and had a ready answer for that.

"I'm sure someone did," I said. "Maybe she ran into mechanical problems it's an old car. Even Rolls aren't perfect."

"No way. Noel keeps all the cars in top shape, and the Dawn was like new. And if she did run into problems, she'd call! She wouldn't do this to me. She's like an infant, Dr. Delaware she can't survive out there, doesn't have any idea of what it's like out there. Oh, God, what if she had an attack and drove off a djf or something and is lying there, helpless.. I can't take this anymore. This is just too much, too much!"

Sobs poured out of the receiver, so loud I pulled my ear away involuntarily.

I heard a catch of breath. "Melissa "I'm... freaking out can't.

.. breathe "Relax," I commanded. "You can breathe. You can breathe just fine. Do it. Breathe regularly and slowly."

Strangulated gasp from the other end.

"Breathe, Melissa. Do it. In. and out. In... and out. Feel your muscles loosen and expand with every breath you take. Feel yourself relax, just relax. Relax."

"I.

"Relax, Melissa. Don't try to talk. Just breathe and relax.

Deeper and deeper-in... and out. In... and out. Your whole body's getting heavier, deeper and deeper relaxed. Think of pleasant things your mother walking through the door. She's okay. She's going to be okay."

"But "Just listen to me, Melissa. Do what I say. Freaking out can't help her. Getting upset can't help her. Worrying can't help her. You need to be at your best, so keep breathing and relaxing. Are you sitting down?"

"No, I uh "Find a chair and sit down."

Rustle and bump. "Okay. I'm sitting."

"Good. Now find a comfortable position. Stretch your feet out and relax. Breathe slowly and deeply. Every breath you take will make you deeper and deeper relaxed."

Silence.

"Melissa?"

"Okay... I'm okay." Whoosh of breath.

"Good. Would you like me to come out there?"

A whispered yes.

"Then you'll have to hold on long enough for me to get out there. It will take at least half an hour."

"Okay."

"You're sure? I can stay on the phone until you're settled."

"No Yes. I'm okay. Please come. Please."

"Hang in there," I said. "I'm out the door."

Empty streets made lonelier by the darkness. As I drove up Sussex Knoll, a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror and remained there, constant as the moon. When I turned off at the pine gates of Number 10, a blinking red light appeared over the two white ones.

I stopped, switched off the engine, and waited. An amplified voice said, "Out of the car, sir."

I complied. A San Labrador police cruiser was nudging my rear bumper, its brights on, its engine running. I could smell the gasoline, feel the heat from its radiator. The red blinker colored my white shirt pink, erased it, colored again.

The driver's door opened and an officer got out, one hand on his hip.

Big and wide. He lifted something. A flashlight beam blinded me and I raised an arm reflexively.

"Both hands up in the air where I can see them, sir.

More compliance. The light traveled up and down my body.

Squinting, I said, "I'm Dr. Alex Delaware Melissa Dickinson's doctor.

I'm expected."

The cop stepped closer, caught some of the light from the halogen fixture over the left gatepost, and turned into a young white man with a heavy, prognathous jaw, baby skin, and pug features. His hat was pulled low over his forehead. On a sitcom he'd be called Moose.

"Who's expecting you, sir?" The beam lowered, illuminating my trousers.

"The family."

"What family?"

"Dickinson Ramp. Melissa Dickinson called me about her mother and asked me to come over. Has Mrs. Ramp shown up yet?"

"What'd you say your name was, sir?"

"Delaware. Alex Delaware." With a tilt of my head I indicated the talk box. "Why don't you call over to the house and verify that?"

He digested that as if it were profound.

I said, "Can I put my hands down?"

"Move to the rear of your car, sir. Put your hands on the trunk."

Keeping his eyes on me, he advanced to the box. Push of a button and Don Ramp's voice said, "Yes?"

"This is Officer Skopek, San Labrador police, sir. I'm down by your front gate, got a gentleman here who claims to be a friend of the family."

"Who's that?"

"Mr. Delaware."

"Oh. Yes. It's okay, officer."

Another voice came out of the box, loud and dictatorial: "Anything yet, Skopek?"

"No, sir.

"Keep looking."

"Yes, sir." Skopek touched his hat and turned off his flashlight.

The pine gates began sliding inward. I opened the door of the Seville.

Skopek followed me and waited until I'd turned the ignition on.

When I put the Seville in gear, he stuck his face in the driver's window and said, "Sorry for the inconvenience, sir." Not sounding sorry at all.

"Just following orders, huh?"

"Yes , sir.

Spotlights and low-voltage accent beams set among the trees created a nightscape Walt Disney would have cherished. A full-size Buick sedan was parked in front of the mansion. Rear searchlight and lots of antennas.

Ramp answered the door wearing a blue blazer, gray flannels, blue-striped button-down shirt with a perfect collar roll, and winecolored pocket square. Despite the fashion statement, he looked drawn. And angry.

"Doctor." No handshake. He walked ahead of me, fast, leaving me to close the door.

I stepped into the entry. Another man stood in front of the green staircase, examining a cuticle. As I got closer, he looked up. Looked me over.

Early sixties, just under six feet and hefty, with a big, hard paunch, thin, gray, Brylcreemed hair, meaty features filling a broad face the color of raw sweetbreads. Steel-rimmed glasses over a fleshy nose, bladder jowls compressing a small, fussy mouth. He had on a gray suit, cream shirt, gray-and-black striped tie. Masonic stickpin.

American flag lapel pin. VFW lapel pin. Beeper on his belt. Size thirteen wingtips on his feet.

He kept scrutinizing.

Ramp said, "Doctor, this is our police chief, Clifton Chickering.

Chief, Dr. Delaware, Melissa's psychiatrist."

Chickering's first look told me I'd been the topic of discussion.

The second one let me know what he thought of psychiatrists. I figured telling him I was a psychologist wouldn't alter that much, but I did it anyway.

He said, "Doctor." He and Ramp looked at each other. He nodded at Ramp. Ramp glared at me.

"Why the devil," he said, "didn't you tell us that bastard was back in town?"

"McCloskey?"

"Do you know of some other bastard who'd want to harm my wife?"

"Melissa told me about him in confidence. I had to respect her wishes."

"Oh, Christ!" Ramp turned his back on me and began pacing the entry hall.

