Hook was hanging onto the fence, trying to stand on legs made of plastic hose. “It’s a mistake,” he said. “It is not Chris.”

The rest of that morning passed like time during a drunk, a daze of activity that Hook would recall later only in bits and pieces. He remembered driving to Banner Hill to cash a check and to get Bobby and Jennifer out of school, and he remembered telling them about the accident later, when he had them safely back at the farm. He remembered Aunt Marian packing a bag for him, clumsily, with one hand, while holding the other in a fist pressed tightly to her mouth. And he remembered having to raise his voice to Bobby to make the boy understand that he could not go with him, that he had to stay behind with the others. But Hook had almost no recollection of the drive with Uncle Arnie to Lambert Field in St. Louis, or buying his plane ticket when he got there, or boarding the TWA jet he found himself on by one that afternoon. Throughout these hours, though, he was constantly aware that he was not doing the one thing that the Santa Barbara sheriff’s police had expected him to do, and that was phone them. Chief Janson had given him a number to call and the name of the officer to ask for, a Sergeant Rider. But Hook had not been able to force himself to the phone, out of fear that by learning more about the accident he might put to death the one frail hope he still had, and without which he doubted that he would even be able to make it to Santa Barbara. As it was, he felt a sharp recurring pain in his chest and shoulder; his body was rigid with tension; he had diarrhea; he could not eat. He could drink, however, and the stewardess in First Class, where he found himself seated, was dedicated to seeing that he did.

“A drink, sir? Do you want a drink?” Her tone implied that it was not the first time she had asked him.

He nodded. “Yes. I guess so.”

“What kind, sir? Martini? Manhattan?”

“Martini will be all right.”

As she moved on, Hook wondered about the way she had looked at him, with distaste and even fear, and he could not understand it. He knew he probably appeared distraught, but that alone did not seem enough to explain her look. Then he happened to glance down at his hands and he saw what had caused her reaction: without knowing it he had pulled a copy of Life magazine out of its binder and, rolling it up, had twisted it almost in two. His hands, locked on the torn cylinder, were purple, the knuckles white. His veins stood out like nightcrawlers. Quickly, he stuffed the mutilated magazine into the pocket in the seat in front of him, a window seat like his own. There was no one next to him, and the young couple across the aisle had not noticed, were seemingly absorbed in the John Wayne western playing on the screen up in front. Only the stewardess had seen him, and she probably had ascribed the thing to fear of flying. So he felt safe. Then he caught himself. What did it matter anyway? Was he fool enough to believe that if others thought all was right with him, then that was how it would be? Yes, he decided. He was fool enough. He was frightened enough.