In all this time, I did not see him once. Talked on the phone, now and then, short conversations. I kept my promise to myself, no pleading for him to come home, none of that. I had other things to worry about as well. I had to cancel any appointments that took me out of the office because (given our situation) we could not hire a temp, so I had to answer the phones while Thelma was driving Marian all over the San Fernando Valley looking for a facility that would take Norman. Finally they found a sort of residential hospital, but before Marian could move him from Riverside, a lot of money needed to change hands. I told Marian I would personally pay whatever would be necessary to place him there. That she should not worry. When she said a thousand dollars, I blanched, but since we were on the phone, she couldn’t tell.

I went to the bank late that afternoon and got out the thousand dollars, cash, from my savings account to give to Thelma the next day. By the time I finally got on PCH late in the afternoon it was one long, clogged artery. As I sped around big, lumbering cars, sometimes passing on the shoulder, drivers honked at me and waved their fists out the window. Sirens blared behind me as I quickly eased back into my lane, and cop cars sped by on the shoulder, lights flashing. I finally came upon an awful wreck; a produce truck had smashed head-on into an Oldsmobile, and cantaloupes and melons were splattered across the road, and ambulances were roaring away.

Traffic thinned out further north, but when my house came into view on the left, my heart stopped in my chest. I thought to myself: Wake up, Roxanne, wake up, wake up . . . Because surely, surely, surely this is some sort of awful nightmare. Wake up. A sheriff’s car was parked behind my place, lights flashing. Wake up. It was blocking in the Porsche and Charlie’s woody station wagon. Wake up. As I leapt out of the MG I heard Bruno yapping, squealing in canine pain.

At the foot of the stairs I found the cinched-lip Wilburs. George held the struggling Bruno’s collar. I raced up to find Terrence Dexter spread-eagle, facedown on the porch, handcuffed. Two cops standing over him, one with his foot on Terrence’s neck. As long as I live, I will never forget that sight. As long as I live. And there was Charlie Frye, beat up, his knuckles bloodied, holding a handkerchief over his bleeding nose but satisfied. No mistaking that.

“Hey, Roxanne!” he cried. “I came to take back my board, and I looked in the window and saw this jungle bunny through the window and—”