Chickering said, "Any particular reason for the girl to keep it confidential?"

"Why don't you ask her?"

"I did. She says she didn't want to alarm her mother."

"Then you've got your answer.

Chickering said, "Uh-huh," and shot me the kind of look viceprincipals reserve for teenage psychopaths.

"She could have told me," said Ramp, stopping his pacing. "If I'd known, I'd have looked out for her, for God's sake."

I said, "Is there evidence McCloskey was involved in the disappearance?"

"Christ," said Ramp. "He's here, she's gone. What more do you need?"

"He's been in town for six months."

"This is the first time she's been out on her own. He hung around and waited."

I turned to Chickering. "From what I've seen, Chief, you keep a pretty tight lid on things. What's the chance McCloskey could have been hanging around the neighborhood for six months stalking her without being noticed?"

Chickering said, "Zero." To Ramp: "Good point, Don. If he's behind it, we'll know it soon enough."

Ramp said, "Why all the confidence, Cliff? You haven't found him yet!"

Chickering frowned. "We've got his address, all the particulars.

He's being staked out. When he surfaces, he'll be snapped up faster than a free turkey dinner on Skid Row."

"What makes you think he'll surface? What if he's off somewhere, with "Don," said Chickering. "I understa "Well, I don't!" said Ramp. "How the hell is staking out his address going to do a damn thing when he's probably long gone!"

Chickering said, "It's the criminal mind. They tend to return to roost.

Ramp gave a disgusted look and resumed pacing.

Chickering went a shade paler. Parboiled sweetbreads. "We're interfacing with LAPD, Pasadena, Glendale, and the Sheriffs, Don.

Got everyone's computers on the job. The Rolls' plates are on all their alert lists. There's no car registered to him, but all the hot sheets are being scrutinized."

"How many cars on the hot sheets? Ten thousand?"

"Everyone's looking, Don. Taking it seriously. He can't get far."

Ramp ignored him, kept pacing.

Chickering turned to me. "This wasn't a good secret to keep, Doctor."

Ramp muttered, "That's for damn sure."

I said, "I understand how you feel, but I had no choice Melissa's a legal adult."

Ramp said, "What you did was legal, huh? We'll see about that."

A voice from the top of the stairs said, "Just get off his case, Don!"

Melissa stood on the landing, dressed in a man's shirt and jeans, her hair tied back carelessly. The shirt made her look undernourished.

She came down the curving flight fast, swinging her arms like a jogger.

Ramp said, "Melissa She stood before him, chin up, hands fisted. "Just leave him alone, Don. He didn't do anything. I was the one who asked him to keep it secret, he had to listen, so just lay off" Ramp drew himself up. "We've heard all that Melissa screamed, "Shut up aammiti I don't want to hear this crap anymore!"

Ramp's turn to go pale. His hands quavered.

Chickering said, "I think you'd best calm down, young lady."

Melissa turned to him and shook her fist. "Don't you dare tell me what to do. You should be out doing your job getting your stupid rent-a-cops to find my mother instead of standing around with him, drinking our scotch."

Chickering's face tensed with rage, then settled into a sick smile.

"Melissa!" said Ramp.

"Melissa'!" She mimicked his outraged tone. "I don't have time for this crap! My mother's out there and we have to find her. So let's stop looking for scapegoats and just figure out how to find her!"

"That's exactly what we're doing, young lady," said Chickering.

"How? With neighborhood patrols? What's the point? She's not in San Labrador anymore. If she was, she would have been spotted long ago."

A moment's pause before Chickering answered." I "e're doing everything we can.

It sounded hollow. He knew it. The look on both Ramp's face and Melissa's drove it home.

He buttoned his coat. Tight across the midrifo Turned to Ramp. "I'll stay as long as you need me, but in your interests, I should be out on the streets.

"Sure," said Ramp dispiritedly.

"Chin up, Don. We'll find her, don't you worry.

Ramp shrugged and walked away, disappearing into the innards of the mansion.

Chickering said, "Good to meet you, Doctor." His index finger pointed like a revolver. To Melissa: "Young lady."

He saw himself out. When the door closed, Melissa said, "Idiot.

Everyone knows he's an idiot the kids all call him Prickering behind his back. There's basically no crime in San Labrador, so no one challenges him. It's not because of him, though just that outsiders stick out like sore thumbs. And the police roust anyone who doesn't look rich."

Talking rapidly but fluently. Just a slight raise of pitch-a tinge of the panic I'd heard over the phone.

I said, "Your basic small-town setup.

She said, "That's what this place is. Hicksville. Nothing ever happens here." She lowered her head and shook it. "Only now it has.

It is my fault, Dr. Delaware. I should have told her about him!"

"Melissa, there's no indication McCloskey has anything to do with this.

Think of what you just said about the police rousting outsiders. The chance of anyone being able to stalk her without being spotted is nil."

"Stalk." She shivered, let out breath. "I hope you're right. Then where is she? What happened to her?"

I chose my words carefully. "It's possible, Melissa, that no-hing happened to her. That she did this on her own.

"You're saying she ran away?"

"I'm saying she may have taken a drive and decided to prolong it."

"No way!" She shook her head vehemently. "No way!"

"Melissa, when I talked to your mother I got the sense she was chafing at the bit really yearning for some freedom."

She kept shaking her head. Turned her back on me and faced the green staircase.

I said, "She talked to me about being ready to take giant steps.

Of standing before an open door and having to walk through. She spoke of this house as stifling her. I got the distinct impression she wanted out and was even considering moving once you'd gone away."

"No! She didn't take anything with her I checked her room.

All the suitcases are there. I know everything in her closet and she didn't take any of her clothes!"

"I'm not saying she planned a trip, Melissa. I'm talking about something spontaneous. Impulsive."

"No." Another sharp head shake. "She was careful. She wouldn't do this to me."

"You are her main concern. But maybe she got. intoxicated by her newfound freedom. She insisted on driving by herself today wanted to feel in control. Maybe once she got out on the road, driving her favorite car, it felt so good she just kept going. That has nothing to do with her love for you. But sometimes when things start to change, they change fast."

She bit her lip, fought back tears, and said in a very small voice, "You really think she's okay?"

"I think you need to do everything possible to try to locate her.

But I wouldn't assume the worst."

She took several breaths, punched her sides. Kneaded her hands.

"Out on the road. And she just kept going. Wouldn't that be something." Wide-eyed. Fascinated by the possibility. Then fascination gave way to injury. "No, I just can't see it she wouldn't do that to me.

"She loves you dearly, Melissa, but she "Yes, she does," she said, crying. "Yes, she does love me. And I want her back!"

Footsteps sounded on the marble to our left. We turned toward it.

Ramp was standing there, blazer over one arm.

Melissa used her bare hands to dry her eyes hastily and ineffectually.

He said, "I'm sorry, Melissa. You were right there's no sense blaming anybody. Sorry if I offended you, too, Doctor."

I said, "No offense taken."

Melissa turned away from him.

He came over and shook my hand.

Melissa was tapping her foot, finger-combing her hair.

Ramp said, "Melissa, I know how you fee The point is, we're in this together. We've all got to hang together. To get her back."

Melissa spoke without looking at him. "What do you want from me?"

He gave a concerned look. It seemed genuine. Paternal. She ignored it. He said, "I know Chickering's a moron. I don't have any more confidence in him than you do. So let's put our heads together.

See if we can come up with something, for God's sake."

He held out his hands. Frozen in supplication. Genuine pain on his face. Unless he was better than Olivier.

She said, "Whatever." Sounding that bored had to be a strain.

He said, "Look, there's no sense standing around out here. Let's go in, stay near the phone. Can I get you something to drink, Doctor?"

"Coffee, if you've got it."

"Sure bet."

We followed him through the house, settled in the rear room with the French doors and painted beams. The gardens and rolling lawns and tennis court were bathed in emerald light. The pool was a lozenge of peacock blue. All but one of the doors to the car stable were closed.

Ramp picked up a phone on an end table, punched two digits, and said, "Pot of coffee in the rear study, please. Three cups.

Hanging up, he said, "Make yourself comfortable, Doctor."

I settled in a sun-cracked club chair the color of a well-used saddle.

Melissa perched on the arm of a cane-backed chair nearby.

Scratched her lip. Tugged at her ponytail.

Ramp remained standing. Every hair in place, but his face showed the strain.

A moment later Madeleine came in with the coffee and set it down without comment. Ramp thanked her, dismissed her, and poured three cups. Black for me and himself, cream and sugar for Melissa. She accepted it but didn't drink.

Ramp and I sipped.

No one spoke.

Ramp said, "Let me call Malibu again." He picked up the phone and punched in a number. Held it to his ear for several moments before putting it back in its cradle. Treating the apparatus with special care, as if it held his fate.

I said, "What's in Malibu?"

"Our Gina's beach house. Broad Beach. Not that she'd go there, but it's the only thing I can think of."

Melissa said, "That's ridiculous. She hates the water."

Ramp punched buttons again, waited several moments, and hung up.

We sipped some more.

Ate more silence.

Melissa put her cup down and said, "This is stupid."

Before either Ramp or I could reply, the phone rang.

Melissa beat Ramp for it.

"Yes, but speak to me, first.... Just do it, dammit I'm the one who... What! Oh, no! What do you that's ridiculous. How can you be sure! That's stupid. No, I'm perfectly capable of No, you listen to me, you She stood there, open-mouthed. Pulled the phone away from her face and stared at it.

"He hung up!"

"Who?" said Ramp.

"Prickering! That ass hung up on me!"

"What did he have to say?"

Still gazing at the phone, she said, "McCloskey. They found him.

Downtown L.A. The L.A. police questioned him and let him go!"

"Christ!" said Ramp. He snatched the phone out of her hand, punched buttons hurriedly. Twisting his shirt collar and grinding his teeth.

"Cliff? This is Don Ramp. Melissa said you I understand that, Cliff.

.. I know she is. It's a frightening thing, but that's no... All right. I know you are.... Yes, yes Frowning and shaking his head.

"Just tell me what happened Uh-huh... Uhhuh... But how can you be sure, Cliff? This isn't some goddam saint we're talking about, Cliff.... Uh-huh... Yes... Yes, but... Still, wasn't there some way... Okay. But what if Okay, I will. Thanks for calling, Cliff. Stay in touch."

Hanging up, he said, "He apologizes for hanging up on you.

Says he told you he was busy, trying to find your mom, and you continued to... lip off to him. He wants you to know he has your mother's best interests at heart."

Melissa stood there, glassy-eyed. "They had him and they let him go."

Ramp put his arm over her shoulder and she didn't resist. She looked numb. Betrayed. I'd seen more life in wax models.

"Apparently," said Ramp, "he can account for his whereabouts every minute of the day they have no grounds to hold him. They had to release him, Meliss. Legally."

"The asses," she said in a low voice. "The goddam asses! What does it matter where he was all day? He doesn't do things himself he hires people to do things." Raising her voice to a shout: "He hires people!

So what if he wasn't there himself!"

Wrenching herself away from Ramp, she grabbed her face and let out a squeal of frustration. Ramp started to approach her, thought better of it, and looked at me.

I went over to her. She retreated to a corner of the room and faced the wall. Stood in the corner like a child being punished, sobbing.

Ramp gave a sad look.

Both of us knowing she could have used a father. Neither of us able to fill the bill.

Finally she stopped crying. But she stayed in the corner.

I said, "Neither of you has confidence in Chickering. Maybe a private investigator's called for."

Melissa said, "Your friend!"

Ramp looked at her with sudden curiosity.

She looked at me and said, "Tell him."

I said, "Yesterday, Melissa and I discussed investigating McCloskey. A friend of mine's an LAPD detective on leave. Very competent, lots of experience. He agreed to do it. He'd probably agree to look into your wife's disappearance as well. If she shows up soon, you might still want to consider checking out McCloskey. Of course, your attorneys may have someone else they work with "No," said Melissa, "I want your friend. Period."

Ramp looked at her, then me. "I don't know who they use the lawyers.

We never had to deal with anything like this. Is this friend of yours really good?"

Melissa said, "He already said he was. I want him, and I'm paying."

"That won't be necessary, Melissa. I'll pay."

"No, I will. She's my mother and that's the way it's going to be."

Ramp sighed. "We'll talk about it later. In the meantime, Dr. Delaware, if you'd be kind enough to call your friend The phone rang again. Both of them jerked their heads around.

This time Ramp got there first. "Yes? Oh, hello, Doctor.

No, I'm sorry. She hasn't... Yes, I understand.

Melissa said, "Her. If she'd called sooner, we could have started looking sooner.

Ramp covered his ear. "I'm sorry, Doctor, I couldn't hear Oh. That's very kind of you. But no, I don't see any pressing reason for you to.

.. Hold on."

Covering the mouthpiece with his other hand, he looked at me.

"Dr. Cunningham-Gabney wants to know if she should come over.

Any reason she should?"

"Does she have any clinical information about Mrs. Ramp that would help locate her?"

"Here," he said, handing me the phone.

I took it, said, "Dr. Cunningham-Gabney, this is Alex Delaware.

"Dr. Delaware." The well-modulated voice stripped of some of its melody. "I'm very alarmed by today's events. Did Melissa and her mother have any sort of confrontation before she disappeared?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"Gina called me this morning and intimated there had been some unpleasantness-Melissa staying out all night with some boy?"

Keeping my eyes off Melissa, I said, "That's accurate, as far as it goes, Doctor, but I doubt it's a causal factor."

"Do you? Any unusual stress could cause someone like Gina Ramp to behave unpredictably."

Melissa was staring straight at me.

I said, "Why don't you and I get together? Discuss any clinically relevant factors that might shed light on what's happened."

Pause. "She's right there, isn't she? Hovering?"

"Basically."

"All right. I don't imagine my coming down there and provoking another confrontation is very wise. Would you like to come over to my office, right now?"

"Sounds good," I said, "if Melissa thinks that's okay."

"That child has too much power as is," she said sharply.

"Maybe so, but clinically I think it's advisable."

"Very well. Consult her."

I covered the receiver and said to Melissa: "What do you think of my getting together with her? At the clinic. To share factspsychological data in order to see if we can figure out where your mother is."

"Sounds like a good idea," said Ramp.

"Sure," Melissa said sourly. "Whatever." Waving her fingers. The same offliandedness she'd used two days ago to drop clinical bombs.

I said, "I'll stay here as long as you want me to.

"No, no. You can go right now. I'll be fine. Go talk to her."

I got back on the phone. "I'll be there within the half hour, Dr. Cunningham-Gabney."

"Ursula. Please. At times like this a hyphen's a damned nuisance. Do you know how to get here?"

"Melissa will tell me."

"I'm sure she will."

Before I left, I called Milo's home and got Rick's voice on a machine.

Both Melissa and Ramp sagged when I told them he wasn't in, making me realize how much stake they were putting in his powers of detection.

Wondering if I was doing him a favor by drawing him into the haut monde, I left a message for him to call me at the Gabney clinic during the next couple of hours; at my home, after that.

As I got ready to leave, the doorbell chimed. Melissa jumped up and ran out of the room. Ramp followed her, walking with long, tennis-bred strides.

I brought up the rear, to the entry hall. Melissa opened the doors and let in a black-haired boy of around twenty. He took a step toward Melissa, looked as if he wanted to hug her. Saw Ramp and stopped himself He was on the small side five seven, slim build, olive skin, full bowed lips, brooding brown eyes under heavy brows. His hair was black and curly, worn short on top and sides, longer in back. He had on a short red busboy's jacket, black slacks, white shirt, and black bow tie. A set of car keys jangled in one hand. He looked around nervously. "Anything?"

Melissa said, "Nothing."

He moved closer to her.

Ramp said, "Hello, Noel."

The boy looked up. "Everything's okay, Mr. Ramp. Jorge's handling the cars. There aren't that many tonight. It's kind of slow."

Melissa touched the boy's sleeve and said, "Let's get out of here."

Ramp said, "Where are you going?"

Melissa said, "Out. To look for her."

Ramp said, "Do you really think "Yes, I do. C'mon, Noel." Tugging at the red fabric.

The boy looked at Ramp.

Ramp turned to me. I played sphim. Ramp said, "Okay, Noel, consider yourself off for the rest of the night. But be careful Before he finished the sentence the two of them were out the door. It slammed shut and echoed.

Ramp stared at it for a few moments, then turned to me, weary.

"Would you care for a drink, Doctor?"

"No, thanks. I'm expected at the Gabney Clinic."

"Yes, of course.

He walked me to the door. "Have kids of your own, Doctor?"

"No."

That seemed to disappoint him.

I said, "It can be tough."

He said, "She's really bright sometimes I think that makes it rougher, for all of us, her included. Gina told me you treated her years ago, when she was just a little kid."

"Seven through nine.

"Seven through nine," he said. "Two years. So you've spent more time with her than I have. Probably know her a hell of a lot better than I do."

"It was a long time ago," I said. "I saw a different side of her."

He smoothed his mustache and played with his collar. "She's never accepted me probably never will. Right?"

"Things can change," I said.

"Can they?"

He opened the door on Disney lights and cool breeze. I realized I hadn't gotten directions to the clinic from Melissa and told him so.

He said, "No problem. I know the way by heart. Gone there plenty.

When Gina needed me to.

"I On the way to Pasadena I found myself peering up driveways, checking foliage, scanning the streets for a misplaced shadow, a flash of chrome. The crumpled outline of a woman down.

Irrational. Because the pros had been there already: I spotted three San Labrador police cruisers within a ten-block radius, one of which tailed me for half a block before resuming its prowl.

Irrational because the streets were naked a stray tricycle could be spotted a block away.

A neighborhood that kept its secrets off the street.

Where had Gina Ramp taken hers?

Or had they been taken from her?

Despite my words of encouragement to Melissa, I hadn't convinced myself the whole thing was an impromptu vacation from phobia.

From what I'd seen, Gina had been vulnerable. Fragile. Just arguing with her daughter had set off an attack.

How could she possibly handle the real world whatever that meant.

So I kept searching as I drove. Spitting in the face of reason and feeling a little better for it.

The Gabney Clinic occupied a generous corner lot in a good residential neighborhood that had begun yielding reluctantly to apartments and shops. The building had once been a house. A big two-storied, shingle-sided, brown craftsman-style bungalow set back behind a flat, wide lawn. Three giant pines shadowed the grass. A front porch spanned the width of the structure, darkened by massive eaves. Shake roof, lots of wood-relief, stingy windows in oversized casements.

Ungainly and dimly lit some architectural hack's sendup of Greene and Greene. No sign advertising what went on inside.

A low wall rock chips in cement fronted the property. A gateless gap in the center provided access to a cement walkway. On the left, a wood-plank gate had been propped open, exposing a long, narrow driveway. A white Saab Turbo 9000 was parked at the mouth of the drive, blocking further motor access. I left the Seville parked on the street Pasadena was more tolerant than San Labrador and made my way up the walk.

A white porcelain sign the size and shape of an hour cigar was nailed to the front door; GABNEY was painted on it in black block letters.

The knocker was a snarling lion chewing on a brass ring, toplit by a yellow bug bulb. I lifted it and let it fall. The door vibrated C-sharp, I was pretty sure.

A second porch light went on. A moment later the door opened.

Ursula Cunningham-Gabney stood in the doorway wearing a burgundy-colored scallop-necked knit dress that ended two inches above her knees and accentuated her height. Vertical ribs ran through the fabric, accentuating further. High-heeled pumps were the topper.

The perm she'd worn in the newspaper photo had been replaced by a glossy fudge-colored wedge. John Lennon eyeglasses hung from a chain around her neck, competing for chest-space with a string of pearls.

The chest itself was convex and concave exactly where it should have been. Her waist was small, her legs sleek and very, very long. Her face was squarish, finely molded, much prettier than in the picture.

Younger, too. She didn't appear to be much older than thirty. Smooth neck, tight jawline, big hazel eyes, clean features that didn't need camouflage. But she was wearing plenty: pale foundation, artfully applied blush, mauve eye shadow, deep-red lipstick. Aiming for severe and hitting the target.

"Dr. Delaware? Come in."

"Alex," I said. "Fair is fair."

That confused her for a moment; then she said, "Yes, of course.

Alex." And smiled. And turned it off.

She motioned me into what would have seemed like a generous entry hall if I hadn't just done time at Dickinson Manor. Parquet floors, architecturally paneled oak walls stained shoe-polish brown, plain-wrap craftsman benches and coat trees, a clock that said SANTA FE below the 12 and RAILROAD above the 6. On the walls was a scattering of muddy California plein-air landscapes the kind of stuff the galleries in Carmel had been trying to palm off as masterpieces for years.

The living room was to the left, visible through half-open sliding wooden doors. More oak walls, more landscapes Yosemite, Death Valley, the Monterey coast. Black-upholstered straight-backed chairs arranged in a circle. Heavy drapes hid the windows. What would have been the dining room was to the right, set up as a waiting area with mismatched couches and magazine tables.

She stayed a couple of steps in front of me, heading for the rear of the first floor. Quick, deliberate steps. Tight dress. Fluid glutei.

No chitchat.

She stopped, opened a door, and held it.

I stepped into what had probably been a maid's room. Small and dim and gray-walled, with a low ceiling. Furnished with simple contemporary pieces: a low-backed pine and gray-leather stenographer's chair behind a pine table-desk. Two side chairs. Three bracketed shelves full of textbooks on the wall behind the desk. Diplomas filling the wall to the left. A single window on a side wall was covered by a gray pleated shade.

A single piece of art, next to the shelves. Cassatt drypoint etching.

Soft color. Mother and child.

Yesterday I'd seen another piece by the same artist. Another simple gray room.

Therapeutic rapport taken to the nth?

Chicken-egg riddles jumped into my head.

Ursula Cunningham-Gabney went behind the desk, sat, and crossed her legs. The dress rode up. She left it that way. Put on her glasses and stared at me.

She said, "No sign of her yet?"

I shook my head.

She frowned, pushed the glasses higher on her thin, straight nose.

"You're younger than I expected."

"Ditto. And you squeezed in two doctorates."

"It really wasn't that remarkable," she said. "I skipped two grades in elementary school, started Tufts at fifteen, went to Harvard for grad school at nineteen. Leo Gabney was my major professor and he guided me through helped me avoid some of the nonsense that can trip a person up.

I did a double major in clinical and psychobiology had taken all the premed courses as an undergrad.

So Leo suggested I go to med school. I did my dissertation research during the first two years, combined my psych internship with my psychiatric residency, and ended up with licensure in both fields."

"Sounds pretty hectic."

"It was wonderful," she said, without a trace of smile. "Those were wonderful years."

She removed her glasses, set her hands flat on the desk.

"So," she said. "What are we to make of Mrs. Ramp's disappearance?"

"I thought you could cue me in.

"I'd like to take advantage of the fact that you saw her more recently than I did."

"I thought you saw her every day."

She shook her head. "Not for some time. We've cut our individual sessions to two to four times a week, depending upon her needs.

The last time I saw her was Tuesday the day you called. She was doing quite well. That's why I felt it was acceptable for you to speak with her. What happened with Melissa that upset her so?"

"She was trying to let Melissa know she was fine, that it was perfectly okay for her to go away to Harvard. Melissa got angry, ran out of the room, and her mother had an anxiety attack. But she handled it inhaled a drug she described as a muscle relaxant and worked on her breathing until she'd recovered."

She nodded. "Tranquizone. It shows great promise. My husband and I are among the first to use it clinically. The major advantage is that it's very focused works directly on the sympathetic nervous system and doesn't appear to impact the thatamus or the limbic system. In fact, so far no one's found any CNS impact at all. Which means the addictive potential is lower none of the problems you get with Valium or Xanax.

And respiratory administration means you get improved breathing quickly, which generalizes to the entire anxiety syndrome. The only drawback is that the effects are very short-lived."

"It worked for her. She calmed down pretty quickly, felt good about handling the attack."

"That's what we work on," she said. "Self-esteem. Using the drug as a springboard for cognitive restructuring. We give them a success experience, then train them to see themselves in a power role see the attack as a challenge, not a tragedy. To zero in on small victories and build from there."

"It was definitely a victory for her. After she calmed down, she realized the issue with Melissa was still unresolved. That upset her, but the anxiety didn't recur."

"How did she react to being upset?"

"She went looking for Melissa."

"Good, good," she said. "Action-orientation."

"Unfortunately, Melissa was gone had left the house with a friend of hers. I sat with Mrs. Ramp for about half an hour, waiting for her to come back. That's the last I saw of her."

"What was Mrs. Ramp's demeanor while you waited?"

"Subdued. Worried about how she'd work things out with Melissa. But no panic actually, she seemed quite calm."

"When did Melissa finally show up?"

I realized I didn't know and said so.

"Well," she said, "the whole thing must have affected Gina more than she let on. Even to me. She called me this morning and said there'd been a confrontation. Sounded tense but insisted she was all right.

The ability to perceive herself as masterful is so essential to the treatment that I didn't argue with her. But I knew we had to talk.

I offered her the choice of an individual session or discussing it in group. She said she'd try group the next one was today and if that didn't resolve things for her, maybe she would stay late and talk oneon-one. That's why I was especially surprised when she didn't show up I'd expected it to be an important session for her. When the group took its midsession break at four, I called her at home, spoke to her husband, and found out she'd left for group at two-thirty. I didn't want to alarm him but I did suggest he call the police. Before the sentence was out of my mouth, I heard screaming in the background."

She paused, pressed forward so that her breasts rested atop the desk.

"Apparently Melissa had come into the room hovering asked her stepfather what was going on, found out, and gone hysterical."

Another pause. The breasts remained there, like an offering.

I said, "You don't seem to like Melissa very much."

She lifted her shoulders, moved back against the chair. "That's hardly the issue, is it?"

"Guess not.

Tugging, now, at her hemline. Pulling harder when it didn't yield.

"All right," she said. "You're her advocate. I know child people get into that kind of thing all the time perhaps sometimes it's necessary.

But that's totally irrelevant to the issue at hand. We've got a crisis situation here. A severely phobic woman one of the most impaired patients I've ever treated, and I've treated lots. We've got her out on her own, dealing with stimuli she's totally unprepared for, having broken her treatment regimen taken steps she wasn't ready for, due to pressure exerted by her relationship with an extremely neurotic teenage girl. And that's where my advocacy comes in. I have to think about my patient. Surely you can see that the relationship between the two of them is pathological."

Blinking hard several times. Real color deepening the rouge on her cheeks.

I said, "Maybe. But Melissa didn't invent the relationship. She was made, not born, so why blame the victim?"

"I assure you "I also don't see why you feel the need to pin the disappearance on mother-daughter conflict. Gina Ramp never let Melissa get in the way of her pathology before."

She wheeled her chair back several inches, never breaking eye contact.

Now who's blaming the victim?"

"All right," I said. "This isn't productive."

"No, it isn't. Have you any other information for me?"

"I assume you're familiar with the circumstances leading up to her phobia the acid attack?"

Barely moving her lips, she said, "You assume correctly."

"The man who did it Joel McCloskey is back in town."

Her mouth formed an 0. No sound came out. She uncrossed her legs, pressed her knees together.

"Oh, shit," she said. "When did this happen?"

"Six months ago, but he hasn't called or harassed the family.

There's no evidence he has anything to do with this. The police questioned him and he had an alibi, so they released him. And if he wanted to cause trouble, he's had plenty of time been out of prison for six years. Never contacted her or anyone else in the family."

"Six years!"

"Six years since his release from prison. He spent most of it out of state.

"She never said a thing."

"She didn't know."

"Then how do you know?"

"Melissa found out recently and told me."

Her nostrils widened. "And she didn't tell her mother?"

"She didn't want to alarm her. Planned to hire a private investigator to check McCloskey out."

"Brilliant. Just brilliant." Shaking her head. "In light of what's happened, do you concur with that judgment?"

"At the time it seemed reasonable not to traumatize Mrs. Ramp.

If the detective learned McCloskey was a threat, it would have been communicated."

"How did Melissa find out McCloskey was back?"

I repeated what I'd been told.

She said, "Unbelievable. Well, the child has initiative, I'll grant her that. But her meddling is "It was a judgment call and it's still far from clear that it was wrong. Can you say for sure you would have told Mrs. Ramp?"

"It would have been nice to have had the choice."

She looked more hurt than angry.

Part of me wanted to apologize. The other wanted to lecture her about proper communication with the patient's family.

She said, "All this time I've been working on showing her the world's a safe place, and he's been out there."

I said, "Look, there really is no reason to believe anything ominous has happened. She could have had car trouble. Or just decided to stretch her wings a bit the fact that she chose to drive over here by herself may indicate she was yearning to stretch."

"This man's being back doesn't bother you at all? The possibility that he might have been stalking her for six months?"

"You were at that house frequently. When you walked around the block with her did you ever notice him or anyone else?"

"No, but I wouldn't have. I was focusing on her."

"Even so," I said. "San Labrador's the last place you could stalk anybody and get away with it. No people, no cars-making intruders conspicuous is exactly why they do it. And the police function as private guards. Keeping an eye out for strangers is their specialty."

"Granted," she said. "But what if he didn't sit around and make himself obvious? What if he just drove around not every day, just once in a while? Different times of day. Hoping to grab a glimpse of her?

And today he succeeded spotted her leaving the house alone and went after her. Or maybe it wasn't him at all-he hired someone to hurt her once, could have done it again. So the fact that he has an alibi is meaningless as far as I'm concerned. What about the man who actually attacked her-the one McCloskey paid? Maybe he's back in town, too.

"Melvin Findlay," I said. "Not the man I'd choose for the job."

"What do you mean?"

"A black man driving around San Labrador without a good reason wouldn't last two minutes. And Findlay served hard time in prison for being hired help. It's hard to believe he'd be stupid enough to go after her again."

"Maybe," she said. "I hope you're right. But I've studied the criminal mind, and I long ago gave up assuming anything about human intelligence."

"Speaking of the criminal mind, did Mrs. Ramp ever say what McCloskey had against her?"

She took off her glasses, drummed her fingers, picked a piece of lint from the desk, and flicked it away. "No, she didn't. Because she didn't know. Had no idea why he hated her so much. There'd once ebeen a romance, but they'd parted as friends. She was truly baffled. It made it even more difficult for her not knowing, not understanding. I spent a long time working on that."

She drummed some more. "This is totally uncharacteristic of her. She was always a good patient, never deviated from plan. Even if it is nothing more than car trouble, I have an image of her stranded somewhere, panicking and going out of control."

"Does she carry medication with her?"

"She should-her instructions are to have her Tranquizone with her at all times."

"From what I saw, she knows how to use it."

She stared at me, gave a close-lipped smile that tightened her jawline.

"You're quite the optimist, Dr. Delaware."

I smiled back. "Gets me through the night."

Her face softened. For a moment I thought she might actually show me some teeth. Then she grimaced and said, "Excuse me. I'm feeling a real lack of closure have to deal with it."

She reached for the phone, punched 911. When the operator came on the line, she identified herself as Gina Ramp's doctor and asked to be put through to the chief of police.

As she waited I said, "His name is Chickering."

She nodded, held up an index finger, and said, "Chief Chickering? This is Dr. Ursula Cunningham-Gabney, Gina Ramp's physician.... No, I haven't.... Nothing Yes, of course... Yes, she did. Three o'clock this afternoon No, she didn't, and I haven't... No, there's nothing.... No, not in the least." Look of exasperation. "Chief Chickering, I assure you she was in full possession of her faculties.

Absolutely... No, not at all... I don't feel that would be prudent or necessary.... No, I assure you, she was totally rational.... Yes. Yes, I understand.... Excuse me, sir, there is one thing I thought you might want to consider. The man who attacked her... No, not him. The one who actually threw the acid.

Findlay. Melvin Findlay has he been located?... Oh. Oh, I see.

... Yes, of course. Thank you, Chief" She hung up and shook her head. "Findlay's dead. Died in prison several years ago. Chickering was offended that I even asked seems to think I'm casting aspersions on his professional abilities."

"It sounded as if he's questioning Gina's mental stability."

She gave a look of distaste. "He wanted to know if she was "all there'-how's that for a choice of words?" Rolling her eyes. "I actually think he wanted me to tell him she was crazy. As if that would make it acceptable for her to be missing."

"Make it acceptable if he didn't find her, " I said. "Who can be responsible for the actions of a crazy person?"

She blinked several more times. Gazed down at the desk top and let all the severity drop from her face. I was willing to bet her beauty had bloomed late. For a moment I saw her as a myopic little girl. Growing up smarter than her peers. Unable to relate. Sitting up in her room, reading and wondering if she'd ever fit in anywhere.

"We're responsible," she said. "We've taken on the responsibility to care for them. And here we sit, ineffectual."

Frustration on her face. My eyes drifted to the Cassatt print.

She noticed and appeared to grow even more tense. "Wonderful, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"Cassatt was a genius. The expressiveness, particularly the way she brought out the essence of children."

"I've heard she didn't like children."

"Oh, really?"

"Have you had the print for a long time?"

"A while." She touched her hair. Another locked-jaw smile. "You didn't come here to discuss art. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Can you think of any other psychological factors that might explain Gina's disappearance?"

"Such as?"

"Dissociative episodes amnesia, fugue. Could she have had some sort of break, be out there wandering, unaware of who she is?"

She thought for a while. "There's nothing like that in her history.

Her ego was intact remarkably so, considering everything she's been through. In fact I always thought of her as one of my most rational agoraphobics. In terms of the origin of her symptoms. With some of them, you never know how it starts there's no trauma you can put your finger on. But in her case the symptoms manifested following a tremendous amount of physical and emotional stress.

Multiple surgeries, prolonged stretches of time when she was ordered to remain in bed so that her face could heal medically prescribed agoraphobia, if you will. Combine that with the fact that the assault took place when she stepped out of her home and it would be almost irrational for her not to behave the way she did. Maybe even in a biological sense data are coming out showing actual structural change in the midbrain following trauma."

"Makes sense," I said. "I suppose even after she turns up, we may never know what happened."

"What do you mean?"

"The life she leads-the insularity. In her own way she's quite self-sufficient. That can lead a person to treasure secrecy. Even luxuriate in it. Back when I treated Melissa, I remember thinking that for this family, secrets were the coin of the realm. That an outsider would never really know what was going on. Gina may have stockpiled plenty of coins."

"That's the goal of therapy," she said. "To break into that stockpile.

Her progress has been remarkable."

"I'm sure it has. All I'm saying is that she still may decide to hold on to a private reserve."

Her face tightened as she prepared to defend against that. But she waited until she'd calmed before speaking. "I suppose you're right.

We all hold on to something, don't we? The private gardens we choose to water and feed." Turning away from me." "Gardens brimming with iron flowers. Iron roots and stems and petals." A paranoid schizophrenic once told me that, and I do believe it's an apt image.

Not even the deepest probing can uproot iron flowers when they don't want to be dug up, can it?"

She faced me again. Looking hurt once more.

"No, it can't," I said. "Still, if she does choose to dig them up, you'll probably be the one she hands the bouquet."

Weak smile. Teeth. White and straight and gleaming. "Are you patronizing me, Dr. Delaware?"

"No, and if it sounds that way, I'm sorry, Dr. Cunningham hyphen Gabney."

That pumped some strength into the smile.

I said, "What about the members of her group? Would they know anything useful?"

"No. She never saw any of them socially."

"How many are there?"

"Just two.

"Small group."

"It's a rare disorder. Finding motivated patients and those with the financial means to embark on the extensive treatment we offer cuts the number even further."

"How are the other two patients doing?"

"Well enough to leave home and come to group.

"Well enough to be interviewed?"

"By whom?"

"The police. The private detective he'll be looking for her in addition to investigating McCloskey."

"Absolutely not. These are fragile individuals. They're not even aware she's missing, yet.

"They know she didn't show up today."

"No-shows aren't unusual, given the diagnosis. Most of them have missed sessions at one time or another."

"Has Mrs. Ramp missed any before today?"

"No, but that's not the point. No one's absence would be especially noteworthy."

"Will they be curious if she doesn't show up by next Monday?"

"If they are, I'll deal with it. Now if you don't mind, I'd prefer not to discuss the other patients. They haven't lost their right to confidentiality."

"Okay."

She started to cross her legs again. Thought better of it and kept her feet flat on the floor.

"Well," she said, "this hasn't been very profitable, has it?"

She stood, smoothed her dress, looked past me toward the door.

I said, "Would there be any reason for her to walk out voluntarily?"

She snapped her head around. "What do you mean?"

"The great escape," I said. "Trading in her life-style for something new. Jumping the therapeutic gun and going for total independence."

"Total independence?" she said. "That makes no sense at all.

Not a lick."

The door swung open before she was able to get me to it. A man charged in and race-walked across the entry hall. Leo Gabney. But even though I'd seen his photo just a few days ago, I had to look twice before his identity registered.

He noticed us mid-stride, stopped so suddenly I expected to see skid marks on the parquet.

It was his get-up that had thrown me off: red-and-white flannel western shirt, pipestem blue jeans, pointy-toed bullhide boots with riding heels. His belt was tooled cowhide, the buckle a big brass letter psi-the Greek alphabet's contribution to psychology's professional identity. A retractable key ring was attached to the belt.

Urban Cowboy, but he lacked the brawn to make it work.

Despite his age, his build was almost boyish. Five nine, 130, sunken thorax, shoulders narrower than his wife's. The bushy hair stark white over a face sun-baked the color of sour-mash whiskey. Active blue eyes. Bristly white brows. Liver-spotted cranial dome high enough to host half a dozen worry lines; prominent, high-bridged nose with pinched nostrils; less chin than he deserved. His neck was wattled. A bramble of white chest hair ended at his gullet. The entire assemblage elfin but not whimsical.

He gave his wife a peck on the cheek, gave me a laboratory look.

She said, "This is Dr. Delaware."

"Ah, Dr. Delaware. I'm Dr. Gabney."

Strong voice. Basso profundo too deep a tone for such a narrow box. A New England accent that turned my name into Dullaweah.

He extended his hand. Thin and soft-he hadn't been roping steers.

Even the bones felt soft, as if they'd been soaked in vinegar.

The skin around them was loose and dry and cool, like that of a lizard in the shade.

"Has she shown up yet?" he said.

She said, "I'm afraid not, Leo."

He clucked his tongue. "Hellish thing. I came down just as soon as I could."

She said, "Dr. Delaware informed me that McCloskey the man who assaulted her is back in town."

The white eyebrows tented and the worry lines became inverted V's.

"Oh?"

"The police located him but he had an alibi, so they let him go.

We were discussing the fact that his previous modus was to hire someone-there's no reason to think he wouldn't do it again. The man he hired the first time is dead, but that doesn't rule out another scoundrel, does it?"

"No, of course not. Dreadful. Letting him go was absurdabsolutely premature. Why don't you call the police and remind them of that fact, dear?"

"I doubt they'd pay much attention. Dr. Delaware also feels it's unlikely anyone could have watched her without being noticed by the San Labrador police."

He said, "Why's that?"

"The bare streets, the fact that the local police's area of competence is looking out for strangers.

"Competence is a relative term, Ursula. Call them. Tactfully remind them that McCloskey's behavioral style is contractor, not contractee.

And that he may have contracted again. Sociopaths often repeat themselves behaviorally rigid. Cut out by a cookie cutter, the lot of them."

"Leo,Idon't "Please, darling." He took both of her hands in his.

Massaged her smooth flesh with his thumbs. "We're dealing with inferior minds, and Mrs. Ramp's welfare is at stake."

She opened her mouth, closed it, said, "Certainly, Leo."

"Thank you, darling. And one more thing, if you'd be so kind pull the Saab in a bit. I'm sticking out into the street."

She turned her back on us and walked quickly to her office.

Gabney watched her. Following her sway almost lasciviously.

When she closed the door, he turned to me for the first time since we'd shaken hands. "Dr. Delaware, of pavor nocturnus fame.

Come into my office, won't you?"

I followed him to the rear of the house, into a wide, paneled room that would have been the library. Drapes of cranberry-colored velvet under gold-edged valances covered most of one wall. The rest was bookcases carved with near-rococo abandon and murky paintings of horses and dogs.

The ceiling was as low as the one in his wife's study, but adorned with moldings and centered with a plaster floral medallion from which hung a brass chandelier set with electric candles.

A seven-foot carved desk sat in front of one of the bookcases. A silver and crystal pen-and-inkwell set, bone-bladed letter opener, antique fold-up blotter, and green-shaded banker's lamp shared the red leather top with an In/Out box and piles of medical and psychological journals, some still in their brown paper wrappers. The case directly behind him was filled with books with his name on the spine and letter-files tagged PEER REViEW ARTiCLES and dated from 195 through the last year.

He settled himself in a high-backed leather desk chair and invited me to sit.

Second time, in just a few minutes, on the other side of the desk. I was starting to feel like a patient.

Using the bone-knife to slit the wrapper on a copy of The Journal of Applied Behavioral Analysis, he opened to the table of contents, scanned, and put the magazine down. Picking up another journal, he flipped pages, frowning.

"My wife's an amazing woman," he said, reaching for a third journal.

"One of the finest minds of her generation. M.D. and Ph.D. by the age of twenty-five. You'll never find a more skillful clinician, or one more dedicated."

Wondering if he was trying to make up for the way he'd just treated her, I said, "Impressive."

"Extraordinary." He put the third journal aside. Smiled. "After that, what else could I do but marry her?"

Before I'd figured out how to react to that, he said, "We like to joke that she's a paradox." Chuckling. Stopping abruptly, he unsnapped one shirt pocket and pulled out a packet of chewing gum.

"Spearmint?" he said.

"No, thanks."

He unwrapped a stick and got to work on it, weak chin rising and falling with oil-pump regularity. "Poor Mrs. Ramp. At this stage of her treatment she's not equipped to be out there. My wife called me the moment she realized something was wrong we keep a ranch up in Santa Ynez. Unfortunately, I had little to offer by way of wisdom who could expect such a thing? What on earth could have happened?"

"Good question."

He shook his head. "Very distressing. I did want to be down here in case something developed. Abandoned my duties and zipped down."

His clothes looked pressed and clean. I wondered what his duties were.

Remembering his soft hands, I said, "Do you ride?"

"A bit," he said, chewing. "Though I don't have a passion for it.

I'd never have bought the beasts in the first place, but they came with the property. It was the space I wanted. The place I settled on included twenty acres. I've been thinking about planting Chardonnay grapes.

His mouth was still for a moment. I could see the gum wadded up inside one cheek, like a plug of tobacco. "Do you think a behaviorist is capable of producing a first-rate wine?"

"They say great wine is the result of intangibles."

He smiled. "No such thing," he said. "Only incomplete data."

"Maybe so. Good luck."

He sat back and rested his hands on his belly. The shirt billowed around them.

"The air," he said between chews, "is what really draws me up there.

Unfortunately my wife can't enjoy it. Allergies. Horses, grasses, tree-pollens, all sorts of things that never bothered her back in Boston. So she concentrates on clinical work and leaves me free to e